The Panagea Tales Box Set

by McKenzie Austin

  Kazuaki gazed upon her, drinking her in. When he felt the familiar feeling of desire creep into his veins, he tried to banish it. “Get some sleep, Bermuda.”

  “Nah.” She felt the cool touch of the steam car’s metal on her back. Perhaps the cold would temper the rising heat inside her. The quartermaster leaned further into it and listened to the surrounding sounds of the night. She knew she should sleep. But she couldn’t. “I’ll keep you company for a while.”

  The captain accepted her reply though it meant another night of torture sitting beside the woman he could not have. The ecstasy of her proximity often outweighed the agony. He steeled his nerves and tore his eye away from her, staring off into the darkness. “I’d like that very much.”

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Morning always came quicker than anyone prepared for. The crew pulled their tired bodies up from the earth and carried on. Raw adrenaline and mental determination drove them forward. The days blurred together, a slew of planting, growing, moving on. They spent so much time growing new miniature forests in various decrepit buildings, Kazuaki suspected Emont beat them to their destination. But when they pulled into the small town outside Denicee, it appeared as though he hadn’t arrived at all.

  The steam cars rattled across the broken roads, their eyes stayed as alert as possible, on the look-out for any sign of Emont or his recruits. A veritable wasteland surrounded them. The crumbling infrastructures put the crew in mind of Avadon, but it seemed the people who used to live here abandoned it in its entirety.

  “Perhaps he moved on to Denicee without us,” Bermuda guessed. “This place is barren.”

  Kazuaki frowned as the steam car came to a slow crawl. A vacant town would have been an ideal place to organize before they entered Denicee, but Emont was impatient for change. Perhaps his unrest drew him into the city’s walls. Entering Denicee without their army was a gamble, but it seemed they had little choice.

  As they were about to move on to the next town over, Elowyn spotted a shadow. “There,” she pointed. “I’m sure I saw someone.”

  Kazuaki grew inquisitive and steered the vehicle toward the sighting. A figure stood in the road, unmoving. The captain stopped before the skeptical looking individual with a pack over his shoulder and Umbriel hung her head out the vehicle, a smile on her face. Despite his abnormal presence, she still flashed an approachable smile. “Excuse me, has a man named Emont been through these parts?”

  The man narrowed his eyes. “Who’s askin’?”

  Umbriel tilted her head as she looked back at the crew. Her attention returned to the strange man and she smiled again. It would either be a death sentence, a warm welcome, or a complete lack of acknowledgment, but she took the chance. "Kazuaki Hidataka and his crew."

  The man scrutinized the vehicles and those inside them. He examined every detail, including the number of individuals inside and their appearances. He appeared satisfied with what he saw. “Emont told me he expected you much sooner. He’s already taken everyone into Denicee.”

  Kazuaki frowned. He suspected they spent too long planting, but there was no sense dwelling on it now. It, too, remained a critical step in the revolution. “Very well,” he muttered. “Are you a part of the rebellion? Do you need a ride into Denicee?”

  The man nodded, having already jumped onto the back of the steam car. “I’ll be fine back here.” He thrust his arm ahead. “Better get a move on. Emont’s followers are anxious. I don’t know how long he’ll be able to contain their aggression.”

  Iani grinned and nudged Rennington. “I like the sound of that. They got some fight in them, aye?”

  The nameless man nodded. “The people are hungry for change. Many jumped at the opportunity. Better to die fighting than roll over like a dog.”

  Granite shot the man a hateful stare, but Elowyn patted his leg. "At ease," she murmured, "no harm meant."

  He looked down and scratched behind his dog’s ear as the vehicles rolled toward Denicee. Stillness dominated the trip. The gravity of the situation sank in. Relief existed that Emont had success gathering soldiers for the cause, but the ease in which he collected them spoke to how terrible their living situations were. They craved a revolution so much, they would hand over their lives to achieve it.

  Nicholai grew more disheartened knowing their soldiers were the common folk of Panagea. People like his residents. People he cared for. Lilac plagued his thoughts every mile. He saw her life in every flower they grew. Months passed, and he was no closer to a solution than when he left. He fooled himself into thinking the resistance would buy him more time; if he could heal the world, it would slow the disintegration process. But it continued to fall.

