The Panagea Tales Box Set

by McKenzie Austin

  “We have to start somewhere. Darjal is a fresh god. We can still weaken him if his prayers taper off. But the old gods,” she paused, sliding her hands up her arms as if she felt a chill, “they’ve been around as long as humanity. They may not be able to swing the sword, but they are powerful, Kazuaki. Once the few gods that men have returned strength to slip into the minds of other men, they will give people cause to pray to the other gods. Their return will spread like wildfire. If they come, we cannot fight them.”

  Kazuaki’s eye fell to his hip. Her statement put him in mind of his previous escapade. “I acquired a sword while you and Nicholai were gone. Brufesphe. I pulled it straight from the God of Metal’s hands.”

  Umbriel flashed him a startled look but pulled in her surprise. “You went looking for a god?”

  “I went looking for the sword,” Kazuaki corrected. “In any case, I should hardly think you’ve earned the right to condemn me when you deliberately summoned one not five minutes ago.”

  The Earth Mother closed her eyes and nodded. “Forgive me, Kazuaki. Naphine ... she brings out the worst in me. The hundreds of years I spent achieving a balanced state vanish in her presence. When she’s around, I only feel like a child, unstable and admittedly a little terrified. Just as I felt when I was a girl. I suppose I never outgrew it.”

  The captain remained stoic. His arms crossed. “Brufesphe was forged by a blacksmith and blessed by the god I took it from. It’s said to cut through anything.”

  “I know you’re used to cutting through your problems, Kazuaki,” Umbriel said with a sigh. Though her words seemed harsh, her tone held defeated pliability. “But a sword made by a man, regardless of whether it was blessed by a god, cannot cut through one. Only objects made by the lesser gods themselves stand any chance at all of holding them back.”

  “I see.” Kazuaki lifted his chin to look at the foggy evening sky. “And where would I acquire a weapon built by the gods?”

  “You wouldn’t,” Umbriel informed him. “They need to be gifted to you by a god. I sincerely doubt any of them would look so favorably on men now, after having been abandoned for centuries.”

  Kazuaki nodded. He suspected as much. Encountering legendary man-made weapons remained an improbable feat. He imagined chancing upon a weapon forged by omnipotent hands would be downright impossible.

  His eye rested on the Earth Mother, vulnerable in the darkness. Never did he suspect he’d bear witness to susceptibility in the woman. From the day he met her, she was a fortress of self-assurance. She knew who she was and reflected it in every word she spoke. Excess time had a way of shaping a person into a statue of certainty. Years bred critical moments that evolved with experience, in turn solidifying the individual. Kazuaki knew the fact better than most.

  He also knew that even immortals, or beings with the ability to extend their lifespans beyond natural limitations, were susceptible to the flaws shared by common men and women.

  “Okay,” he murmured, his rough voice holding a softened edge. “Nico is planning a gathering of the Time Fathers at Panagea’s center. We’ll talk with Bartholomew. We’ll tell him about Darjal. He can decide the churches once he has all the information.”

  A sudden relief exuded from the woman. Though it was far from a permanent solution to the greater concern of the gods’ return, knowing it might help Nicholai eased her. They would figure out the rest. “Kazuaki,” she started, trailing off moments later.

  “I won’t tell Nico.”

  Umbriel smiled. She laid a hand on his arm. “Thank you. I fear it would only complicate things.”

  Kazuaki huffed. He turned back to look in the sleepy town’s direction. People rested in their beds, unaware of what horrors awaited those who were vulnerable enough to fall victim to the lesser gods’ whispers. “I think it’s a little late for that.”

  Chapter Nine

  The table felt like ice against the bare skin of Nicholai’s back. He stared at the ceiling without ceremony, listening to the clanks and whirs of Rhirvin making adjustments on his arm. Every once in awhile the taste of iron crept onto his tongue and gave cause for him to frown. He swallowed the metallic flavor into his throat each time.

  Rhirvin loosened the bolts holding the sliding shield plates in place and set the damaged pieces on the table beside him. Nicholai heard him make small, disgruntled noises with each one he separated from the arm’s base.

