The Panagea Tales Box Set

by McKenzie Austin

  Wulfgang raised his arms behind his head, feeling a small flutter in the pit of his stomach. His comrade’s excitement allowed him to picture the gravity of the change. The possibilities. “You should be. You know, you really did something here. Truly, E.” Thinking back on all the information he’d gathered over the year, Wulfgang laughed. “Can you believe other divisions are acting out of complete desperation to achieve what you did in a year?”

  Tearing herself out of her daydream, Elowyn returned her focus to Wulfgang. She smiled. “Really? How so?”

  “Ah, the Southeastern Time Father, first of all,” Wulfgang stopped, shaking his head with a demeaning laugh. “I already told you about him, how he thinks building a learning institution will help. To give a more equal balance of power to all his people. Feckin’ load of shit is what that is.” The soldier shook his head, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “I mean, even if it works, it’ll take years to see any benefit from it.”

  Elowyn felt a charmed, breathless thrill at touching a topic that reminded her of Nicholai. It had been so long since she’d seen him. Not since Panagea’s center, when they first learned of Vadim’s trials. She missed him. She missed everyone. She couldn’t wait to see them again, as soon as she reclaimed her title as Time Mother. “I’ve heard a lot about him,” she said, maintaining the illusion that she never met him before. “I heard that he stumbles a lot, but ... he’s a good person.”

  Wulfgang did not seem convinced. “Maybe.” He crossed his arms, raising his chin. “Western’s just as bad. I hear the elder Addihein is trying the same damn thing. Then you have feckin’ Nordjan, putting people down or jailing those who remain a threat ... as if being manipulated by the gods is a crime that can be controlled.” He drew his shoulders back and spit on the ground. After running his tongue over his teeth, he added, “I guess it’s not as bad as Southern’s desperate shit.”

  Enough disbelief existed that Elowyn felt no immediate sense of urgency. Bartholomew Gray was, perhaps, the fittest to lead out of all of them. She had a hard time believing he’d lead his people astray. Delighting in the ability to reminisce about her old comrades without drawing unnecessary attention to her history, Elowyn grinned. “Oh, yeah? What are they up to in Southern?”

  A depraved laugh answered her. “I don’t think you’d believe me if I told you,” Wulfgang said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Those feckers are praying to a dead man to cure their problems.” He shook his head, snorting. “Only Southern men would pray to get rid of gods.”

  An alarm bell sounded in Elowyn’s mind. It dulled her elation, replacing it with caution. “That’s strange,” she replied, shifting her position. Bartholomew didn’t believe in prayer. On the contrary, his relationship with religion was a temperamental one. Compelled by inquisitiveness, she asked, “Who are they praying to?”

  “That’s the kicker,” Wulfgang said, turning to his companion. “You remember the legend of Kazuaki Hidataka? Immortal captain of the high seas?” He laughed, finding gratification in the memory. “My parents told me if I stayed out too late at night he’d come find me and cut off my legs.” He shrugged, turning his palms upright. “Allegedly, he’s real ... and not altogether immortal, if you know what I mean. Turns out, ‘Kazuaki Hidataka’ is just some fecker that died in Seacaster last year. Killed a few gods, sure, but no more than the Steel Serpent has out in Northeastern.”

  She only processed half of what he’d said. Elowyn tried to swallow, but her throat dried beyond her ability to do so. “What did you say?” she asked, the words coming out of her in tight bursts.

  “What?” Sensing the sudden shift in demeanor, Wulfgang arched a brow. “The Steel Serpent?”

  “Did you say,” Elowyn started, having to draw from her reservoir of strength to finish, “that Kazuaki Hidataka ... is dead?”

  Wulfgang’s eyes narrowed as he cocked his head to the side. “So it goes,” he said, hitching a shoulder. “People in Southern are praying to his name like he’s a god or some shit. If you ask me, Bartholomew Gray’s off his rocker, just like Emont, Vadim, the Addihein men, Nordjan, Elowyn feckin’ Saveign ...” Wulfgang’s lips curled up in disgust. “The only division leader left with any gods-damned common sense is that Aggi Normandy fellow.”

