The Panagea Tales Box Set

by McKenzie Austin

  “Not yet,” Ganther muttered, tilting his head as he lifted the pistol toward her. “In fact, he should be arriving within the hour. I have worked it all out. I have worked everything out.”

  “Yes,” Umbriel answered, steeling herself. “It seems you have done your due diligence.” He must have, to have vanquished the patrol around the door. “Have the footmen come to any harm?”

  “You’re a curious girl.” Ganther grinned, keeping his voice low. “They have been but lured away. You do not take me for a fool who would come in, guns blazing, and try to slaughter a small handful of Southeastern’s finest, do you?”

  Umbriel did not move. “I did not take you for a fool, no,” she uttered. “But you must be ... to find yourself in the position you are now.”

  “I do believe you are the one in the more unfortunate position.” Ganther tilted his head until his neck cracked on each side. “I am a meticulous man, my dear. I know precisely what I’m doing. I have also studied Mr. Addihein and his parlor tricks immensely. I know he possesses certain ... ‘abilities’. Abilities I cannot have him utilizing.” Ganther’s cold face shifted into one of amusement. “I need him to know that things are very, very serious.”

  The Earth Mother kept a sharp eye on him. She did not want to risk blinking. “What are you saying?” she asked, though part of her suspected she would not like the answer.

  Ganther’s reply came in the form of a bullet. It gnawed into her leg and brought her to the ground.

  Umbriel breathed in through her teeth. Her hand slid down to her injury and she clasped her fingers around it. In moments, the bullet was pushed to the surface of her flesh. She dug it out with shaking hands and sealed the injury site, manipulating the damaged cells until they reformed to their prior state.

  Ganther frowned at her blood-stained hands. “No, no ...” His eyes flung to Umbriel’s as she glared at him through her silver locks. “Nicholai is going to need a visceral sense of the danger he’s in. That you’re in.” He lifted the pistol again, closing one eye as he aimed once more. “I can shoot you all day, my dear. Do save your energy and stop healing yourself. You’ll run out of energy before I run out of bullets.”

  The flashbacks triggered in her mind. In Ganther’s face, Umbriel saw the Time Fathers who had slaughtered the other Earth Mothers. In her own heart, she felt the same sense of helplessness that she had those many hundreds of years ago. She could not fight them off back then. None of the Earth Mothers could. Not without violating the code of ethics that they all held so dear.

  It was her code of ethics that allowed Ganther to tie her up, though Umbriel felt sickened with each strand that wrapped around her wrists. “I took you for an intelligent man,” she whispered, too frustrated at her own heart’s inability to take desperate measures to free herself. “You cannot go around shooting people without repercussions ...”

  “Darling,” Ganther started, tying off the last knot. “Are you really that naïve?” Many had died because of the Odenhardth name. Money bought more than silence, it often bought exoneration, as well. Particularly when people were desperate enough for it. It was precisely that reason that Ganther needed to keep the working poor under his thumb. They were far more useful to him when they would dance for a coin or two.

  He stepped back to admire his knotwork, grinning at Umbriel as she sat on the floor, restrained. “Now then,” he said, tapping his chin, “where were we? Oh, yes.” He raised his weapon once more and sent another bullet into her leg.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “That’s it, then? We’re just going to pretend everything’s okay? We’re going to sit back, and not only watch her charge into her death, but actively support it?”

  Penn’s lack of social tact was nothing new for the crew. They often enjoyed fanning the fire that was the cook’s brutal attitude. Today, however, his hostility stemmed from pain.

  There was no joy in making fun of that.

  Rennington scrubbed his face with his hands, plopping his elbows down on the dining table. “I don’t think any of us wants this, Penn,” he grumbled into his palms. “We have to think about what Bermuda would want.”

  “Quartermaster’s not an idiot,” Brack interjected, pulling up a chair and sitting beside his comrades. “She knows what she’s doing. And it ain’t our job to judge. Never has been.” His gaze bounced back and forth between Granite, Rennington, and Penn. “Given the chance, how would you want to die?”