  Every dilapidated town they passed through was one more glaring symbol of how many people suffered because of his actions. Though they would have suffered from this regardless, freezing time in Southeastern made it much worse. Nicholai stared ahead, finding the battle within his mind far more difficult than any he experienced with the footmen. With all the natural disasters, it felt as though Darjal Wessex’s blood wasn’t the only stain on his hands.

  He couldn’t stall much longer. He had to address Southeastern. But every time the Time Father thought about heading back, his boots refused to move. The thought of ending Lilac’s life ... he couldn’t do it.

  The thoughts plagued him all the way to Denicee. Nicholai hardly realized they arrived until the vehicles came to a stop. The stranger from earlier released himself from the back of the steam car when he saw Emont loitering in the town’s entrance. After crossing the short distance, the two men shook hands. “Glad to see you all made it,” Emont said, grinning at the crew. “I’ve been waiting out here every morning for the past several days. I worried something happened.”

  “Where is everyone?” Kazuaki looked around the unassuming citizens of Denicee. They walked with complete ignorance that their town would be the center of bloodshed within the day.

  “They’re in hiding,” he explained, “in some decommissioned factories beyond this road. I know they’ll find relief to hear you arrived. Not as many abandoned buildings here as there are in Avadon. They’re packed in there pretty tight. It’s getting a bit claustrophobic,” he added with a faint laugh.

  “Ready them immediately,” Kazuaki looked to the horizon as he spied the tall tower that housed the Southwestern Time Father. It was an iconic structure, rising higher than any other building. The captain didn’t need to harbor too much information about Carlo to know his ego claimed the grandest building as his home. “We’ve waited long enough.”

  “You don’t want to rest?” Emont asked. “Collect yourselves a little?”

  “Not today.” Kazuaki spoke for everyone, as he walked away from the steam car and toward the tower.

  Emont shrugged and clapped his hands together. He looked to the crew, an eager grin on his face. “All right then. Let’s do this.”

  It took a while for the townsfolk to realize what was going on. Confusion appeared on their faces as hordes of people poured out from otherwise unutilized industrial plants. It was a surreal sight that garnered initial disbelief. But when the denizens identified the defensive clothing, armor fashioned from scrap metal, and witnessed the weapons pulled from their hiding spots, the collective’s intentions became obvious.

  They marched with impressive form toward Carlo’s tower. A handful of Denicee’s citizens scampered to the safety of their homes. Others gawked when patrolling footmen tried to stop the mob from advancing on Carlo’s home. They never stood a chance. Even with the benefit of training, the few scattered footmen could not combat the hundred angered citizens pulled from the impoverished grounds of Panagea’s ravaged cities.

  The element of surprise lived in their favor. Carlo did not have the foresight to rally an organized defense against their infiltration. The footmen were tired, exhausted from long days of hauling protesting citizens who cried out for help into Denicee’s jails. They dealt with resistance from the townsfolk around the cloc
k. While they were ill-prepared for a full-scale uprising, they were intelligent. The remaining men fell back and sank into the walls of the jail, gathering numbers to match the mob before they returned to the confrontation.

  The footmen’s fallback granted them the ability to get close to Carlo’s tower. Emont’s soldiers roared, beating on the walls of Carlo’s home with their sharpened points and makeshift shields. It was almost too easy.

  Nicholai thought it would be a replay of Avadon until the now organized soldiers poured out the prison gates. Though they only gathered half the numbers held by the mob, their weapons were superior. One footman stood tall before the fifty men behind him, a flame thrower in his hands. Nicholai’s eyes widened as several brave rebels charged forward, weapons drawn, only to fall victim to the cruel flames.

  Burning flesh tainted the air. A shift occurred in the fight. Half the mob panicked while fury swept through the veins of the others. Chaos followed.

  Nicholai stepped back from the anarchy. Though his stomach turned, he forced his attention to the building. He had to reach Carlo. He couldn’t allow a second Time Father to die. Nicholai’s hands wrapped around the door’s iron handle, but it refused to budge. Locked. His boots carried him back several paces, and he looked up. Carlo stood on the balcony above. He watched with disdain at the display of treason below.

