The Panagea Tales Box Set

by McKenzie Austin

  They readied those who were willing. The impending battle lived at the forefront of everyone’s minds since Nicholai mentioned it to the townsfolk after Avadon’s destruction. Boxes of handmade grenades filtered through civilian hands. Those who did not fear close-handed combat gripped their sharpened shrapnel. Makeshift armor, fashioned out of metal scraps, fell over countless bodies.

  They looked the part, but Nicholai still harbored concerns about whether the people were battle-ready. They were citizens. A far cry from the trained footmen that would descend upon them in minutes. He reminded himself they wanted this. They wanted to contribute to Panagea’s shift, to be the ones who stood against their oppressors and said: “We want a change.” He could not deny them that.

  Rennington and Iani seemed the most excited. They swung their machetes around in their hands with an anxious energy that bubbled inside them.

  “Good luck, gentlemen,” Nicholai said to the Platts brothers. "I know you’ve waited for this day for a long time.”

  Rennington grinned, his arm around Iani as he beamed. “You don’t know the half of it, Nico.”

  Nicholai gave them both a quick pat on the shoulder. Though their integrities on how to handle certain situations did not align with his own, he cast their differences aside. They lived in comfort with the path they chose. He had plans to try his own way. Though it went against Kazuaki’s wishes to stay out of harm’s way, Nicholai needed to try. He exchanged words of encouragement with the rest of the crew he came to know, and respect, despite everything. He turned to Kazuaki. “Good luck, Captain.”

  Kazuaki shoved one last dagger into his boot. “Go on then,” he motioned Nicholai off.

  The Time Father nodded and vanished from the battlefront. Kazuaki’s crew stood at the forefront with the collective group of outraged citizens who awaited Darjal’s arrival.

  It did not take long.

  The Southern army stood in eyesight. Kazuaki could not analyze their expressions from the distance, but he hoped they portrayed shock at the organized group of residents ready to challenge them. He turned to his makeshift warriors. “Remember, this is your home ground! Use that advantage, use the terrain, and show them what happens when they spit in the faces of Avadon!”

  The people roared and ran forward, weapons held high above their heads. Darjal’s army followed suit. The sedan chair, still flanked by four soldiers who carried the poles, headed toward the church. The lines of opposing forces met. Bodies collided with great ferocity. The clangs of metal and heated cries of the people rose high.

  The battle had begun.

  Nicholai knew Darjal would not take part. He came for the religious and political appearances he assumed he’d need to make after his victory. The Time Father kept a close eye on the sedan chair as it weaved out of danger’s way and into the crumbling streets of Avadon. He wished he could see the look on the Southern Time Father’s face as he exposed himself to his dying city, but the man inside remained shrouded by the cloth that hung in the windows. If Nicholai could see a small shred of guilt, regret, something that gave him hope he could reach Darjal ... it would have given him more confidence for success.

  The four footmen carried the sedan cart to the church. They lowered to their knees as Nicholai pressed his back against the walls of the alley, the same one he took refuge in months earlier. He watched from the shadows as Darjal lifted himself out of the carrier and brushed at his suit. Fury infected his face as he gazed up at the once magnificent cathedral.

  His precious church, once a symbol of glory to his godliness, was destroyed. The tree towered out the top in defiance, disappearing from eyesight in the low-hanging clouds above. Darjal spat and turned to his men. “You four guard the door. Wait out front for the others. Bring him as soon as you have him. I will show these heathens what happens when they follow demons into the darkness.”

  The footmen nodded and assumed their posts in front of the church doors, weapons visible as Darjal slipped inside to assess the damage to the structure. If there was anything worth saving that hadn’t fallen, he wanted to know about it.

  Nicholai eased himself back into the shadows of the alley and searched the base of the church for the entry to the catacombs, but when he found the hidden handle and tugged, he frowned. The church's foundation shifted in the quakes. The damage compromised the opening. It wouldn’t budge.