  Rennington mulled over Brack’s question. He peeled his hands off his face and rested his hands on the table. He thought of Iani. In no uncertain terms did he ever fully recover from his little brother’s death. But knowing Iani died trying to save the life of a child ... when all he ever wanted was forgiveness from the children they were ordered to slaughter under the reign of Darjal Wessex ... it made the younger Platts brother’s demise easier to accept.

  He sat back, leaning his chair on two legs. “I see what you’re saying, Rabbit. I get it.”

  Granite stared at a salt shaker, finding it easy to focus on. The beast had received the death that the man wanted for him. A nice, peaceful coast into the afterlife, in the lap of the one who loved him the most. Granite understood the luxury of an orchestrated passing. And a quiet, pleasant death—while perfect for his canine companion—did not suit Bermuda at all. “I’ll be there,” he said. “The whole way.”

  “Good.” Brack placed his hands on the top of his head with a sigh. “’Cause at the rate she’s been flying, we’ll be landing real soon.”

  Penn, in his youth, glared at the others with unhidden contempt. He knew death. He knew it at a younger age than any of the others. His adolescence kept him from remembering the intimate details, which made it all the more difficult for him to grasp the gift they were affording the quartermaster.

  A composed, choreographed death? He’d never heard of such a thing. To Penn, the death of loved ones was simply unnecessary. It irked him that they thought he’d share an active part in it. “I’d rather stay with the ship,” he muttered, casting disdainful glances at the others.

  Rennington lifted a finger. He pointed at Penn. “Not today, mate. I know this won’t be easy. I know battle isn’t in your skillset. But you’re coming. She’s going down surrounded by friends, whether you like it or not.”

  Penn snarled, jumping up from his chair. His hands slammed onto the table as he leaned over, growling at Rennington. “You think battle is what makes me want to stay on deck? Feck off, Renn! I don’t give a damn about the gods, or the feckin’ people that pray to them down there. String them from the trees with their entrails, who gives a shit?” He pushed himself off the table, his fists clenched at his sides. “Battle? No. Of course I’d go down there with her. I’d walk her straight into the mouth of the Underworld if that’s what she wants. I’ll even hold her feckin’ hand the whole way.” His anger fell out of his mouth the more he rambled. Soon, Penn stood in a tensed, angry huff ... but the edges of his words softened. “Problem is, you’re asking me to let go of her hand when we get there. I don’t want to.”

  Rennington held Penn’s gaze until he couldn’t stand to look at the agony there. His eyes fell to his hands, where he absently twisted a ring around one of his fingers. “I know, mate. I know it.” He picked his focus up from his own body and returned it to Penn. “But it’s not about you. It’s about her.”

  Penn’s shoulders loosened. He summoned a slow breath into his lungs before he blew it out of his cheeks and turned away. “You don’t think ... I mean, Umbriel fixed her once before—”

  Brack interjected, shaking his head. “Even if Umbriel still lives with Nicholai in Nenada ... what do you think the quartermaster is gonna do? Ditch her driving force to hopefully make it to Umbriel in time before she keels over? And what if she did make it?” Brack raised his hands and plopped them atop his head, closing his eyes. “If Bermuda wanted Umbriel’s help, mate ... she would have sought it out a long time ago.”

  “She didn’t want help from
the monks of Montezu,” Penn muttered. “You still drugged her and forced her to go.”

  Brack’s muscles tensed. His arms became tight, and he dropped them back down to his sides. “Yeah. I did. Downright selfish of me to do it, too, but ...” Returning to his old stomping grounds had only solidified his decision to let Bermuda make her own choices, whether or not he agreed with them. “All we’ve ever done aboard Cappy’s ship is take the good with the bad. We didn’t try to change each other. We were who we were, ugliness and all. That’s how we all lived ... and that’s how we’ll all die.”

  A quiet floated around Penn. He did not seek to make eye contact with Brack. But after the man’s statement, he did give a slow, identifiable nod. “All right. I’ll come with.”

