The clock hanging on Nicholai’s wall mocked the silence with its incessant ticks. Normally, the Time Father found the sound comforting, but after his experience in the realm in-between worlds, the constant reminder of passing seconds troubled him. “But it wasn’t a lesser god who sought me,” he interjected, holding out a hand. “It was only a random man under the influence of one.”
“They know the hierarchy of mankind,” Kazuaki said, narrowing his eye. “Your voice has resonance. Perhaps, if you pray to one, one will appear.”
Nicholai parted his lips to speak but halted. His attention fell on the set of katars leaning against the wall beside Kazuaki. Polished steel that defied its age, they shimmered with an otherworldly essence expected of a weapon forged by gods. Still, Nicholai frowned. “And what if a lesser god does appear ... and these weapons Mimir gave you are nothing more than some sort of cruel joke?”
Kazuaki huffed. “It wouldn’t matter. They can’t hurt us.”
“They seem to be doing a lot of damage for creatures that can’t cause harm,” Nicholai murmured. He leaned forward in his chair, his gaze stern as he studied Kazuaki. “I’d prefer not to welcome any chaos to Nenada if I can avoid it. In fact, I’d rather the whole of Southeastern stay as far away from lesser gods as possible.”
“Get your head out of your ass, Nico. They’re already here,” Kazuaki snapped, slicking strands of black hair out of his face. “And like a plague, they will continue to spread if we do not stop them.”
The Time Father closed his eyes. The knowledge that Kazuaki was right battled with his desire to keep his people safe. What kind of leader invited harm to his home town? Then again, what kind of leader said no to a potential solution for the whole of Panagea? If Mimir spoke the truth, and Kazuaki could, indeed, slay the lesser gods ... it would be the beginning of a long endeavor to wipe their wrath from Panagea. But killing ... it almost felt as if he was back to where he started with Kazuaki Hidataka in the first place, begging him not to use violence as a means to an end.
But were lesser gods actual men and women ... or were they only physical manifestations of mankind’s ideas, hopes, and desires? Nicholai’s conscience labeled them as individuals, but a small part of him had no qualms removing them from Panagea forever.
Then again ... it was hard to tell if that thought stemmed from himself, or the callous influence of Darjal. The being prodded at his brain ceaselessly as of late. He felt him in every ounce of blood pumping through his veins. In every step he took. In every minute gesture. He was getting harder and harder to ignore.
The Time Father thought about what Umbriel would say. That it was dangerous. That he was already fragile. That inviting a lesser god to infect him with even more mental pressure than Darjal already unleashed daily was foolhardy and thoughtless. Nicholai could already see the disappointment on her face. He’d already left so much there in the last several weeks. But unless they did something, there was no end in sight for disappointments all around.
Nicholai’s eyes opened. He had to do this. For his people’s well-being, first and foremost. But if it also helped him get one part closer to removing Darjal from his head, he would do just about anything. “All right,” he relented, glancing at Kazuaki. “I’ll do it. But give me a chance to talk with whoever we summon first. I know things didn’t go well with Dimjir, but it’s never too late to try and reason with them instead.”
Kazuaki glared, as he always did. What he felt in that moment, Nicholai could not tell. The captain never gave much away. “I’ll give you five minutes.”
He’d take it. It was four minutes longer than he thought he’d get. “My only other condition is that we wait for nightfall.” Nicholai glanced out the window, taking note of the sun’s position in the sky. Though he could have looked at his clock, much like the ticking, he found the face left a sour taste in his mouth. “We’ll wait for the residents to take to their beds. If we’re going to be summoning lesser gods to gallivant around Nenada, the fewer people awake for them to control, the better.”
Kazuaki nodded once more. That would give him time to prepare the others and himself. “Fair enough.” He pulled himself out of his chair, grabbed the katars, and strode across the room, leaving the Time Father to whatever political duties he wished to wrap up before nightfall.
The captain swept fluidly through the room and reached his hand out to open the door to the porch. On the other side, someone beat him to the punch.
As the door swung open, Kazuaki fell into Revi’s sight and he stepped back, not wishing to run into him.