  The sounds of the dead and the dying clashed with the bullets fired. Blades clanged as they met. Feet from footmen and revolutionaries scuffled. Several of Denicee’s citizens ended up in the firefight, shrieking in the disorder. Everything happened so suddenly.

  Nicholai needed to act. It was hard to raise his voice above all the noise, but he tried. Saving Carlo from death would ease the guilt he harbored about Darjal.

  “Carlo Angevin!” He cupped his hands around his mouth to carry his voice. “We are the voice of Panagea! Please, listen to what we have to say, this slaughter is unnecessary!”

  He could not see his facial expression, but Nicholai felt Carlo’s scowl. “Nicholai Addihein,” he hissed from his balcony. “So you’ve resurfaced. Darjal will be pleased to hear it,” he yelled down, feeling no fear from the safety of his balcony. The Southwestern Time Father was familiar with Darjal’s hatred for Nicholai. His desire for revenge begged Carlo to send many men to Southern to construct Darjal’s ironclad.

  Nicholai remained unmoving. Smoke from the burning corpses slithered upward. “Darjal is dead.” His words were remorseful but steadfast. “I’m here to save you from the same fate. All we ask for is an opportunity for change. These people are suffering. Panagea is suffering!”

  Carlo scowled. His rage grew at the knowledge of Darjal’s passing. “You speak of the fate you have doomed them to. I do not negotiate with traitors of the continent, Nicholai.” He gazed at the clamoring bodies, the flying metal, the fire. He sneered. “When you see Darjal, tell him Carlo sends his regards.”

  The Southeastern Time Father clenched his jaw. “Carlo, please—” His words fell on deaf ears. The Southwestern Time Father withdrew into his room. Nicholai cursed and turned toward the crowd. His brain scattered to devise another way into Carlo’s tower, but it was too late. The fire spread. A window shattered. Napalm spilled into the opening.

  Nicholai did not observe much of the fight in Avadon. What he witnessed here appalled him. Children separated from their parents. Compassion left and welcomed turmoil. Bodies fell in waves. A moat of blood surrounded him. And the screams ...

  Others saw the fire enter Carlo’s tower. Matching the flames’ destruction, they joined in an inferno. Nicholai backed away, horrified to watch the citizens decay into wild monsters as they tried to smoke Carlo out, hurling more burning rubbish into the open window. Smoke obscured his vision, but Nicholai found Umbriel in the chaos. She caught his eyes; they shared his concern. The peoples’ anger was so thick it was tangible, matched by the ferocity of the footmen who massacred them. The revolutionaries' inexperience was clear. There were great losses on both sides.

  Elowyn, Iani, and Rennington stuck close together. They worked in sync to annihilate any threats. Kazuaki and Bermuda neared the prison, subduing the footmen who poured out of the walls. Nicholai lost the others in the blanket of bodies.

  The flames climbed higher.

  The screams grew louder.

  Panic escalated.

  Denicee burned as the war raged on. Citizens scattered, finding nowhere safe from the fight. A full-on blaze ate Carlo Angevin's tower. Nicholai threw his body into the door, hoping the flames may have weakened its integrity. He couldn’t leave Carlo to die in there. The exchange of blades, bullets, and smoke billowing off the tower brought nothing but confusion to the people. Nicholai felt the searing heat from the flames that surrounded him as he slammed himself into the door once more. It was so insufferable, he feared the worst: Carlo’s ego would be the death of him.

  Just as he wrote Carlo’s life off to death by smoke inhalation, the doors of the tower burst open. Nicholai stumbled back, falling into the madness of the mob.

  Smoke wafted off Carlo’s body and his mad eyes dashed about. His palms were blistered, burned from having tried to open the metal door to the catacombs below his home. He’d find no safe passage in his secret escape route. The knowledge drove him to the brink of panic.

  Knowing he was the target of the uprising, he needed a shield. Any shield. If he could make it through the horde of citizens and footmen, he could find another entrance to the catacombs farther into town.

  He saw an opportunity in the form of a crying child.

  Carlo reached out. His blistered hand seized the small arm of the nearby boy who wailed in terror at being separated from his parents in the insanity.

  Carlo’s pupils were small pinpricks as they darted around, stressing his delirium. A gun surfaced from his pocket. The cold metal pressed against the child’s temple. He shuffled away from the blaze, searching for an exit.