  Her eye twitched. Her blood turned to frost. It couldn’t be. “I have to go,” Elowyn muttered, finding herself pacing away from Wulfgang. “I’m—I’m sorry.”

  Wulfgang parted his lips as she broke out into a run. “Hey! E!” He held a hand out to her, taking several steps toward her. “Where are you going?”

  She ran. Ignoring the burn from her bullet wounds, she did not stop. The elation of the success in Brendale melted away, replaced by the painful surge of Wulfgang’s confession.

  It couldn’t be true.

  Kazuaki Hidataka couldn’t die.

  She refused to believe it.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The sun had completed its task. Bartholomew watched as it slipped lazily beyond his line of sight, sinking behind the tall buildings to rest under the horizon line. His stomach felt empty. He laid a hand over it, swallowing, just to feel something other than the aridness in his throat.

  The time had come.

  The working day drew to a close for the residents of Seacaster. Even the lamplighters had completed their task, starting the endeavor of lighting the street lamps early, given the ceremony that was about to take place. Some of them even took to joining the gathering crowd, whether by belief or by curiosity, Bartholomew couldn’t be certain.

  Seacaster’s center swarmed with bodies. Bartholomew saw the horde in its infancy earlier, as he stood on the balcony of his home. It did not take long for a small gathering to grow into an impressive collection of people. So many congregated near the fountain in Seacaster’s center, it looked as if the ground was alive. A living, breathing parcel of land.

  Bartholomew had a hard time believing his eyes. The sheer volume of people who came from towns outside of Seacaster ... all those who poured their entire belief into the story he had created. It made his chest tighten.

  Those who survived the gods’ carnage in Seacaster last year made for credible witnesses. They carried the story of Kazuaki Hidataka’s reign of justice with such a strong conviction, that it made gathering other believers that much easier. These were desperate times. People grew frantic for heroes. Someone, anyone, who could save them from what they had endured last year. What they have been enduring since.

  It was those who filtered in from the surrounding towns that surprised the Southern Time Father. The people who did not have their eyes to rely on truths, but only their ears. They gobbled up the stories residents fed them. They wanted to believe in Kazuaki Hidataka, God of Salvation, as much as any other desperate individual might.

  It almost looked as if half the population of the entire Southern division waited in the town square. Bartholomew shifted his gaze as he approached. The monument was in place: a large, copper statue, bearing the captain’s likeness. He held two katars in each hand. The metalsmiths did a stunning job carving a look of deliverance into his eye.

  A makeshift podium rested beside the statue. As Bartholomew sliced his way through the crowd, he found each step more intimidating than the last. This was for all the marbles. The last year of his life, condensed into a single moment.

  His footmen dispersed around the bottom of the podium, keeping any threatening characters at bay. Kal was already waiting for the Southern Time Father atop the planks. Bartholomew breathed a sigh of relief. The ambassador’s smile was a sure-fire way to soothe any rattled nerves.

  Kal handed the bullhorn to his lover, wearing the smile that Bartholomew knew well. He mouthed the words ‘good luck’, and patted him on the shoulder. It was no coincidence that Kal’s shoulder pat was also a clever way to push Bartholomew several feet closer to the podium’s front.

  The Time Father felt it in his chest. The rawness. The worry of whether his hard work would yield any results. The hope
that it would, without dishonoring anything the captain might want. Dispelling the final shreds of doubt, he raised the bullhorn to his lips, gazing out at the crowd. The simple gesture made the bulk of them fall silent.

  “Esteemed citizens of Seacaster, and those who have traveled here from beyond our fine city’s borders,” Bartholomew began, regretting not having drunk a fair share of water before his speech, “You know why we’re here: to honor the one who gave his life to protect us. To save our families. To save our friends and neighbors.”

  A roar of approval burst through the crowd. Arms raised in glorious triumph. Applause and cheers rose and fell. Bartholomew waited for them to finish before he continued. “Southern has prayed to a false deity for far too long. The sovereignty of Darjal Wessex has come to an end. No longer will we waste our beliefs on a man who does not answer our prayers. Kazuaki Hidataka did something. He came to our aid last year when nobody else would. He slaughtered the gods who would harm us. He spared us from their wrath for as long as he was able.” The Southern Time Father pointed a finger toward the crowd. “Some of you out there have the privilege of saying you saw it with your own eyes, as I have. You have that privilege because Kazuaki Hidataka spared you from the gods’ plans to end your lives.”