  With a sigh, he looked up at the building and eyed the tree limbs that crashed through the stained glass windows. He’d have to find another way in.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Bermuda grunted as she stabbed a man in the chest. The dagger ate with hunger before it moved on to the next meal. She did not linger to see if her victims died. Even if they escaped death, a weakened soldier made an easier target for the inexperienced citizens to finish. A tornado in the masses, the quartermaster brought chaos wherever she went.

  Elowyn focused on immediate deaths. She did not fear taking another man’s life, but her compassion wouldn’t allow them to suffer. A soldier raised his weapon to attack. She severed the exposed brachial artery in the armpit. Main arteries, jugular veins, the temples of the skull, the eyes—those were her targets. Anywhere that brought a sweet, merciful death.

  The medic’s focus held a disadvantage. She paid little attention to her surroundings while she perfected her aim, but she never feared. That’s what the Platts brothers were for.

  Bartholomew was no expert in close-handed combat. But even with his imperfect eyesight, he knew his way around a gun. His calculating mind was his biggest asset. He was intimate with the human mind’s inner workings. Predicting a man’s move was easy. The scholar waited for the best shot to appear. Then he took it.

  Kazuaki fought beside Granite. The captain’s blade ran a soldier through. Granite made short work of those who neared him. His size made him slow, but the beast picked up the slack. Wild jaws brought down any assailants who dared to hurt his loving master.

  Granite was a steady fighter. Slow and methodical. Above the chaos, the shrill yelp of his dog sliced through his eardrums. The man’s head whipped toward the cry. The beast laid on the rocky ground, howling as a soldier loomed over him. His foot fell in waves as he stomped the fallen creature.

  If a more dangerous weapon existed, Kazuaki had not seen it. Granite’s dog never suffered before—none had ever gotten close enough. The captain, who witnessed horrors beyond man’s imagination, watched in revulsion. Granite bellowed. It was a sound of raw supremacy. He grabbed the dog’s attacker by the skull with his giant hand and ripped him from the beast. Kazuaki’s eye widened. The soldier’s head twisted under Granite’s force. He separated the cervical spine from the skull. The head dangled on the body, held on only by skin. Granite grabbed the corpse and hurled it at another foot soldier who dared to approach his dog.

  “Gods alive ...” Kazuaki couldn’t stare long. He returned his attention to the battle. If he cleansed his soul at all before this moment, Granite’s grotesque display soiled it again. He didn’t let it slow him down. The slaughter ensued.

  Gentle hands scooped up Granite’s dog. The giant man cradled the beast in his arms. The whimpering creature laid over his shoulder while he continued the fight one-handed. This handicap did not slow him down. The true fury that was Granite unleashed itself. The footmen suffered much for their egregious error.

  Kazuaki scowled as his blade met another. A quick pop from his gun brought the clash to an end. He spied Iani and made his way beside him, cursing as a footman’s bullet found his side. He felt the familiar burn. It radiated through him as he threw his dagger toward his assailant. The blade sank into its target with success.

  The soldiers were stronger than he thought. Bodies of Avadon’s citizens cluttered the red earth. “Iani!” he shouted through the noise of the fight, “did you see where Nico and Umbriel sought safety?”

  The younger Platts brother dodged a swing. Raw iron from his pistol split a soldier’s skull open before one of Avadon’s citizens dug their ste
el pipe into the footman’s side. He screamed and fell to his knees. “No idea, Captain!”

  Kazuaki scowled. They didn’t hold them back as much as he expected. Southern’s soldiers crawled farther into the city. He hoped Nicholai wasn’t doing anything stupid.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Nicholai’s fingers burned as he pulled himself up the moss and vines that grew on the church’s exterior walls. The soles of his feet scraped against the foundation. He dragged himself closer to a broken window. With exertion, he gripped the window too hastily, cursing as his fingers sank into the jagged edges of broken glass.

  Exercising more care the second time, he found a place to rest his fingers where the glass was obliterated and hauled his body upward. A thick tree branch lingered nearby, and he tested the integrity with his foot before he walked out onto it. He spied Darjal below, running his fingers over the broken statues and relics. After initial mourning, he disappeared into the decaying steps that led toward the basement. A glance at the door showed the footmen remained posted outside.