  The four men felt the ship decelerate. The propellers holding it up decreased their power. Their ears throbbed at the sound of treetops scraping the belly of the airship. Above deck, Bermuda was preparing for landing.

  Rennington slid his chair out from behind him and stood. Granite and Brack joined him. They exchanged glances with one another until the Rabbit spoke. “That’s it then, boys. Once more into the fray.”

  They headed out, climbing the stairs that led above deck. Bermuda stood where they left her, at the wheel. Her narrowed eyes scanned the environment, searching for a spot to land. With the vast thickness of the trees, it proved to be a difficult endeavor. But they knew she’d find a way.

  Everything moved in a mixture of slow motion, and a rate of time too quick to comprehend. The men numbed themselves to each task. Muscle memory guided them through their necessary responsibilities, and before they knew it, the quartermaster had found a large, open clearing. It was near the last sight of the warfare they unleashed on Northwestern. Close to where they thought the people would be.

  And close they were.

  While the terrain was much the same as it had been when they had last left it, the small handful of simply constructed homes had turned into many. Makeshift teepees, made of logs, giant leaves or stretched animal skins, made the series of dwellings. People scattered around outside them, lifting their fingers to the sky.

  They pointed at the airship, terror gripping them. Most ran into their homes. Women and children were ushered to safety. The men ran back out with primitive weapons. It seemed they were prepared for the airship to return. They had increased their numbers, as well as their defenses.

  Bermuda saw the people. She glowered at the sight of them. The ship touched the tall grasses on the opposite side of the river that cut through the plains. The propellers stopped. She lifted her metal hand, blocking the sun from her eyes, trying to count their opponents out.

  Brack, Rennington, Penn, and Granite tensed behind her. There must have been forty or fifty people. Donned in aboriginal clothing, they knew they belonged to the gods; and, judging by the fierce looks on their faces, it looked as if they were willing to die in the name of them.

  Rennington jumped when movement fell into his peripheral vision. On instinct, he removed his knife, but when he saw who had appeared beside him on the airship, he knew it would have no lasting effect. “Bermuda—”

  The quartermaster spun at the mention of her name. Her eyes narrowed immediately when Havidite filled her sights. “I see you’ve amassed a human army,” she murmured, her hand reaching behind her to tighten around the handle of her katar.

  Havidite visibly tensed at the sight of the katar, but she held her ground. “We knew you’d be back if you hadn’t killed yourself already.” Her bare shoulders tightened as she inclined her chin. “You’ve given us no choice.”

  It took too much of her, but Bermuda unsheathed her weapon and held it out before her. “You wouldn’t risk the lives of the only people left who pray to you, Havidite.”

  The goddess’s face looked both fierce and sad. Whether they were pawns to her, or she legitimately loved them, it was hard to pinpoint. Either way, she took no joy in what awaited her people. “What good is their prayer to us,” she asked, “if we are already dead?”

  It was an honest assessment. Bermuda knew then, that the goddess would sacrifice her small, human army. But she also knew Havidite was scared. She took that as a win, but the risks had increased now. The risk to her crew. A man with a sharpened stick was no threat to the highly trained band of societal rejects, but fifty men with sharpened sticks ...

  She could let no harm come to them ... and there was only one way to ensure that. It would end things, perhaps a little prematurely. It didn’t matter. Sooner or later, the ending would have been the same.

  With her free hand, Bermuda reached behind her. She fumbled a bit until she found the right flap. Her hands dug into her pack and she removed the last stimulant she’d been saving.

  It was meant for Mimir. But upon seeing what awaited her, she suspected then, she would not reach him.

  Brack narrowed his eyes when he caught sight of it. He held out a hand. “Come on, love—don’t—”

  His words fell on deaf ears. She ripped off the tip and jammed it into her thigh, through a small tear in her clothing. The color in her irises drained away. The fuel gushed through her veins. Strength returned to her fingers. She held the katar tighter, striking an offensive pose.

  Brack’s face fell. “Bermuda—”

  She stole a final glimpse of him. It was both apologetic and loving. Then, with a triumphant battle cry, the quartermaster charged Havidite.