  “Apologies, Rhirvin.” Nicholai tried to lighten the machinist’s frustration with a smirk. “I know you take pride in your work. I assure you, I did not set out to damage it intentionally.”

  Rhirvin’s eyebrows rose on his face. He failed to notice that he uttered his sounds of dissatisfaction out loud. The man chuckled, lightening his sour expression. “It’s fine, Mr. Addihein. It did what it was supposed to do. At least these dents are in this metal and not your chest.”

  “Yes,” Nicholai rested the muscles in his neck, easing the tension he held the entire time Rhirvin worked on him. “My body appreciates the sacrifice made by your hard work.”

  Rhirvin grinned and wiped his hands with a dirty shop towel. “It’ll take too long to buff out the damage. I had the foresight to keep some precut sheets in back that match the dimensions you need. Something told me you’d need them eventually.”

  “Yeah?” Nicholai laughed, though the sound reflected only dim humor. “What gave it away?”

  “Probably the third or fourth assassination attempt,” Rhirvin replied, nonchalant as he disappeared into a back room. “I can’t remember which one exactly,” he called out from the space he vanished into.

  Nicholai closed his eyes and swept his organic hand over his face, rubbing away the fatigue from a night of poor sleep. “Thank you for squeezing me in on such short notice. I’m in a bit of a time crunch.”

  The sound of various metals tapping against one another emanated from the room where Rhirvin resided. He searched for the pieces he had stashed away for Nicholai, sifting through assorted fragments of scrap until he pulled them from a dusty corner. “Anything for Southeastern’s Time Father,” he replied before pulling the sheets out and cleaning off the filth with his hands.

  Nicholai laid in silence until Rhirvin returned. He went to work without delay, installing the new pieces where the damaged ones had been removed. The machinist stole occasional glimpses of the Time Father as he mounted the parts. He lived in a stillness that differed from the norm. Rhirvin had become well acquainted with the silence that claimed Nicholai each time he returned from visiting his late lover’s grave, but the aura that came from him now was a new breed altogether.

  This knowledge, coupled with the Time Father’s urgent request that his arm be repaired as quickly as possible, ignited a small wonder in the metalsmith that he couldn’t ignore.

  “You know, Mr. Addihein, I haven’t known you long,” he started, his wrist twisting as he tightened a bolt, “but I have a sneaking suspicion you’re having a particularly bad day, and my gut’s telling me it’s not just the dents.”

  A smirk crossed Nicholai’s face, but it was absent of genuine amusement. More a subconscious reaction than anything else. Nicholai liked Rhirvin. The man proved himself to be a hard worker and an honest civilian. He was someone the Southeastern Time Father trusted, which became rarer by the day. But politics often overshadowed personal feelings. “I won’t insult your intelligence by denying my concerns, Rhirvin,” Nicholai said as he laid unmoving on the table, “but know that I cannot divulge much else.” Not until he had more answers. Nicholai did not want to escalate any emotions the lesser gods could use as a weapon.

  “That bad, huh?” Rhirvin slid the metal components of Nicholai’s shield out to be sure they worked. Dissatisfied, he reached for some lubricant to increase the efficiency in which the plates spread. “Does it have anything to do with that sword Mr. Hidataka came back with?”

  Nicholai blinked, lost for a moment about what Rhirvin referred to. He remembered moments later that Kazuaki had left to
hunt a weapon of sorts. The captain must have found it. Nicholai had been busy upon his return from Southern, not only with the goings-on there but with Avigail. He failed to notice Kazuaki’s trip was successful. “No,” he replied. After some thought, he added, “At least, I don’t think so.” The captain had a way of stirring the pot. Nicholai couldn’t deny a possibility existed that there was a link, though he doubted it.

  “Just a guess,” Rhirvin said as he slid the plates back into place and closed the opening to the internal components of Nicholai’s arm. “It caught my eyes immediately. Fine craftsmanship, that sword. My family’s been in the metal-working trade since man first manipulated it to his liking. You could say iron runs in my veins.” He tapped Nicholai’s arm and grinned. “You’re all set to go, Mr. Addihein.”

  Nicholai sat up from the table and flexed his mechanical fingertips. Satisfied, he slid his legs over the edge and returned to the floor. “Thank you, Rhirvin.” He nodded as he reached for his clothing and slid his shirt on over his head. “I’ll be sure the treasurer gets you your pay.”

