The man sneered. He flirted with the trigger by caressing his finger over it. Rennington pinched his eyes shut, preparing for the blast.
He heard it. He did not feel it.
Forcing his eyes open, Rennington watched as the gunmen collapsed, a hole blown into the back of his head. Behind him, Penn stood. His horrified face was veiled by the ghost-like smoke that floated up from the gun he clutched.
He looked scared. Not for his own life, but at the sight of his wounded comrade. Penn stepped forward, his voice breaking. “Renn?”
Seeing no opportunity to snag the Chronometer with half of the remaining civilians swarming around Bermuda, the commander scowled.
Carnage. Carnage everywhere. Their upper hand had been stripped. It was a gamble, favoring peasant clothing for armor, for the element of surprise—they would have taken them all easily if they had their traditional protection. Who could have predicted the civilians would rise up? This must have been the chaos that Nordjan predicted. Without structured leadership to keep them in place, men became monsters.
The commander stepped backward, easing away from the crowd. He needed to fight to the death. That much he knew. Northern men did not run from a fight. He just needed to find an opening … a single moment of fortuitousness …
When his back pressed into something hard, his face paled. What the feck was it? A brick wall?
Two colossal hands clamped over both sides of his face. The commander’s eyes screamed. It was the only part of him that could with Granite’s palms suffocating his open mouth.
It wasn’t long until fingers found their way into his vulnerable eye sockets. The commander flailed, not getting too far under Granite’s oppressive grip. Muffled cries of anguish bubbled under the behemoth’s hands as he pulled the skull apart. There was no split. No severing of the cranium into two. There was only silence when the commander’s brain could no longer take the stress of Granite’s iron force.
Letting the corpse slump to the floor, Granite gazed out at those who managed to survive. “Surrender.”
The few who lived brought their weapons before them. “Northern men never surrender.”
Unaffected, Granite nodded. “Then die.”
As Granite, Revi, and Northeastern civilians finished off the rest of Northern’s military, Elowyn knelt at Rennington’s side. She ripped open his shirt. Her eyes grew with horror at the sight of the injury cleaving through him. It was deep. Gutting. The small bullet wound in his chest made the battle axe’s damage appear as monstrous as the chasm in Panagea’s center.
She tried to encourage him to lay flat on his back, but the weakening man flopped into the position without much assistance.
“Hold on, just keep breathing.” Elowyn fumbled with her supplies, trying to banish her fear. To keep her fingers moving.
Spurts of red stained Rennington’s face when he coughed up mouthfuls of blood. His eyes rolled into the back of his head as it lolled about on the ground. “Stings—a bit more—this time ‘round. E.P … am—am I shot?”
Nicholai ran over, dirt soiling the knees of his pants, as he loomed over the Southern soldier. “Hey—hey, come on—” His gaze darted back and forth over the shirtless man’s many wounds. What he would give to be able to isolate time at this moment. “You survived a bullet to the hip in Avadon, you, you can power through.” He grabbed Rennington’s hand and squeezed it as tightly as he could. “E.P.’s got you.”
Rennington stared into the distance, beyond the bodies of the companions who surrounded them. If he heard Nicholai, he did not show it. Instead, his lips tugged into a blood-coated smile. “I knew it …”
“Keep him awake,” Elowyn barked, as she ripped a blood-clotting agent open with her teeth.
Nicholai nodded, trying to find Rennington’s gaze. He’d engage him. That would keep him focused. “Knew what, Rennington? Come on—tell me about it.”
The soldier’s grin remained. A garbled laugh burst out of his mouth, throwing droplets of blood everywhere. Slowly, Rennington dragged his shaking arm across the ground, reaching out passed Nicholai. “Little shit …” His grin widened, and his fingertips stretched forward, while his lungs rattled with unseen fluid. “… What the feck took you so long?”
Aggi exchanged a troubled glance with Nicholai. Each man followed the soldier’s gaze outward.
They saw nothing.
By the time Nicholai returned his concentration to the Southern soldier, the light in his eyes was gone.