  “Shit,” Nicholai tried to rush forward, but couldn’t force himself through the frightened bodies. Iani beat him to the punch. The young Platts brother stood before Carlo, blocking his exit.

  “Carlo,” Iani held out his blood-soaked hands, “what the feck are you doing, mate?”

  “You will get me out of here!” His hand trembled as he felt the heat of the fire behind him. “Or I will cover you in this boy’s brain tissue!”

  “Easy,” Iani’s voice was so soft it almost lost to the shrieking crowd. He looked into the little boy’s eyes. Terror lived there. Horrified fearfulness that had no business being in a child’s eyes. It was not the first time he saw that fear. It reflected in every child’s face in Southern the day Darjal ordered them to kill the offspring of the small revolution. “Let him go. I’ll take his place. I’m Kazuaki’s right-hand man. A much better bargaining chip than some kid.”

  Carlo panted, panicking under the pressure. He looked at Iani, his heart pounded deep inside his chest. “Drop the weapon.” He appeared maniacal, lost to the psychosis from his flight or fight response. His fingers dug deeper into the child’s soft arm. “No sudden movements.”

  Iani nodded. He took slow, deliberate steps. “You got it, mate. No sudden movements.” He tossed his weapon aside. “Here,” he reached his hand out, though he tried to maintain a safe distance from Carlo. “Hand me the kid and I’m all yours.”

  Carlo stared into Iani’s eyes. His corneas were bloodshot from the pressure mounting in his body. His hands trembled. If he was Kazuaki’s right-hand man, his death served as a great distraction.

  With a shock wave that pierced his brain, he lifted the gun from the child’s head and fired three rounds into Iani’s chest. He hurled the child at the Platt’s brother’s body and ran.

  Nicholai paled as he witnessed the attack. Iani caught the kid, but the child did not linger long. His terrified feet carried him into the crowd as he screamed for his parents. Iani took three or four quick, panicked breaths as he looked down at the bullet wounds. A slow spread of red crept through h
is shirt.

  “Iani!”

  If anything rose above the unmatched volume of the battle, it was Rennington’s voice as he fought his way through the horde of people. Whether footmen or civilian, he fell anyone who stood in his way until he reached his younger brother. He caught him in his arms.

  Umbriel ran toward the brothers, but a footman’s blade swept her side. She shrieked and fell as her fingers grasped the gash. The woman rolled to avoid another stab. Her fingers clawed into the dirt as she tried to pull herself to Iani, but the footman pursued her, relentless.

  “Iani, feckin’ shit,” Rennington stuttered, frenzied as he tried to keep his brother from moving.

  “Renn,” Blood spilled from Iani’s mouth and trailed down his cheek. He looked up at his brother with a grin, feeling a wave of redemption knowing the child got away from Carlo. He gripped his brother’s wrist, his words muffled as he gargled through them. “F-for Southern.”

  “Hey, hey, hey, shut it, you’ll be okay,” Rennington’s voice broke. “You’ll be okay,” he repeated as he gripped Iani’s hand.

  Umbriel’s patience wore thin. The pacifist huffed and spun, seizing the blade with her hands. The blade ate into her fingers and palm but she held her grip, forcing it from her attacker’s shocked grasp. She drove the blunt handle into his throat and he fell to his knees, gasping for air. It wouldn’t kill him. But it guaranteed her freedom. Rushed feet flew to Iani, and she skidded into the ground beside him.

  Bleeding palms laid on his chest. She closed her eyes. A swift concentration consumed her. What felt like hours had only been seconds. The Earth Mother scrambled to manipulate the living tissue, to close the wounds.

  She was too late. He was gone. Iani Platts, a soldier to Southern reborn, died in the line of duty.

  Umbriel didn’t need to speak. Rennington knew by the look on her face. His fists, soiled by his little brother’s blood, clenched as he stood. He stared into the crowd where Carlo disappeared. The Time Father hadn’t gotten far, caught in the same typhoon of people that consumed Nicholai. He was easy to identify; his regal ensemble clashed with the townsfolk’s common clothing and the soldier’s uniforms. Carlo tried in desperation to force his way through the horde, but a life of luxury softened his muscles. He fired at anyone who stood in his way, but for every body he fell, there were five more in his way.