  With cautious steps, Nicholai crept across the tree’s limbs and positioned himself above the church’s entrance. He drew in a deep breath and jumped to the bottom, absorbing much of the impact in his joints. Quick feet carried him to the church doors, and he slammed them shut before shoving a decorative wrought iron sword that detached from a statue into the handles. He heard the footmen on the other side of the door as they approached. They tried to rattle the door open but to no avail.

  The commotion summoned Darjal from the basement and he ascended the steps, appearing once again in the church interior. The two men met one another’s gazes. Darjal appeared horrified at first but took note Nicholai possessed no visible weapons. Confident strides carried him forward. “And just like that, as if from a piece of folklore, the demon stands before the god.”

  “They will kill you, Darjal.” Nicholai stood before him across the distance. “I came to talk sense into you before that happened.”

  The Southern Time Father sneered. “Gods do not bow down to the demands of the demons.”

  Nicholai rolled his eyes. “Will you cut the religious ranting? You’re no more a god than I am a demon. Darjal, I’m trying to help you.”

  “Help?” Darjal laughed. The eerie sound echoed in the large room. “You abandoned your division, betrayed everything the Time Fathers stood for, and sent our continent into turmoil. Nicholai Addihein, if you wish to help, you will do the noble thing and remove your Chronometer, strip yourself of the Time Father title before the people of Avadon, and have the good decency to die a public spectacle, so that others might never make the same mistake you did.”

  “I don’t disagree that I played a part in this chaos,” Nicholai replied. “But Panagea was failing far before my sin in Southeastern. She was in trouble the second the past Time Fathers killed the Earth Mothers. It’s just taken hundreds of years to see the long-term consequences.” His face shifted to one of seriousness. Though part of him already knew the answer, he needed to hear it for himself. "Did you know, Darjal? Of Umbriel, locked away on that island?"

  The Southern Time Father frowned. “We all knew. The fact Edvard Addihein did not shed light on this information only speaks to how little he thinks of you.”

  Nicholai narrowed his eyes. He suspected as much. “You would banish a woman to a cruel fate for hundreds of years? For what, Darjal? Why?”

  He scoffed. “Your empathy has blinded you, Nicholai. We left her there for the same reason our forefathers left her there.”

  “This is madness,” Nicholai spat. “You boast of advancement, of the importance of change, of pushing mankind forward, and yet you continue to embrace an archaic, outdated belief system. You are accepting the pieties of men long dead. They’re not even here to see the consequences of their actions, Darjal. What we’re doing, what we’ve done, it isn’t working. But there is still time to fix this!”

  Darjal jeered. “Our forefathers built a life for us. They turned unrefined beasts who prayed to old-world gods for favor into men who could answer their own prayers with technology. I will not invite those omnipotent heathens back into this world. I am all the god Panagea needs.”

  The man was sick. Delusional. But Nicholai had to appeal to him if he wanted a chance at nonviolent change. “We can coexist,” Nicholai said. “The Time Fathers and Earth Mothers were meant to maintain the balance.”

  “You always were an idealist, Nicholai,” Darjal’s voice was almost drowned out by the vigorous pounding on the door outside the church. “A few Time Fathers shared your ideals over the years, but history has shown us that ideals never thrive outside the minds that create them.” He walked forward and pulled a gun from his breast pocket. “If you’re not with us, you are against us. And we are too powerful to fall.”

  Nicholai eyed the weapon before he flicked his gaze back to Darjal. His face showed no fear. Only disappointment. “Should you meet your end tonight, remember that I tried to save you, Darjal.”

  “Confident words,” he muttered as he lifted the gun. “They’ll be the last ones you speak.”

  Nicholai tried to stay ahead of Darjal’s gunfire as he unleashed his bullets. To his relief, the thick trunk of the redwood provided cover.

  “You ran for a long time, Nicholai,” Darjal rounded the base of the tree. “But you cannot run forever. Not from me. I am Panagea’s god. I will smite the immoral before you sully my world further.”