“No.” Elowyn bit her tongue, her bottom lip trembling. “No! Come on!” She checked his pulse, checked his pupils, her voice growing shriller by the second. “Rennington!” The medic loomed over him, her hands on his chest. “Renn!”
Kazuaki stared silently down at the Southern soldier. Quiet, frenzied ire ripped at his insides, clawing at his organs like a savage beast.
Another one. He lost another one.
If he was still an immortal being capable of slaying his fellow man—and not this false deity stripped of anything resembling power—Rennington Platts would still be alive.
Some God of Salvation.
Turning away, Kazuaki growled, consumed by his wrath. As if the graying sky above reflected his temper, rain began to fall from the clouds. Gentle at first, the droplets grew in both size and ferocity, until a downpour pounded on every person’s shoulders. The captain stared at the ground, watching the water dilute the blood-caked stones and carry the color down the slope in the street.
In the distance, he was certain he heard Granite and the Northeastern civilians who survived the slaughter, run the last Northern footman through.
Brack stared down at Rennington, his jaw and shoulders tight. A gash ran down the length of his face, a token from the recent battle. It hurt, but not as much as gazing down at his comrade’s fallen body.
Nicholai cringed. He removed his hat and held it to his chest, as he watched Elowyn continue in vain to bring life back into Rennington’s heart.
Shuffling feet stemmed from Bermuda. She limped up beside the others. Stifled by swollen eyes, the woman could only make out hazy shapes. She had studied Kazuaki’s form enough to drag herself toward the fuzzy silhouette that matched his frame. Panting, she rubbed at the one eye that wasn’t completely swollen shut, in the hope she could steady her fading vision.
Feeling the rain on her shoulders, Bermuda reached out, grasping the cloth of Kazuaki’s long jacket. The chain of the Chronometer dangled around her palm. She tried to listen. Her ears rang from memories of gunfire, but it sounded as if the clanking metal of clashing blades, and screams, and fired guns were beginning to quiet down.
“We’ve won?” she asked, straining to hear his reply.
Unable to remove his focus from Rennington’s unmoving form, a muscle ticked in Kazuaki’s jaw. “No,” he replied, sliding his hand to rest over the top of hers. “Not today.”
Chapter Twenty
It had taken nearly a week to arrange transportation for Rennington’s body. Nicholai stared at the back of the steam vehicle, a blank look on his face. The sound of its driver, feverishly cranking to start the engine, was drown out by the former Time Father’s contemplative thoughts.
Another funeral. If they could even call it that. It lacked ceremony of every kind, given the circumstances.
Word had been sent to Bartholomew, as soon as a pen could be put to paper. It took time to clear the bodies of the dead from outside Aggi Normandy’s estate—or rather, his former estate—as the division leader who most recently relinquished his Chronometer stepped down from the luxury of the home he had known, in favor of letting his people decide who, if any, would dwell there.
It was fortunate that, despite his ‘retirement’, Mr. Normandy still boasted influence in the Northeastern division. It did not make it effortless to find spaces for the dead, alert Bartholomew in Southern to prepare for Rennington’s arrival, and grant safety and security to Nicholai Addihein and those under Kazuaki’s command … but it certainly made it ea
sier.
Nicholai closed his eyes. His jaw was tight. He’d take whatever small comforts he could find.
Revi stood beside him, his arm in a makeshift sling. What he had taken for a simple dislocation in the midst of his adrenaline-fueled rage, turned out instead to be a fairly complex break. The man ran his one functioning hand through his graying hair, the low grumble in his throat matching the steam car’s engine, as its driver prepped it for the long journey ahead.
At Nicholai’s other side, Bermuda leaned on an old crutch. A donation, from one of the citizens of Aggi Normandy’s home town. Someone who was more than happy to lend assistance to the infamous Steel Serpent.
As Bermuda stared at the wooden box, housing the corpse of Rennington Platts, she did not feel much like the warrior the people of Apetlas remembered her to be. With cloth covering half of her face, soaked with blood from wounds that refused to stop oozing after the length of several days, she felt nothing but burning regret. Frailty. Nothing at all like the title she had earned in her god-slaying days. It was almost a shame that the swelling around her eyes had gone down; the things that were left for her to see upon her vision’s return were less than comforting to look at.