“Captain—” Revi stared, holding tight to a series of travel bags.
Kazuaki eyed him, from his boots to the supplies draped over his shoulders. The bags were full, fit to accommodate a man for quite some time. His gaze flicked to Revi’s face. “Going somewhere?” he asked, his tone unenthusiastic.
The Houton man’s shoulders drew back, despite the weight of the provisions he packed to accompany him. “I have reason to believe Avigail went to Northwestern,” he said, with little other explanation.
He didn’t need to elucidate. Kazuaki knew immediately what he insinuated. “Northwestern is a big division. It won’t be easy finding one girl among hundreds of thousands with only one set of eyes.”
Revi knew what the captain implied. His search for Avigail would be a solo mission. He expected as much; Kazuaki was guided by his own set of morality. While Revi was certain the captain’s respect for humanity wavered at the best of times, ultimately, he knew Kazuaki would answer Panagea’s call for help. One could not place an enchanted weapon in the hands of the immortal and expect him not to use it. “You’re right,” he murmured, “but it’ll be much easier than sitting on my ass for another ten years, living on hope alone that I might see her again.”
Kazuaki studied Revi’s face. He scrutinized his posture down to the last subconscious twitch in his fingertip. Then he nodded. “Then go. We all know hope is useless, and nothing to wager on.”
Revi affirmed the captain’s statement. His eyes fell to the katars at Kazuaki’s side. In a temporary wave of regret at abandoning his comrades in a time of need, he forced himself to face his superior once more. “Good luck. With the gods.”
Kazuaki lifted one of the katars and set it gently against his shoulder. With a stern face, he muttered, “Never needed luck.”
A small smirk appeared across Revi’s mouth. Kazuaki’s classic dismissal, masked with a thick veneer of arrogance, gave him all the amnesty he needed from his guilt. With or without him, the captain would be fine. He always was. “I’ll return,” he said. “As soon as I find her.”
“Well,” Kazuaki motioned him off with a quick jerk of his head, “you know where we’ll be.”
Revi nodded, amending the series of travel packs he held with a quick rotation of his shoulder before he left. He felt no need to make additional farewells to Bermuda, Brack, and Granite. His departure was only temporary, anyway. Penn and the captain would fill them in. Right now, his only focus was finding the nearest steam train.
When Revi ventured out of earshot, Nicholai walked up behind Kazuaki, a concerned look on his face. “He’s going alone? Shouldn’t we send someone to accompany him?”
“No.” Kazuaki stood with his back to Nicholai. “That would only slow him down.”
✽ ✽ ✽
Anxiety often made time tick by faster than usual. Nicholai could have sworn he was back in the in-between realm, as the hours flew by without remorse since the decision was made to summon a lesser god. After an in-depth discussion with Umbriel, who was predictably displeased with the danger Nicholai put himself in with this endeavor, they settled on one of the gods Dimjir named as being among the few vengeful: Madros. The God of Revenge.
The Earth Mother did not shy away from putting her disapproval on full display. But every worry he saw in her eyes, he knew was borne of compassion. Of fear for his well-being. It was after some time that she relented. Umbriel cared for Nicholai, but she
also cared for the people of Panagea ... and if Nicholai could somehow pull mercy out of Madros and end the reign of terror ... if he could harmlessly invite lesser gods back into Panagea, that she might see another Earth Mother again in her lifetime ... it was worth the risk.
A soft rain misted his arms. He delighted in the small pleasure. Nicholai rolled the sleeves of his shirt up earlier, finding the anticipation of the evening’s events made him work up a sweat. Standing under flickering lamplight outside his home, he glanced in all directions. As predicted, much of Nenada was asleep. The last of the lamplighters retired to their homes. It was now or never.
Mimir stood in the doorway of Nicholai’s home, spying the man’s back from the open entrance. “I extend to you the best of luck, Time Father. You’ll understand if I do not take an active part.” A slow but undeniable smirk danced onto his face. “As you can imagine, I do not wish to be within striking distance of any vengeful lesser gods. Your mortal blood holds the antidote to their axes and swords,” he paused, sliding his hand up around his neck as if he feared his head might detach from his spine, “but mine does not.”