  Nicholai doubled around the back. The Southern Time Father followed. He spotted Nicholai and squeezed off another shot. Nicholai ducked back in time to avoid being hit. The metal connected with the edge of his shoulder before it came out the other side. Darjal snarled, frustrated. He lifted his weapon again, but collapsed under the weight of Umbriel, as she descended from her hiding spot in the redwood tree.

  The woman’s feet dug into his shoulders and brought him to the floor before she flipped off. With grace, she landed on her knee, while one hand steadied her. Nicholai looked to Umbriel, surprised.

  “You weren’t the only one who thought they could change his mind,” she said as she came to a stand.

  Darjal’s age felt the pain as he laid on the floor, but sheer determination pushed him back to his feet. He reached over and seized his weapon again, raising it with shaking hands. “The Earth Mother,” he breathed as his cruel eyes fell on the silver-haired maiden. “Perfect. Two for one.”

  “Darjal,” Nicholai held up his hand as the man aimed the Earth Mother. “Stop! I beg you.”

  “You’ll be begging soon enough,” he grunted as he squeezed the trigger. The Earth Mother avoided it, but both individuals knew they could not outrun his gunfire forever. As the Southern Time Father lifted his gun to the Earth Mother again, Nicholai stepped in front of him.

  “Darjal, please—”

  There was no reaching him. His ego allowed him to live in delusional invincibility. In Darjal’s mind, he was a god, sent to cleanse Avadon of the demon, Nicholai. The Southeastern Time Father watched as his finger caressed the trigger. He did not wish to put Umbriel in any additional danger. They couldn’t risk it.

  Nicholai threw his hands forward to stop any more damage from occurring. The metal that made up Darjal’s gun eroded. The decay happened fast. Despite pulling back on the trigger, the weapon deteriorated too much to function. Darjal’s eyes widened at the sight. “The dark magic,” he whispered. “So it’s true.” The Southern Time Father watched in horror as the age crept up his fingers, wrinkling the skin on his hands and wrist.

  Nicholai panicked as the effects traveled up Darjal’s arm, withering any visible flesh. He only intended to erode the weapon, but Darjal’s touch was inseparable from the body of the gun. Nicholai dropped his hands and stepped back, horrified as the Southern Time Father aged countless years in minutes. His skin creased and dried, his already graying hair turned ashen white and fell from his scalp in patches as his body slumped to the floor. Eye sockets sunk deeper into his skull. Teeth fell fr
om his jaw as his hands crippled and curled inward.

  Nicholai’s heart pounded in his chest. He couldn’t rip his eyes away from his unintended act. Darjal laid before him in the fetus position, the withered remnants of the man he once was. He let out a grotesque sound of agony that would haunt Nicholai forever. His bulbous eyes quivered as they looked up at the Southeastern Time Father. Terror reflected inside them until they lost the light that showed life.

  Nicholai stared down at the frail corpse, his face one of pure shock. “I—only meant to—the gun,” he stuttered, his stomach ravaged by a burning acid that boiled from his crime.

  Umbriel walked up beside him. She banished her shock at the sight and laid a gentle hand on Nicholai’s shoulder. “It was an accident. You tried to reason with him.”

  He didn’t hear her. Nor the forceful pounding on the church doors. He fell victim to his appalled mind. He killed a man. Accident or not, he drained Darjal’s life from him in the most traumatizing way. Everything he ever stood for crumbled like the city of Avadon. Nicholai was so lost inside himself, he didn’t even flinch when the homemade grenade blew the church doors open.

  Umbriel shielded her eyes with her hand and squinted as dust and debris floated in the surrounding air. Too far from the door to suffer any hits from shrapnel, she stood tall until she recognized the bodies coming forth through the dust.

  “Iani! Rennington!” she breathed with relief and rushed to hug the men, happy to see they were still alive.

  The Platts brothers returned her embrace but quickly pulled away to assess the situation. It seemed no threat existed. Rennington stepped forward when he realized Nicholai’s back was to him. “Nico?” He edged close enough to see the wilted corpse of Darjal on the floor. “Bloody shit!” He jumped back. Rennington witnessed many traumatizing things on the battlefield, but the dried-up face of Darjal Wessex was a nightmare unmatched by any corpse he’d seen prior. “What happened here?”