  The goddess vanished before her blade touched her skin. The people below saw it as a symbol; the first throw. The first desire to draw blood. They rushed toward the airship, spears in the air.

  Rennington spied fire in the hands of some. He couldn’t let them burn the vessel. He would not watch two ships die by fire. With a grunt, he threw a rope over the railing, sliding down the sides as fast as he was able. When he was certain he could let go without bodily harm, the Southern soldier landed in a crouched position on the ground. He did not linger there long.

  A war cry emerged. Rennington fought defensively, keeping those who were ahead of the pack as far from the ship as he could. Joined by Granite, Brack, and Penn, the four held their aggressors off.

  Bermuda leaped down beside them. She had cut through several with her machete.

  There were still so many.

  Gunfire crippled some to their knees, killed others. Rennington didn’t even aim. He didn’t grow nervous until the gun emptied of bullets. There was no time to reload. Not before the masses would be upon them.

  A battle cry from the left drew eyes to the side. It was the last thing any thought they’d see.

  Through the chaos, Revi plunged a blade into the torso of an attacker. It was as if he’d come out of nowhere. The man kicked the corpse off the end of his weapon, spinning to slice another. To keep them from the crew. He was a wild man. They barely recognized him—life in the Northwestern woods had ravaged his physical appearance. But as the man slaughtered his way through the crowd with the ferocity of a rabid animal, there was no doubting who it was.

  “Gods alive!” Brack beamed, laughing as he brought a man down to his knees. “Timing couldn’t be better, mate!”

  Panting, Revi came up beside the four men, his back pressed up against Brack’s as they continued to defend the ship. “You’re a sight for sore eyes,” he muttered. “Where’s the captain?”

  “Dead.” Penn filled Revi in without ceremony. “And if you two don’t shut the feck up and focus,” he started, his palms sweating as he gripped his machete, “we’ll be joining him.”

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  “You couldn’t have told them to imagine me with two eyes?” Kazuaki muttered, touching the ebony patch that covered the empty hole of his eye socket.

  Though Kazuaki had been in his presence for several hours, Bartholomew still had a hard time forgoing the act of staring at him with a partially open jaw. After a rousing ceremony in Seacaster’s town center, the scholar pulled Kazuaki into the safety of his Southern division home, with the hope that the
quiet space would allow the new god time to adjust to everything. “I—I’m sorry,” he eventually answered, studying the details of Kazuaki’s face and clothing. “You are as they remember you, from when you slew the gods in Seacaster last year. Down to every last detail.”

  Kazuaki’s eye twitched. He almost leaned back in his chair, but his spine popped at the discomfort. Of course—the katar was still strapped to his back. Whether it belonged to him because it was a gift from Mimir, or if it had traveled with him because the people imagined him with it, he wasn’t sure. There were far too many new intricacies to learn about the world of gods. With mild frustration, Kazuaki settled for gripping the chair’s arms. The same chair in Bartholomew’s library he sat in last year ... just as he was about to head into the fray that was the gods’ army. “That’s unfortunate.”

  “Not altogether,” Bartholomew interjected, scooting forward in his seat. “They remembered you as a hero. They revered you as an untouchable warrior, Captain. I’m sure that will only translate into exaggerated abilities that you’ll have as a god.” Bartholomew smiled, growing eager at the prospect. “Your fighting capabilities will be unmatched.”

  “They were unmatched before I was dead,” Kazuaki grumbled, lifting an arm to rub his throbbing temples. A dullness remained after he was ripped from the afterlife. And still, they pounded with whispered voices. Prayers, he guessed. That was to be his fate from here on out. It would take some getting used to. “I would rather have had both eyes again.”

  Bartholomew’s gentle smile shifted into an amused grin. He did not balk at Kazuaki’s perceived lack of gratitude—it only verified that the man they resurrected was, indeed, the captain. “Well, regardless of how many eyes you possess ... it’s great to see you again.”

  Kazuaki peered out at Bartholomew from behind the splayed fingers he covered his face with. Despite his headache, he managed a small smile. “It’s great to be back, Bart.”