The Panagea Tales Box Set

by McKenzie Austin

  They all knew better than to argue. Even in her vulnerable state, the quartermaster projected the air of respect that she commanded from day one.

  Nicholai watched, as she limped off in an unknown direction, carried by sheer determination, and a little help from her crutch. Pivoting, his focus jumped once more to the trail that Kazuaki had walked when he, too, stormed off. The former Time Father clenched his jaw tightly. He hoped with everything he had, that neither of them would do anything foolish.

  Shoving through each object that wasn’t anchored to the ground, Kazuaki’s rage wasn’t the only thing that followed him through the narrow streets of Apetlas. His aggressive charge through town earned him several unsavory glimpses from the citizens who walked the path he blazed, as well; and indecipherable whispers slipped past the lips of those who witnessed his wrath.

  His low growls let them know that their discomfort meant nothing to him.

  Drawing farther away from the more clustered part of Apetlas, into a seedy area that was still in dire need of repairs from the natural disasters, Kazuaki stopped before a rusting steam car. He threw his fist into its side, denting the compromised metal, as flecks of corrosion leapt off the car’s body, and fell to the ground.

  Where did he channel his outrage? Kazuaki pulled his fist from the dent that it made, pacing the area like a caged animal. He felt it. The pressure. The bubbling, boiling, white hot fury. It compressed his internal organs, suffocating them, as it had nowhere else to go. Despite the fact that it had no room left to cultivate, somehow, more ire birthed inside him. Like a slow, gaseous poison, it threatened to explode, should it manage to expand further.

  In the hopes of disbanding the mounting pressure of his temper, Kazuaki collapsed to his knees. He drove his fist into the stone ground beneath him. A spider web of cracks split out from where his knuckles struck the earth.

  It shouldn’t have happened.

  He knew it would come for them all, one day: death. It went without saying. The risk of an eternal being, befriending mortal men and women. So many had come and gone as crew members, as pawns, as hired hands fit to do his bidding, but these souls … Bermuda, Revi, Granite, Brack, Penn, Rennington, Iani, Elowyn, Bartholomew, even Nicholai …

  Time, and circumstances, had turned them all into something far more than mindless tools.

  Kazuaki Hidataka had never feared goodbyes before. Lifetimes of farewells had beat the miserable undertones out of such things. For a century, he knew better. The captain sat back, running his hands through his hair, his single eye pinched fiercely shut. When, exactly, did the moment pass, that he forgot to remember that?

  His shoulders slumped, as the sigh he let out deflated his chest. Kazuaki opened his eye. It didn’t matter when it happened. He wouldn’t have done anything different.

  He was no longer afflicted by the mermaid’s curse. A god; no longer a man, and still, his companions were dropping all around him.

  Silence was a small comfort. A temporary ointment for his overstimulated mind. It didn’t last long enough. Kazuaki lifted his head, his lip peeling upward, as he felt the weight of unwanted eyes drilling into the back of his skull. Such a strange aura. