The Panagea Tales Box Set

by McKenzie Austin

  Nicholai stretched his legs over a small pond of muddy water, jumping the last bit as he came beside Kazuaki. “As happy as I am to see you’re open to summoning gods now, I don’t think it’s necessary to have her present while we take Vadim’s Chronometer. It may actually complicate things.”

  Kazuaki grunted. “I want an eye on her at all times. I don’t want that wench anywhere near the ship.”

  A sound desire, albeit a bit of a troublesome one. Nicholai bit his tongue. He didn’t have it in him to argue. If he were in Kazuaki’s shoes, he guessed very highly he would have done the same thing.

  Twenty minutes of slow, silent trekking pulled the men deeper into the forest’s expanse. Colorful mushrooms comingled with olive green mosses, coating the territory in colors beyond the ominous neutral tones of the endless tree trunks and branches. When Revi heard the bubbling of a river snaking through somewhere in the distance, he felt a lift of hope he was indeed on the right track.

  Movement had not been as efficient as it could, had the land been flat and clear. Kazuaki stopped, determining they had still distanced themselves far enough from the airship. It was out of the line of sight. With the cover of the densely packed trees, he’d have to hope it was enough to disguise it from the gods, but a powerful part of him screamed it was only wishful thinking. Best to get out of here, as soon as possible.

  “Rabbit.” Kazuaki motioned to the man with a bob of his head. “Summon Havidite.”

  The man smirked, tilting his head from side to side to bring life to his stiff neck. “Ah, you’re singin’ my song, Captain.” After flexing his fingers, he fell to his knees, dramatically drawing his palms together. “Oh, beautiful Havidite, Goddess of the Harvest, come into my waiting arms, that I might feel your sweet, sweet touch once again!”

  Rennington cringed. He crossed his arms as Brack’s theatrical display earned them nothing but the regular chirping of forest birds. “Come on, mate. We want her to show, not scare her off.”

  Brack threw his focus over his shoulder, as moments later, a rustling stemmed from the shadows. Crunching leaves met his ears. Footsteps. He faced Rennington with an arrogant grin and slid the mud off his knees as he forced himself back up. “I knew she couldn’t resist me.” He lifted an accusing finger, pointing at the Southern soldier. “You and that negative attitude of yours could learn a thing or two from me.”

  As everyone cast their concentration toward the source of the approaching steps, Kazuaki resisted the urge to ready his spear. Instead, he kept it secured to his back, knowing a quick pull would jerk it free from the strap that held it there, if need be.

  When he saw the approaching figure step into a ray of light, he wondered if he’d need it sooner than he thought.

  “Olnos,” the captain announced, his chin raising as he studied the God of Metal’s body language.

  Taking a final step forward, Olnos planted his feet. His armor’s weight sunk him into the yielding mud beneath him. He peered through the others, his gaze on Kazuaki. “Hidataka. Or should I say, the God of Salvation.”

  Kazuaki held his ground. Olnos’ face had not changed much—not since he last saw him at the infiltration of Seacaster, right before Mimir stole him away. “You’re not who we wanted.”

  The sound of dragging metal met everyone’s ears as Olnos withdrew the sword at his side. Steel joints bent, and his gauntlet closed tighter around the handle. “A shame”—his voice lowered when he pointed the blade at the captain—“because you’re exactly who I wanted.”

  Unflinching, Kazuaki scoffed. “Still mad about me stealing Brufesphe?”

  “No. With the prayers of those who dwell here, I can make countless others swords just like it.” Olnos rotated his spine, making himself as limber as he could in his iron suit. “But the embarrassment you put upon my name in Seacaster is unforgivable. I was pleased to hear you had become a god.” He positioned his weapon before him. “It will be far easier to crush you now.”

  Nicholai raised his hands. “We’re not here for maiming or crushing. We’re just here for the Chronometer.”

  Olnos turned a surprised glance to Nicholai, so fully immersed in his interaction with Kazuaki that he barely internalized the presence of the others. “Yes,” he murmured, looking the vested man up and down. “Kekona told us of your objective. You will have your Chronometer, former Time Father. Right after I have Salvation’s life.”