  Another riotous cheer of approval came forth. Bartholomew tried and failed to count all the bodies who stood before him. Hope rose in his chest, but he tried to shove it back down. It was too premature to get excited.

  The man pinched his lips together and cleared his throat. “Three hundred and sixty-five days. One year to the day, these streets were awash with the blood of our brothers and sisters. One year to the day, Kazuaki Hidataka stepped up to save our lives.” He gazed out over the crowd, steeling his facial expression. “You might have known him as a legend, a fairytale your parents and grandparents spoke of, to keep you out of harm’s way. Myths are often steeped in only a slice of reality. Legend or not, he did what no other man could. He conquered and banished the gods from Seacaster that day. That is because Kazuaki Hidataka is no man ...” His eyes flashed as he curled his fingers into a fist. “He is a god.”

  The gathering whooped their approval. The sound fell into Bartholomew’s ears like warm liquid. It sent a shiver through his bones. Feeding off the enthusiasm of the crowd, he raised his voice. “Tonight, we pray for salvation. We pray for justice and protection. Let us show Kazuaki Hidataka our appreciation—that the people of Seacaster will not silently accept his death. Let us show Kazuaki Hidataka, no—the whole continent of Panagea—that nothing stills the voices of the great people of Southern!”

  Bartholomew watched as countless bodies took to their knees. Some clasped their palms together, others laced their fingers into tightly coiled fists. Heads were bowed, eyes were closed. Whispers of prayer fell from the breath of every man, woman, and child who attended. Hope lived in all of them. He saw it.

  Bartholomew hoped too. He hoped their expectations were not displaced.

  The man jumped when Kal’s hand fell onto his shoulder once more. Bartholomew turned to face the ambassador, forcing a smile.

  A soft chuckle left Kal as he gave Bartholomew’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “Not bad for your first impassioned speech, I must say.”

  The pair gazed out, listening to the countless whispers swirl up into the air around them. Limitless prayers, absorbing into the ether. Innumerable people who truly believed Kazuaki Hidataka was their salvation. That he was a god.

  A small part of Bartholomew experienced a tinge of regret, staring at them like that. Religion was nothing he believed in. To have manipulated so many into believing in something that he did not, felt inherently wrong.

  But a part of him must have believed it ... otherwise, he wouldn’t have put in this much effort.

  The confidence, alive in all of their faces, was the only thing that gave more life to his hope.

  Bartholomew offered Kal a small smile before he stepped past him, resting his hand on the cold copper that made up Kazuaki’s statue. His shoulders stiffened as he turned his eyes upward, taking in the sight of his comrade, fashioned from the hands of Southern’s most talented artists. “I’ve tried my best, my friend.” He gave the statue a gentle pat, his eyes crawling down from the faux-Kazuaki’s face, to rest on the ground. “No matter what else happens, I hope you know that.”

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  He knew he was dying. The thought was a peculiar one. Unable to do much of anything else, Kazuaki listened to the rattling lungs of his human companion.

  Jernal was asleep. Weak. Shivering. His convulsions were so violent, Kazuaki felt them through the material that made up the small boat.

  It was a miracle he felt them at all. Kazuaki clung to the same thinning thread of existence that Jernal clutched. He stared at the graying sky, not at all cognizant enough to surmise that the end was hours away. It had to be, what with all the storm clouds rolling in. There was simply no way either of them could survive the violent bucking waves of an ocean squall. Not in this pathetic excuse for a boat.

  The captain’s eardrums pulsed at the sound of shuffling. Though it took everything he had in him, he rolled his head to the side. He watched, emotionless, as Mimir pulled the emergency blanket from the small cargo bin.

  The lesser god laid it in his lap, smoothing the material out with his blackened hands. He stared wordlessly at it for some time before his glowing eyes flicked to Jernal. Kazuaki did not know for how long the lesser god stared at the dying soldier. It felt like hours. After some time, the demon stood from his seat, stepped over Kazuaki’s fallen body, and gently laid the blanket over Jernal’s shuddering form.