Her chest heaved with each breath. It felt heavy. Not just from the ravaging effects of her condition. A small pinhole of illusory light cast its radiance upon her, in the form of an unfamiliar stirring. That the people of Apetlas banded together in an effort to try and help her … it felt good. To be revered by the public, for once as the hero—and not the villain.
It made the sting of Umbriel’s sacrifice burn a little less.
Bermuda laid a hand over her chest. Perhaps the Earth Mother had seen something in her that she had not seen herself.
The quartermaster’s gaze trailed down to her feet. There, hiding between the pointed toes of her boots, grew a small flower. Five cream-colored petals clung at the edges to a buttery center. She blinked, wincing, as she knelt down beside it and reached a tender hand outward. Cuts marred the woman’s fingers, as she grasped the fragile stem, and plucked it from its peculiar place, between the cracks of Apetlas’ cobbled stones.
Bermuda spun the little thing between her thumb and fingers, admiring its simple beauty. It reminded her of Umbriel. Her gaze flicked over to the bleak container that housed Rennington’s body. That dark, dismal object had no business casing the corpse of such a spirited man. With the help of her crutch, she edged closer, toward the casket, and laid the flower on top. A small piece of brightness, on a grim looking box.
From behind the heads of Kazuaki’s crew, Aggi cleared his throat. He took gentle steps up to the back of the steam car. His voice was gentle, as he glimpsed those present. “Are you sure we can’t bury him in Northeastern? It’s a long journey back to Southern territory, and …” The man’s nose wrinkled, though he tried to disguise it. “I’m sure though my political ties are already severed, I could still arrange for a suitable plot for him.”
Brack offered a polite grin. It only consumed half of his face, rather than the traditional fullness. He knew what Aggi was implying. The decomposition would make a difficult ride for the driver, and almost seemed an insult to what was left of their departed companion. They all knew, though, where Rennington Platts wished to be buried. “Nah, mate.” Stepping up to the casket, Brack patted the container’s top. “This is a Southern boy, born and bred. I know we ain’t heard back from Bart and Kal yet, but I don’t doubt that they’ll be sure he gets a right good spot next to his brother.”
A small smile crept onto Nicholai’s face. He was as surprised by it, as anyone else would have been. The man did not find himself smiling at any funerals he had attended prior; but something about knowing that Rennington would be gifted the opportunity for eternal rest beside his beloved little brother … it made the loss a little easier to accept.
Gliding his gaze over, he spied Elowyn, dressed in assorted torn pieces of dark cloth. Her ensemble fit the mood that reflected in her deadened eyes. The former Time Father bit the inside of his cheek. His mind drifted back to one of his first encounters with her, as he stood over an injured Rennington’s bedside, in Kazuaki Hidataka’s ship. It was there that he saw her photograph. The picture of her, with her brothers: young men lost in Nordjan’s war against Northeastern.
He couldn’t imagine the turmoil that was ravaging through her mind, having to endure the same nightmare twice.
Shuffling over to the medic’s side, Nicholai tried to find her focus, but her eyes fixated on nothing. “Is there anything I can do for you, Elowyn?” he asked, an awkward hand reaching half-way out, stopping before it rested on her shoulder.
The woman’s shoulders tensed, anticipating his touch. When she realized he saw her strain, she tried to force relaxation into her shoulders. “No, Nico.” Her voice was emotionless. Somewhere far away. “Thank you.”
Nicholai nodded, withdrawing his hand and holding it behind his back. His gaze slid over to Revi, who approached the casket, to stand beside Brack. The man appeared contemplative. Pained. In a far different way than he had, when his thoughts were of his daughter.
Revi pursed his lips, laying an uncertain, hesitating hand over Rennington’s box. A nerve twitched beneath his eye, and though it seemed he was wildly uncomfortable speaking in front of the others, he rapped the container lightly, twice. “I guess you were right,” he muttered, his voice tumbling out in jagged roughness. Though his gaze remained on the casket, his head drifted over in Bermuda’s direction. “People aren’t as bad as I said.” Without citizen intervention, surely there would have been more crew members’ bodies filling caskets, right alongside Rennington Platts. Revi swallowed, pushing himself away from the steam car’s back. “Tell my daughter I said ‘hello’.”