  Olnos bolted from his position. His sword met with the wooden shaft Kazuaki had torn from his back.

  The captain strained against Olnos’ raw strength, a bead of sweat trickling down the side of his head. Insurmountable power lived in Olnos’ attack. The pole showed it in its appearance. Kazuaki felt the ripple of weakness spread through the spear. With luck, it managed to hold. With as much speed as he could muster, Kazuaki pulled away the spear and lunged. Feck, it was a cumbersome weapon. Olnos saw the attack coming a mile away.

  So clunky. So ancient. Kazuaki had walked Panagea for hundreds of years, yes, but the spear was archaic even to him. He was used to the swift efficiency of guns, the compelling accuracy of daggers. This long, pointed stick was mankind’s most primitive design.

  Another swing from Olnos made him duck. Bermuda’s words rang through his mind. She was right. His defense was weak. He needed to focus, to pay attention. Best case scenario, he needed to disarm Olnos. Obtaining the sword would ensure his victory. He knew how to wield a blade.

  The spear however … What jackass invented such a pathetic contraption?

  A swift spin from Kazuaki tried to sweep the spear under Olnos’ knees. If he could trip him up, make him stumble—even for a moment—he might have a chance.

  The God of Metal was too prepared. Leaping over the predicted attack with a grunt, Olnos cut his blade across the air that separated him from his target.

  Inches from the bite of the weapon, Kazuaki hit the floor. An opportunity existed to right himself, to jam the spear upward, to disarm his opponent.

  Olnos saw straight through his strategy. The moment the spear came up, his sword met the wood once again.

  Crack!

  A chunk flew from the shaft. Kazuaki’s gaze followed the piece as it flung onto the grass. “Shit …” He glanced at the fragment, not wishing to pull his concentration from the battle for too long—one ended up losing more than just eyes that way.

  Olnos chortled. His hands clenched his sword’s handle. “From the Goddess of Animals, no doubt.” His scoff echoed from inside his helm. “Only a precious few gods are left who use such ancient weaponry. It’s barely a weapon at all.”

  Another swing. Kazuaki locked the spear with the sword. The risk was great, but with little other choice, he put all his weight into it. Either the spear took the brunt of the blow or his face did. The decision was an easy one.

  “Come off it, Olnos,” Kazuaki snarled, throwing the god from him with a forceful push. “We’re here for Havidite.”

  Stopping his feet from sliding any farther in the mud beneath him, Olnos anchored himself. He brought his sword back before him. “The Goddess of Harvest is preoccupied.”

  Damn it. Kazuaki’s eye narrowed, and he bent his knees. He already knew. He asked anyway. “With what?”

  Running his tongue across his lips, Olnos collected a mouthful of saliva and spat. “I’m not the only one with an old score to settle.”

  Gods damn it. He knew it. Kazuaki tightened his grip on the spear. He needed to run this bastard through. It was the only way he’d return to the ship in time.

  He hoped Bermuda and the others could handle themselves long enough, until he made it back.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The furious clicking of Bermuda’s boots echoed off the walls while she paced the narrow hallway. Doors to the cabins flanked her on all sides, but, instead of retreating to any of the sanctuaries, she found herself detained by her own fury.

  What was he thinking? Ordering her to stay put? It was a low blow. A low blow, indeed.

  Chewing
on unsaid curses, Bermuda’s rage boil upward—from the tips of her toes, through her ankles and calves, filtering into the tight muscles she clenched in her stomach. The fury flowed outward, until she clamped her hands into fists, and screamed.

  She punched the wall. Her knuckles remained tight, flat against the surface, until she pulled them away.

  Her head collapsed against the partition. Furious eyes hid beneath closed lids. Why in the gods’ names did he think he could act in such a manner? Yes, he was her captain, of course. But they had grown into more than that. For years, they had fought side by side, in perfect sync—perfect cutthroat harmony. Not a soul who revolted against Bermuda and Kazuaki stood a chance at escape.

  He intended to throw all that away, simply because she had driven her body to exhaustion? She had fought hard before, under less forgiving conditions. He hadn’t doubted her then.

  Bermuda’s lip curled, and she pushed herself off the wall. Her mechanical hand reached out, tearing open the door to the room she and Kazuaki shared. Her gaze flittered across the chamber, landing on the phonograph she had pilfered from Aggi Normandy. Her expression soured at the sight of it.

  Slamming the door behind her, she continued to pace. Too much energy bubbled inside her body. Too much anger. Too much hurt.

  “Just ridiculous,” she hissed, fearing no recourse at muttering profanities under her breath. Her hands raked through her hair, as if soothing the strands down might also soothe her spirit, but to no avail.

  Who the feck did he think he was? Countless memories of her capability existed. She dedicated years of herself to this ship, to this crew—to him. To their adventures. For him to dismiss everything in one sentence was a slap in the face.

  Bermuda continued to pace, her arms wrapped tightly around her waist. So she took longer to recover from injuries. So she had made enemies with the gods of Northwestern. So she had pushed her body beyond its natural limitations, to the point of identifiable destruction. She had Elowyn’s pills. The pain was better, more manageable. She was still just as capable as—

  The quartermaster stopped, catching a glimpse of herself in the decorative mirror that hung on the far wall. Her eyes narrowed. She tilted her head.

  It had been a long, long time since she had spent any time gazing at her reflection.

  She spied the anger right away. It lived at the forefront of her eyes, unwilling to temper itself. Nothing new there. Bermuda stepped closer, scrutinizing her appearance more.

  The closer she got, the more identifiable the features became. Bermuda gently touched the hollows of her sunken cheeks. The woman who stared back at her was barely recognizable anymore.

  Such pale skin. Such dark circles beneath her eyes. The quartermaster ran her tongue over her lips, becoming aware of just how dry and chapped they were. Had they split? Was that old blood hiding in the corner of her mouth?

  Gods … was that broken woman looking back at her, really and truly her?

  She didn’t look familiar in the slightest.

  Gazing at her hands, Bermuda spied her knuckles. Though she had punched the wall outside their shared bedroom not minutes ago, the skin had already turned blue. Bruised. Swollen. Her fingers shook as she tried to close the hand into a fist.

  Had weakness really invaded her in such a manner?

  No. Bermuda frowned, stepping from the mirror. She still would have made a good ally. Even if Kazuaki’s decision barely contained a shred of sense—even if he really kept her off the battlefield because her presence might influence Havidite from offering Vadim. What the feck was he thinking, condemning her here?

  Releasing a long-held breath, Bermuda’s shoulders drooped.

  He was thinking, This is the best, logical course. He was thinking, I need to keep her safe, just like he’d want to keep any one of the other crewmembers safe.

  “Gods damn it,” Bermuda muttered, hanging her head as she leaned her palms on the desk before her. “I’m a feckin’ asshole.”

  A thunk on the deck kept her from wallowing in self-hatred for too long. The quartermaster narrowed her eyes, her focus homing in on the door. More thunks. Falling boots. She knew those sounds.

  Intruders had boarded the ship.

  Patting herself down to be sure she held a fair share of weaponry, Bermuda rushed out the door. Back on the main deck in moments, she the full force of the people who had climbed Northwestern’s trees now surrounding Elowyn, Granite, and Penn. The invaders jumped onto the ship from the towering woodland branches they had ascended.

  Donned in primitive clothing, made by the natural offerings of the forest and its creatures, Bermuda immediately recognized them. They wore the same stately appearances as those who had come to Northwestern, seeking the approval of the gods she had once tried to slay, the very same horde of individuals who stood at their deities’ sides when she had traveled to Northwestern and engaged in battle with Havidite.

  And there, standing tall amongst the forces armed with primitive weaponry not unlike Kazuaki’s spear, was the dark-haired Goddess of the Harvest herself.

  “I was wondering when I’d see you again,” Bermuda muttered, pulling a cutlass from her side to serve as a defense against those who prayed to Havidite.

  The goddess hardly acknowledged her, only crossing her arms. “Don’t worry,” she announced in her perfect, faultless voice. “You won’t have to look at me for long.”

  Bermuda fastened her grip around her weapon’s handle. “Music to my ears,” she growled, approaching Elowyn’s side.