  If he lived another four-hundred years, Kazuaki remained certain he’d never pinpoint Mimir’s character.

  The lesser god stepped carefully over Kazuaki once more and returned to his seat. He pulled his legs up from the floor, sitting cross-legged on his plank. The waves rocked him rhythmically as he hummed a tune that Kazuaki had never heard before.

  His muscles were being eaten by his body. He felt it. With no calories to sustain him, Kazuaki’s body committed the ultimate betrayal.

  A sick thrill lived in death. He chased the dream for over half of his existence. Now, sitting here, in a shitty cockboat, with two individuals he didn’t particularly care for ... the captain frowned.

  It was, perhaps, the greatest irony, that he’d give anything to live.

  The captain’s head rolled once more in Jernal’s direction. Their history left little room for camaraderie, but in the isolation of the small ship at sea, the human part of him became somewhat dependent on Jernal’s presence. It was a shame, judging by the look of death on his face, that he would not last the night.

  Jernal deteriorated rapidly in the last two days. Their conversations were few and far between. The soldier had little energy reserves left for talking. The silence ate away at Kazuaki in an unexpected way. To enter headfirst into death, absent of any glory whatsoever, gnawed at him in ways he couldn’t believe.

  Kazuaki weakly dragged a limb upward to rub his temples. The voices were back. Incessant little things. Whispers brought on by dehydration and delirium, he guessed. His arm fell loosely to his side. It didn’t matter. He’d likely only need to endure them for another day or two, at most. If he survived the oncoming storm, anyway.

  Thunder rolled through the clouds above. A small drop of rain struck Kazuaki’s nose. He used to enjoy the rain. Not today. Despite the temperature difference, he didn’t have the energy to flinch. His eye scanned the blanket, wrapped around Jernal’s skeletal body. The sight made his nose wrinkle.

  Summoning more movement from his already taxed body, Kazuaki shifted his attention over to Mimir. He watched as the lesser god bobbed his head, continuing the tune he hummed. Such a strange creature. Did he love humans? Hate them? Kazuaki still had no earthly clue.

  “Do you have it in you,” Kazuaki asked, his words spewing out like jagged shards of rock, “to do me one kindness before I die?
”

  “Hm?” Mimir lifted his head, casting curious eyes on his dying companion. He blinked, tilting his head affectionately to the side. “Of course, Captain. Anything to make your transition into the afterlife easier.”

  Kazuaki scowled. The waves grew increasingly violent. The sudden jostles made his head knock against the ship’s side unpleasantly. “I need to know,” he wheezed, hoping to solve the mystery of Mimir’s personality, and simultaneously learn if he made the right decision in refusing gleans of information from the lesser god during their year at sea, “if Jernal’s wife is really alive.”

  The creature snickered. “Really? Is that all you wish to ask of me?”

  Kazuaki did not remove his eye from Mimir. He thought he nodded, but he wasn’t sure. “Your answer ... will tell me everything I need to know. The last piece ... to a final puzzle.”

  An amused grin spread Mimir’s cheeks. Another rumble of thunder sounded above. The lesser god looked to Jernal, who appeared dead already beneath his blanket, but the shallow rise and fall of his chest proved otherwise. The creature’s charming expression faded into one of pity. “She’s alive, yes.”

  It was the sadness in his voice that gripped Kazuaki’s ability to maintain interest. It was strange, catching glimpses of grief in Mimir. It almost made him human. Almost. “But?” the captain asked, knowing full well that there were more details that Mimir hid.

  It almost seemed as if Mimir waited. Waited, to see if Jernal listened. When the lesser god deduced the soldier was too far gone to comprehend his words, he shifted his gaze to Kazuaki once more. “She’s ... alive and well, actually. You could ask just about any man in her home town. They would not shy away from telling you exactly how ‘lively’ she is.”

  There it was. One of the key reasons Mimir never allowed Jernal to take any brief return visits back home. The captain narrowed his eye. He knew there was more to the tale. Mimir was as close to owning Jernal’s soul as he’d ever been before. The lesser god could have easily transported him to his home, allowed him to see his wife, and transported him back to the damned vessel at sea before Jernal could even utter a word of disapproval.