Nicholai glanced over his shoulder, surprised Mimir made even a small appearance. “Yes,” he said, his face betraying the confusion he felt that the lesser god addressed him at all, “I understand.”
He blinked, and Mimir was gone. The others took to their hiding places as well. Where they hid, Nicholai did not know. He was not made privy to their location as an insurance policy. If Madros did infiltrate his mind, it was pertinent that Nicholai possessed no knowledge of the whereabouts of the others. They needed all the help they could get to keep Madros in the dark.
“Right,” he said to himself, looking down at his hands as if they held an answer to a question he didn’t know. “Okay.” Nicholai inhaled, rubbed his palms together, and hung his head. “Madros, God of Revenge ... I am Nicholai Addihein, the Time Father of the Southeastern division. I understand your kind are out for the division leaders. I seek council with you, that I might quell your lust for retaliation.” He frowned, realizing the idiocy of his statement in pursuing exoneration from the God of Revenge. Nevertheless, he persisted. “Um ... please.”
The only response to his plea was a well-timed gust of wind. It blew more tiny rain droplets onto Nicholai’s face and neck. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Madros, God of—”
“I’m here,” the voice uttered, sounding as though it stood inches from his face, but Nicholai could not locate him. “Say your piece, so that I might bathe in the amusement of how truly pathetic it is.”
Nicholai’s spine arched at the sudden onset of chatter. He steeled his nerves and reached up to grab the brim of his hat; holding something helped keep his hand steady. “I understand you feel betrayed by mankind. You have every right to feel so. Being abandoned by those you love, those who are supposed to love you ...” Nicholai frowned. “It is ... not a good feeling.”
From the shadows cast by tall street lamps, a movement occurred on the ground. Nicholai squinted as the dark shape peeled itself off the cobblestone, manifesting in the form of a demon-horned beast. Madros snorted, his breath forming around his mouth in a translucent mist that died shortly after it was born. “What do you know of it, Time Father?” His eyes glowed, piercing Nicholai’s retinas with the savagery of their brightness against the black that surrounded him. “You are a man of power here. Humanity bows down to the division leaders. You are adored by all you rule over.”
“Oh, boy,” Nicholai winced, scratching the back of his head, “you’ve never been involved in politics, have you?”
Madros’ nose wrinkled as he shot a rapid breath out through his nostrils. “Do not insult me by striving to comprehend the motive behind my vengeance. Simply know it is just.”
“No, no,” Nicholai held up his hands, “I ... I get it. After my mother’s death, my father—eh, you might know him, if you’re out for the other division leaders and all that ... you know, he, he left me with my grandparents. Didn’t visit more than once a year, if that.” Nicholai shook his head. “It does sting a bit, being forgotten. But ... I can honestly say I never contemplated mass genocide.”
“Do not mock me, young Addihein.” Madros inclined his chin, glaring down at Nicholai from his massive height. “You compare one man’s adoration to that of hundreds of thousands. It is not the same.”
“Try telling that to an eight-year-old,” Nicholai murmured under his breath, wincing at the memory. “Look, Madros, it’s neither here nor there. The point is, you feel slighted. Understandably so. What can I do to fix that?”
Madros frowned, unamused. It reminded Nicholai of a facial expression the captain might have made. The rain intensified, spilling down onto the lesser god’s shoulders, which looked as though they were carved of rock. Small hisses of steam sizzled around him with each droplet that touched his unnatural skin. “There is nothing you can do.”
Nicholai pinched his lips together, a single brow raising on his face. “Yes, that’s what everyone keeps saying.”
Madros chuckled. The sound boomed like thunder, to match the rain. “Your companions are wise to say such things. They are perceptive, to see through your worth like glass, transparent and fragile.”
“I don’t think they—” Nicholai paused, unsure how he found himself in this conversation. He intended to plead to Madros for mercy, but somewhere his objective fell off course. He frowned, fairly certain it had much to do with the lesser gods’ abilities to manipulate people. He hadn’t even realized Madros had done anything. “—they don’t consider me all that useless,” he finished, compelled by a supernatural desire to complete his sentence.