Granite looked down at Revi, as he fell back in line beside him. The behemoth said nothing, but mourning danced on the surface of his eyes. A good man filled that box. One he would miss, almost as much as he missed Iani.
Glancing back and forth between the crew, Aggi sucked in a deep breath, and blew out his cheeks. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said, his shoulders slouching, as his concentration flitted back and forth between them. “The transport vehicle really must leave now, if he’s to make it to his first checkpoint by dark. Many of the streets are still decayed from Panagea’s past turmoil,” he explained, hoping to exonerate himself from the callousness he felt at rushing them through their goodbyes. “There are no lanterns to keep the streets lit in some places. I really don’t want him driving off the road.”
Nicholai nodded, trying to absolve Aggi’s anguish with a gentle, forgiving smile. Through his own grieving, he pushed out an acceptance. “We understand. Thank you for all that you’ve done to arrange this, Aggi.”
The former Northeastern Time Father attempted a return smile, and missed the mark. He reached out, patting the steam car’s side, to signal the driver off.
Without further instruction, the vehicle pulled out of sight. It rumbled down the street with all eyes on it, until it disappeared around a bend.
With the somber spirit of the circumstances weighing everyone down, Nicholai chanced a glimpse of Kazuaki. The god was still staring at the route that the steam car had taken, though it had disappeared from sight moments ago. Nicholai shoved his hands into his pockets, keeping a keen eye on the captain: he was a man of few words, but that he hadn’t uttered a single thing during the length of Rennington’s makeshift funeral … it had Nicholai’s stomach in an unquestionable twist.
“When do we leave for Northern?” Revi asked, his rugged voice breaking the silence that vexed them all. The hurt had not faded from his tone, but it was hidden under a fresh layer of vile hatred. Hatred that he intended to use, when draining the life from Nordjan, if he could get his one operational hand on him.
Kazuaki continued to stare ahead. The only movement of his body was brought by the wind, as it tossed the raven strands of his unkempt hair.
Revi’s eyes narrowed. He tilted his head,
a look of concern showing in the wrinkles that appeared after furrowing his brow. “Captain?”
In a snap, Kazuaki’s eye flicked to life. His pupil shrank, as it shot in Revi’s direction. For a moment, it looked as if he had forgotten where he was; but familiarity filtered back into his character, and his harsh voice spilled out of his mouth. “Prepare the ship. We’ll leave as soon as it’s ready.”
Nicholai drew his shoulders back. His face cast in moving shadows, as he took a step closer toward the captain. “With respect, Kazuaki, shouldn’t we come up with a game plan? We nearly lost to such a small army, I can’t imagine what Nordjan will have waiting for us in Northern when he comes to the conclusion that his footmen have been wiped out.”
For the first time in Nicholai Addihein’s life, he saw a distinct lack of certainty on the surface of Kazuaki’s eye. It was a strange, and unsettling thing.
“Prep the ship,” the captain repeated, his voice flat, and lacking conviction. “I’ll devise a plan. Give me time to think.”
Nicholai and the crew watched, as Kazuaki spun on his heels, and distanced himself from the others. His broad shoulders disappeared beyond their line of sight, carried by a quick pace that told everyone not to follow.
Brack tore his concentration off the captain’s path long enough to take in the sight of his comrades’ faces. Each one wore a different appearance of anxiety, of exasperation, of fatigue, and grief. Plagued by his own feelings of anguish, Brack choked them down, and brandished an expression of excitement, to mask his pain. “All right, mates!” He clapped his hands together and rubbed them, his wide grin almost enough to convince the others that he had fully healed from their loss. “You heard Cappy—let’s hop to it!”
Bermuda’s upper lip twitched, as she tried to clench her swollen hand into a fist. It was a difficult feat, with the flesh around each finger and knuckle still enflamed from her injuries. “You guys start without me,” she said, her gaze darting across the ground. “There’s something I have to do first.”
The Panagea Tales Box Set Page 155