  “Don’t get too confident, Quartermaster.” Elowyn arched her back as more people fell from nearby trees and onto the deck. “We’re a little overrun.”

  With a slow grin, Bermuda bent at the knees. “Just the way I like it.”

  The onslaught began.

  Slicing through Havidite’s minions was met with initial ease. Unskilled warriors fell like dead leaves.

  Granite tugged his opponent’s arm from its socket with little effort.

  Elowyn was quick to sink her blade into arterial hot spots, not wishing to allow the potentially manipulated men and women to suffer any longer than necessary.

  Bermuda fell into her old routine, slicing upward with her cutlass to obliterate the approach of any primitive weapons coming her way.

  Penn stood back, fumbling with the old pistol. He struggled to insert the bullets. “Come on, come on, come on,” he goaded himself, quivering as he finally loaded the rounds into the chamber.

  By the time he lifted the gun to fire, one of Havidite’s minions was already before him wielding a dagger fashioned from a stone. Before he had the chance to bring the pointed object into Penn’s chest, Granite ripped it from his palm and twisted the minion’s wrist to the point of breaking.

  Bodies collected on the floorboards. Blood stained the floors, making swift moves difficult. The greasy, viscous liquid collected on the bottoms of boots, daring the wearers to anchor themselves or risk slipping in its wake.

  For as reliable as Granite’s measured, powerful movements were—

  For as proficient as Elowyn’s agility was—

  For as fearsome as Bermuda’s attacks seemed, despite her disabilities—

  The crew was simply overrun.

  Havidite stood back, grinning as the ship peppered with more and more bodies. The men and women at her disposal were a seemingly endless collection, which she could draw from at any time. The only advantage gifted to the crew was the time it took for their opponents to scale the trees and land on the deck of the ship.

  “Havidite!” Elowyn snarled, running her blade into the throat of yet another attacker. “Call off your army! We’re only here for the Chronometer!”

  The goddess frowned. She watched another one of her followers hit the ship’s deck, lifeless. “I will relent,” she replied, throwing an accusing finger toward Bermuda, “as soon as the Steel Serpent finds the grave that is owed to her.” Preferably right beside that damnable Earth Mother.

  Bermuda hu
ffed. Twisting to avoid a primeval arrowhead that hurdled toward her from a far-off archer, she glowered at Havidite. “As much as I’d love to clear old debts, we’re here for Vadim!”

  Havidite inclined her chin. “I know what you’re here for, Steel Serpent. Kekona has informed me as much.” Her gaze flew to her side as another body fell from a nearby tree. “I must say, I approve of the former Time Father’s quest. That is precisely why I brought Mr. Canmore along.”

  Righting his posture, Vadim straightened after his fall from the tree’s limb. He eyed Bermuda, his expression intense.

  Havidite smirked. “Your friends can have his Chronometer as soon as I’m through with you.” The goddess’s lips turned upward. “But not a moment earlier. You of all people, my dear, must understand the poetry of revenge.”

  Bermuda watched as Havidite outstretched her arm.

  As if Vadim lived and died by her physical instruction, he removed a blade from his side and attacked.

  Lifting her cutlass, Bermuda deflected the blow. Where had he acquired such a weapon? Everyone else boasted primitive sticks and stone-carved daggers but Vadim—he possessed an actual blade. Digging her heels into the slippery deck, Bermuda hissed. She deflected his unskilled blows with ease but for how long? Her heart rate increased, her body betraying her. It was with luck that Vadim had not a fighter in any part of his lifetime. It made it that much easier to avoid his inexperienced swings.

  Still … she’d have to land a hit of her own soon, if she were to stand a chance. Her mind was onboard with the plan, if only her body obeyed with the same agreement.

  Grabbing another nomad, Granite twisted the neck. The body slumped to the floor at his feet. For every individual he downed, two more replaced it.

  A gunshot rattled the air as Penn loomed in a doorway, daring anyone who came too close to him or his comrades to choke on a bullet. The cook’s fear emptied the chamber far faster than it should have—and, for every time the weapon fired the last of its bullets, it took twice as long for his terrified fingers to reload it.