Jernal frowned. Another dissatisfying answer from the cryptic creature. He turned his attention in the direction of Southern, shoving his chilled hands into his pockets. The soldier had no intention of arguing. He had been trying to get to Southern since he discovered news of the chaos that awaited it.
To return to the relative proximity of his wife and children was a great reward. Though they did not live in Seacaster, and were therefore safe from the initial onslaught of the lesser gods’ invasion, Jernal doubted their security would remain. If Kazuaki Hidataka and the others were unsuccessful in their efforts to destroy the gods, it was best to have back up.
Terminating his contract with Mimir was a close second in the list of important goals to Jernal. He hoped the lesser god found a use for him in Southern. Something that ended his obligation to stay with the beast of burden. He glanced over at the lesser god, who met his annoyed stare with a pleasant grin. Jernal scowled.
He would give anything to be free of Mimir.
“How do we get there?” Jernal muttered, gazing out at the dust left by the cycle’s tires. “We’ll never beat him.”
Mimir grinned. “Oh, Commander. As you are owned by a lesser god, you will travel like a lesser god.”
Before Jernal figured out what that meant, Mimir seized his wrist. He felt every atom of his body shift, tugged on by a force he could not see. A panic prospered inside him at the uncomfortable feeling, and before he knew it, Mimir pulled him to Southern by a supernatural force.
Chapter Thirty
The crew settled into Southern without much adjustment. Bartholomew’s reassurance last year that they always had a home on his division’s ground stood true. Kazuaki leaned back into one of the many ornate chairs that sat in Bartholomew’s study, an amber drink clutched in his hand.
Sitting across from him, the Southern Time Father closed his eyes, holding his beverage of choice: a ruddy looking liquid Kazuaki could not identify. The two men allowed the luxurious cushions of the elaborately carved chairs to swallow them, relieving the burdens of reality, if only for a moment.
“Darjal had decadent taste in furniture,” Bartholomew murmured to break the silence.
Kazuaki coated his tongue with a small blanket of alcohol and swallowed it down. His eye scanned the room. Vaulted ceilings towered above them. Elegant chandeliers dangled from custom scenery painted on the tiles. Fireplaces made of marble bordered the men on both sides. Even the trim lining the affluent flooring was excessive. The only thing that seemed out of place was the bookshelves: simple and linear in their design. Logical. Inexpensive. Likely brought in by Bartholomew earlier in his reign. “It’s ... nice,” Kazuaki said, his voice flat and lacking honesty.
“There’s no need to placate me, Captain.” Bartholomew gazed about the room in which he spent a large majority of his time and wrinkled his nose. “It’s hideous. Nothing more than a lavish monument to his ego.”
Half of Kazuaki’s face swept into a smirk. He nodded.
“I would have removed it already, but that, too, would be a waste.” Bartholomew frowned, resting his glass down on the arm of his chair. “Finances are hard to come by these days. Anything I threw away I would only need to replace.”
Kazuaki nodded again. He’d heard Nicholai drone on about similar grievances while he tried to find the best places to send Southeastern’s dwindling currency. “I imagine they are.”
The scholar leaned his head into the chair’s tall backing, his eyes floating to the ceiling. He knew he could turn this place around. Southern could become something better than it was. He could bring education to the people, who would in turn craft intelligent ideas to suit their division. To suit others. It had the potential. If only it had the opportunity. “Another war, Captain.” Bartholomew lifted his glass and took a drink. “When will it end?”
Kazuaki’s eye flicked over to the twin katars leaning against a rich, decorated wall. “Soon, with any luck.”
Bartholomew fell silent. Kazuaki’s appearance in Southern was only a partial surprise. When the captain came to him in his airship a week ago, with the crew in tow, he knew there was a reason. The Southern Time Father had hoped it had nothing to do with the nightmares he was having lately. The unspeakable ones involving Naphine and her army of slighted gods and goddesses. But before the captain stepped foot off the airship and validated his reason for coming, Bartholomew knew. He felt it in his core.
The pair discussed it briefly, but put it off for the time being, knowing with critical certainty that it needed to be acknowledged. Kazuaki could no longer wait. It was for that reason he requested Bartholomew’s presence in the grand study. The captain speculated the scholar knew what he was going to say; Bartholomew’s efforts to delay the inevitable with idle small talk was a sure indication. “Bartholomew ...”
The Southern Time Father sank farther into his chair, avoiding eye contact. He knew. “Yes, Captain.”
Kazuaki leaned forward, resting his elbows on his legs. He did not wish to insult Bartholomew’s intelligence by saying it out loud, but he needed there to be absolute clarity regarding the matter. “We’re going to have to put some of your citizens down.”
Bartholomew’s grip on his glass tightened. “I’ve had the pleasure of knowing you for a long time now, Captain. I suspected as much.” He slid the liquor closer toward him and spilled a considerable amount into the back of his throat. His eyes seemed vacant, but he kept his voice steady. “It’s not their fault, you know.”
The torment in the announcement of the man he respected cut him, but Kazuaki did not question his decision. “I know.” He hung his head and stared at his boots before he raised his neck again. He tried to find Bartholomew’s focus. “You’re a man of intellect. You know there’s no way to stop them all without putting the lives of the crew at risk. And I will not do that.”
Though he did not look at him, Bartholomew nodded. “I know.”
The cavernous room only highlighted the accompanying silence. It was so tangible, it felt as if it was its own presence in the room. The two men sat in the company of it, with only the sound of Bartholomew’s ticking Chronometer at his chest eliminating complete gloom.
“In spite of everything, Captain,” Bartholomew finally met Kazuaki’s eye with his own, “it is good to see you happy.”
A brow rose on Kazuaki’s face. The situation was grim at best. Though he had no qualms taking the lives of men, he knew Bartholomew held a vested interest in his peoples’ well-being. Kazuaki did not delight in playing a role in his comrade’s turmoil. For Bartholomew to see happiness in him was strange. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve observed you in the week since you’ve all arrived,” Bartholomew said, helping himself to another small sip from his drink. “You seem ... content. Fewer demons.”
Kazuaki held fast to his look of skepticism, but he leaned back in his chair. “I’ve always respected your keen observation skills, Bartholomew.”
Bartholomew shrugged. “I’m sure it has something to do with the fact that Bermuda has been sharing your bedchambers.”
A quick hand raised to contain the mouthful of booze that nearly shot out of the captain’s mouth. He coughed once, feeling the sting of jostled alcohol as it coated his tongue and burned the back of his throat. His eye watered a touch as he coughed again, wiping the liquid that managed to escape his lips off onto his sleeve.
“Take no shame,” Bartholomew said with a light chuckle. “I remember the way you looked at her. It was only a matter of time.”
“I was never as confident as all that,” Kazuaki choked out, still caught trying to soothe the scorch in his throat. “I do not wish to sound morbid, Bartholomew, but I never had much optimism for either of us finding that kind of bliss. I venture that’s why I took to you so quickly.”
“Two doomed individuals from the start. And yet,” Bartholomew stretched out the hand that did not hold his drink, gesturing to the room around them, “here we both are. Sometimes light finds its way to
even the darkest of places.”
“So I’ve heard,” Kazuaki mumbled, his thoughts drifting back to the story Mimir told him. It wasn’t long before they were replaced with memories of Kal Rovanas’ actions in Northwestern. “I’m happy for you, Bartholomew. Kal is ... not unlikable.”
The scholar smirked, with a look of absolute happiness. “I’m quite fond of him too.”
Kazuaki glanced at his drink. A small amount remained at the bottom of the glass, but he still smelled the high proof of the alcohol. He set it down on a nearby table. “No matter what happens ... knowing that we have both defied the odds and tasted happiness ...” He trailed off, shrugging. “Were it that I could die, I would die content.”
Bartholomew’s smirk evolved into a full-blown smile. Though he noticed Kazuaki set his beverage down, the scholar lifted his glass. “I’ll drink to that, old friend.”
✽ ✽ ✽
The armory was not a comforting place. The high walls displayed an incredible array of weapons, ranging in all sizes and for all skill levels. Penn scanned the long-range arsenal. Longbows, crossbows, reflex bows, pistols, muskets, throwing axes, some kind of grenade that varied in appearance from the clay ones the captain carried on his person. A feeling of discomfort shuddered through the cook’s bones.
Penn was no stranger to standoffs. His brazen, boorish attitude hurled him into more fistfights than he remembered, both before, and after his introduction to life aboard Kazuaki Hidataka’s ship. He did not fear black eyes or broken noses; such things did not drain the life out of a man. But as he stole a glimpse of Brack, who joyously wove through the incredible assortment of weaponry, he knew he did not share the man’s confidence in the face of all-out warfare.
Penn had yet to live beyond his mid-twenties. He did not develop the confidence with blades and bullets the other crew members possessed. His heart bellowed in his chest as his imagination betrayed him to the horrors that awaited him when the lesser gods attacked. He reached a hand out to grab a crossbow off the wall, unable to calm the subtle quakes in his nerves.
If his skillset matched the others, perhaps terror would have avoided him. He scanned the components of the crossbow, unable to concentrate.
Brack twirled about the armory, his arms extended out from either side of him. “What a collection, aye, boys?” He laughed, prancing over to various hanging guns to touch each one. “I thought Cappy had an impressive collection, but my gods! It’s good to be a Time Father, ain’t it?”
Granite reached out, sliding various implements into his belt. When he ran out of space, he placed other additions into the straps across his back and thighs. No space wasted, objects of destruction made their way into every available crevice.
Sensing the time of the lesser gods’ arrival drew nearer based on Mimir’s predictions, Bartholomew finally allowed the crew access to the room’s contents. As his dog stood beside him, wagging its tail, Granite hoped they would have time to test some of the objects out before using them for their intended purpose.
“Revi is missing out!” Brack continued pocketing weaponry before he slipped over to the defensive objects, sliding a helmet on his head. “Oi! Does this helmet make me look like a warmonger?” He flexed his fingers until they resembled talons and took a challenging step forward. “Fear me, for I am the almighty Brack Joney! I shall smite thee from where ye stand!”
Granite’s eyes rolled into the back of his head as he distanced himself from Brack. Careful consideration was given to the display of armor before him. Due to his unnatural size, not much fit. It did not bother the behemoth. The constraints of armor were not often utilized in his history of fighting.
Wandering eyes flicked over to Penn when Granite’s mongrel let out an exasperated whine. Despite the cook’s labors to camouflage his fear, Granite caught sight of it. It lived in every coaxed breath. Every wild darting of his constricted pupils. Every small bead of sweat that collected on his brow.
With Brack prattling on endlessly in the background about the remarkable assemblage of steel and lead, Granite crossed over to Penn and stood beside him. Penn felt his shadow before he felt anything else, turning his head away from the crossbow and up toward the towering man. “What?”
Penn reminded Granite of Iani. Scrawny. Sarcastic. But the younger Platts brother had something the cook did not: skill in battle. And even with that skill, he still fell to Carlo Angevin’s gun in the events of last year. Granite did not wish for Penn to suffer the same fate. “I request a favor,” he said, his voice somehow still booming despite the attempted softness in his tone.
Penn drew his shoulders back, obvious skepticism dominating his face where the fear used to be. “What is it?” he asked, a cautious brow arching upward.
“The beast is aging,” Granite explained, glancing down at the canine who stood joyously at his side. “He should not be at the forefront of this battle. But if I leave, he will follow.” The man paused, looking to Penn. “Unless I leave him with someone I can trust.”
The cook shifted, offering his focus to the dog who barely came up to Granite’s knee. Evidence of the mongrel’s age lived in the white hairs around his muzzle. His leg, too, lost in the events of Avadon last year. Penn was not there to witness the fate of the footman who shattered the mutt’s bones, but he heard from the others that it was gruesome enough to make even the captain nauseous. Granite loved the dog. Penn did not doubt he would do anything to keep it safe. While the offer to jump at the opportunity was tempting, the man hesitated. “You’ll need all the hands you can get at the forefront,” he muttered, his eyes still on the beast. “Especially with Revi gone.”
“Penn. He is ten years old. If something happens to him ...” Granite’s voice faded out, his words slow and calculated. He wiped away his dismal thoughts. “I am asking you. As a friend.”
The beast’s tail swayed lazily from side to side. Its pink tongue hung without care over the yellowing teeth that lived in its mouth. Penn frowned. For Granite to ask ... hell, for Granite to engage in a conversation that extended beyond three words ... Penn knew it was a matter of great importance.
He knelt, reaching a hand out to the beast. The animal sniffed it before layering a thin coat of saliva over the fingers. Penn slid his palm up the dog’s neck, scratching where the ear met its skull. The mongrel showed clear evidence of arthritis; Granite’s instincts were correct. It would likely not do well in the chaos that awaited them. Penn glanced up at Granite, protecting his vulnerability with an unenthusiastic look. “Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll watch him.”
Granite nodded. He showed no irritation at Penn’s brash inability to accept his offer without a feigned veil of irritation. He only cared that the beast would be safe. That Penn would be safe. “Thank you.”
“You guys think Havidite will show up again?” Brack’s voice shattered the tension that floated around the others. He came up to them, wearing a mismatched series of armor he plucked from the walls. “She probably will,” he added, his arms stretching up over his head as he released a relaxed sigh. “Never met a woman alive who got a taste of the Rabbit and didn’t come crawling back for seconds.”
After he finished scratching behind the beast’s ear, Penn stood and cast Granite a sample of his annoyance. “If he doesn’t die in the battle,” he muttered, “then please kill him so that I never have to hear him utter that sentence again.”
“You’ll have to beat me to it.” Rennington’s voice cut through the walls as he poked his head around the corner to the armory. He wore a grin as he stepped into the room, arms outstretched. “Long time no see, mates.”
“Renn!” Brack ran to him and scooped him up into a hug. The metal adorning his body crushed into the soldier’s ribs as he lifted him off the ground. “Been a long while since Northwestern, that’s for sure!”
Rennington cringed as the hard steel dug into his skin. While compressed in Brack’s embrace, he squeaked, “At least Southern isn’t engulfed in flames. Yet.”
“Ah,
Southern will be fine.” Brack set the soldier down, a reassuring sentiment in his statement. “Especially now that the old band is back together again.”
“Except for Revi,” Penn muttered, ever the crushing voice of reality. “And Elowyn. And ...” His words trailed off as he threw an awkward glance in Rennington’s direction.
“Iani’s here, mate.” The soldier smirked, putting Penn’s apprehension at ease. “Just took the lazy man’s way out, is all. Ghosts get a pass on account of their inability to fire a gun.”
A boisterous laugh from Brack’s lungs resonated throughout the hollow armory. He patted one hand on Rennington’s shoulder, the other somewhere in the middle of Granite’s back, as he could not reach the top of the massive man’s arm without looking ridiculous. “I’m sure they’re all here in spirit.” He reached over and grabbed a nearby pike, raising it high into the air. “For Southern!”
Rennington grinned. He leaned over to seize an adjacent halberd, raising that as well. “For Southern.”
✽ ✽ ✽
In the tallest tower of Bartholomew Gray’s majestic, gothic home, Bermuda stood on a balcony. She balanced harrowingly on the railing. Her metal hand clutched one of four tall, wrought-iron beams that pierced the sky in each of the terrace’s corners. The vantage point granted her an aerial view of Seacaster.
Umbriel stood beside her, though her bare feet rested on the flat surface of the balcony rather than teetering on the thin strand of the rail. The Earth Mother’s hands rested behind her back, the fingers of one wrapping around the wrist of the other. High above the ground, the wind whipped with a fierceness, tossing her hair about her shoulders and back as she stared, unmoving, at the goings-on below.
The lifeless gray color of the clouds and sky matched the emotion of the town. People walked, their movements hindered by an identifiable caution even from the distance in which Bermuda and Umbriel stood.
The Panagea Tales Box Set Page 87