  “Ah,” Rhirvin waved his wrist, unconcerned. “I know you’re good for it. If you ever need anything else, just let me know.”

  Nicholai tipped his hat as soon as he returned it to his head. “Your craftsmanship truly knows no bounds. I trust everything is going well with your new project?”

  Rhirvin could not hide his proud grin. “Indeed, it is. I know you’re in a bit of a hurry, but come.” He motioned Nicholai to a back room with his hand, approaching a large object, concealed by a tarp. With a brightness in his eyes, he drew the sheet away, revealing the piece hidden beneath. “It’s almost near perfection,” he beamed, circling the cycle with satisfaction.

  Nicholai leaned down, inspecting every polished piece of metal and the bolts that held them in place. The mechanics were beyond their years, each part integrating into the other to give the cycle not only an unmatched aesthetic but a function beyond modern ability. The engine, the cylinders, the valves, each promised a connection to one another that boasted of an untouched superiority to the conveniences of the now. Nicholai grinned. “It’s very impressive, Rhirvin.”

  “A few more months and I think I’ll have everything worked out.” Rhirvin gazed upon it, his achievement reflecting in his eyes. “It’ll open new doors when it comes to traveling, that’s for sure. The fastest mode of land transport to date, second in efficiency only to air travel.”

  Nicholai grinned, nodding. “And to know its inventor crafted it in my division is an honor the likes of which I cannot even begin to describe.”

  Rhirvin snorted, flashing Nicholai a look of playful sarcasm. “Soon as I patent this baby and make my fortune, maybe I’ll buy my own division.”

  “You’d be a great leader,” Nicholai grinned, pointing his finger at the machinist. Unable to delay much longer, the Time Father started for the door.

  Something stopped him before he exited, and Nicholai lingered in the doorway. With Kazuaki and the crew accompanying him to Panagea’s center, there weren’t many men left in Nenada he trusted more than Rhirvin Kelum. He had paid recruits on standby and seconds-in-command for any necessary political issues that required immediate attention, but those men were on payroll, motivated by money and not much else. Rhirvin was a good man. An unpretentious, reliable man. Nicholai turned around.

  “Can I ask a favor in my absence, Rhirvin?”

  Rhirvin looked up, wiping beads of sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. “Of course, Mr. Addihein. Anything.”

  “Could you keep a keen eye on Malcolm Finn for me while I’m gone?” he asked. “He’s too stubborn to accept the presence of any hired guards, which I must admit I admire. However,” Nicholai forced a smile, “I’d feel much better knowing he had someone looking out for him.”

  A broad grin claimed Rhirvin’s face. “I like Malcolm too, Mr. Addihein. You can count on me.”

  “Much appreciated,” Nicholai replied with obvious relief. “And please, Rhirvin, you can call me Nicholai. Or Nico, if you prefer. All my other friends do.”

  Rhirvin nodded, his smile still a constant. “Go on then, Nico. No frets. I’ll keep watch over Malcolm.”

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Touching solid ground affected Jernal in a way he didn’t expect. The soldier laid claim to a constant proficiency he carried since he first became a soldier to the Southern military many years ago. Even in his early career, he did not balk at any duty asked of him, regardless of how much he questioned it. Jernal performed with a solid, unadulterated evenness. Every report with his name in it dictated as much.

  But landing the airship on Northern ground left him queasy. Unbalanced. He teetered on the edge of this mission’s completion. The thought left his brain with a hazy feeling, as if he’d been drugged. He was minutes away from putting this nightmare behind him. He only needed to find Nordjan, prove he acquired Mimir’s freedom, receive the benefits that would ensure his family’s wealth and security for the remainder of their days and be done with it.

  The return ride to Northern strangled him. The men under his command kept their distance. They performed as instructed, surfacing only for meals, orders, and little else. Jernal felt their restlessness with a force unmatched by anything he’d experienced before. He thought he’d appreciate the absence of their mockery, but it only fueled his edginess and pointed a glaring finger at the obvious: something wasn’t right.