“These are the same lies we told ourselves,” Madros rumbled. “When fewer and fewer men and women offered up their prayers, we deceived ourselves into thinking as you do. That they still saw use in us. But even gods are wrong sometimes, young Addihein. As are you.”
He felt it, and he didn’t. That single second of doubt. He relived every disagreement shared with Kazuaki. Every reservation voiced by Umbriel at his ability to assist with the lesser gods’ infiltration. Every disregarded opinion he ever announced, every overlooked, omitted, unheeded thing he shared amongst the captain and the crew. His comrades. At least, they were supposed to be.
These people were the ones who were supposed to trust him most. They were from two different classes of Panagea, but after he got to know them, their variances never dissuaded Nicholai from respecting every one of them. The sentiment was not always shared. Or so it felt ... particularly as of late. They treated him like glass, as Madros said, more than an esteemed member of their party.
Yes. He was glass to them. Brittle and dispensable.
He shouldn’t have been. Nicholai Addihein was capable of devising solutions. If only they weren’t present to stifle his success, he could easily achieve what Panagea needed. If only.
The twin blades of the katars pierced Madros from behind. One for each lung. A guttural sound escaped the lesser god’s mouth as he arched his back. His head quaked as he strained to look over his shoulder, to see what had happened, but his movements were hindered by the rods of steel penetrating his form.
“Im ... possible,” Madros stuttered, a slow trail of blood seeping past his tongue, slithering down his neck, where it nestled into a jagged crack in his skin.
Kazuaki huffed. He placed his boot against Madros’ back and kicked the body off his blades. The lesser god staggered forward, trying to catch himself, but was unsuccessful. He collapsed onto the cobblestone, his fingers scraping against the ground beneath him.
Kazuaki approached, resting the tip of the katars in front of Madros’ face. He lowered himself down into a crouched position, the rain pelting his long jacket, washing the blood of the god down the polished steel, where it diluted into nothing more than a pink wash near Madros’ fallen head.
The lesser god’s wild eyes traveled up the tainted blades to Kazuaki’s hands. A man’s hands. Hands that h
ad no business wielding a weapon forged by gods. “Where ... did you get those?” he gurgled, wrath and unreleased blood poisoning his words.
Kazuaki glanced at the katars before he looked down at Madros. More iron-red liquid from the two gaping holes in his chest seeped out from beneath him, commingling with the blood washed away from the blades. The captain hitched a shoulder. “Doesn’t matter much now, does it?”
With the last of his fading strength, Madros reached out and gripped the captain’s boot. He dug his nails into the aged leather, snarling as the contact allowed him to scour Kazuaki’s brain for the information he wanted. Though his grip on the immortal’s footwear weakened, the rage in his throat was very much alive. “Mimir,” he hissed, releasing the boot and curling his fingers into a fist.
His knuckles did not strain in that shape for much longer. Little by little, the pressure behind each finger gave way as Madros’ life slipped from his imagined body. When Kazuaki was certain he passed, he stood to his feet.
“Well done, Nic—”
The captain flinched. He felt a sharpness in his neck. He rested one of the katars against his leg as he raised his hand, grabbing the dart that stuck out of his skin. Kazuaki ripped it out. His eye contracted as he inspected the object with confusion. It didn’t take long for him to figure out what it was.
He turned his eye to Nicholai. The Time Father’s arm was still raised, the slot where the dart exited his metal limb still open. He looked wild, standing there in the rain, living in the chaos Madros bred in his brain. He looked every bit the part of a demon standing there, his shoulders rising and falling with each labored breath.
“Gods dammit,” Kazuaki muttered, his arm falling to his side. Unable to balance the katars against his body any longer, they clattered to the cobblestone beside Madros. He felt the paralysis claim his legs. It brought him to his knees. “Nico—”
The Time Father retracted the opening where the dart released. He scowled at Kazuaki, wearing a disgusted look that the immortal captain had never witnessed before. It looked unnatural on the kindhearted man’s face.
The Panagea Tales Box Set Page 79