  A darkness lived aboard the airship the entire flight home. It infected every being who lived in its proximity. A darkness, he feared, he invited back with him. A darkness he used to serve.

  Jernal tried to keep the thoughts out of his head. He didn’t know if they were safe there. The limits of Darjal’s abilities were unknown to him. As if the late Southern Time Father wasn’t a large enough obstacle for his sanity, Mimir was no pleasure to be near through the trip either. The lesser god lived in a state of wavering emotion. From serious to delirious, the creature flew from one end of the rationality spectrum to the other with no indication as to when he’d shift.

  Jernal bristled when Mimir walked passed him, exiting the airship’s ramp, and walking onto Northern ground. The soldier noticed a change in the lesser god’s physical appearance. The hunch in his back had straightened over time. The gelatinous fingers and arms took on a more defined shape, showcasing various muscle groupings. With each passing hour that Mimir breathed Panagea’s limited oxygen, he seemed more like a man, and less of a beast.

  “Returned at last to where mortal feet grace the terrain,” Mimir purred, tilting his chin to the gray sky. Delicate snowflakes filtered from the lifeless expanse above until they fell to their death on the ice-covered earth. The darkness that made up Mimir’s body was a blunt disparity to the bleached flakes that accumulated in piles around him.

  Jernal made a face. Mimir returned to his cryptic self. The soldier did not know which he preferred more: this version or the more erratic form. One ignited an irritation in him, while the other sent tremors through his nervous system.

  Footmen from Nordjan’s residence poured out to meet the airship. The well-dressed men of the Northern military saluted Jernal while keeping sharp eyes on the unnatural creature in his company. They knew he had been sent to collect something of importance. Nordjan did not highlight exactly what it was, knowing full well the Northern soldiers would not buy into talk of lesser gods.

  They only knew Jernal was to return with what Nordjan referred to as ‘an undesirable thing’. By the looks of Mimir, they guessed he was it.

  Darjal descended the ramp and came to stand beside Jernal. The hair on the back of the commander’s neck stood on end. Without turning to look at the lesser god, Jernal asked, “Will you be taking your leave now? To find Nicholai?”

  “No,” Darjal replied, his tone blunt. “Why do you think I followed you both here? Mimir will lead me to the captain. The captain will lead me to the physical body of Nicholai Addihein.”

  Jernal’s expression adopted a l
ook of confusion. “I thought you already knew where he was,” he admitted. “You claimed to tap into his mind already. To darken his thoughts.”

  “Pathetic mortal,” Darjal straightened, irritated. “His physical location is being shrouded by a supernatural force. Even if it were not, the presence of peoples’ minds in the astral world is like ripples in the ocean. It’s easy to see the swells—they spread outward, limitless. It’s much harder finding the rock that made them. Only his prayer is a beacon in the darkness,” he continued to explain, “but I sincerely doubt he will take to a knee and summon me of his own free will.”

  “Right.” Jernal absorbed the information with forced calm. Darjal followed them only to use Mimir as a pawn. He needed to remind himself the late Southern Time Father had no interest in what Jernal did. Only Mimir.

  When he rid himself of one, the other would fall to the wayside. He was in the home stretch.

  The soldiers on the airship were slow to emerge from their cabins. They did not approach the ramp until Darjal walked out of their sight, trailing after Jernal as he entered Nordjan’s home. The three walked in silence, footsteps echoing off the corridors as they approached the Northern Time Father’s primary room. Jernal knew the route well. In the short time he spent in Nordjan’s employ, he memorized the layout of his dwelling. Recalling every nook and cranny was the only thing keeping his mind occupied enough to draw focus away from his discomfort at remaining in Darjal and Mimir’s company.

  At the door to Nordjan’s chamber, Jernal kicked off the snow that still clung to his boots. The soldier found it strange that no footman waited outside the Time Father’s entrance, but dismissed it. He lifted his hand, knocked, and waited.

  Nothing.

  Jernal frowned. Growing desperate to rid himself of his company, he knocked again.

  Silence.

  Trying to contain his panic, he grabbed the handle of the door to push it open. Locked.

  Mimir looked at Jernal, his eyes aglow. “It seems the source of your liberation has vacated the premises, Commander.”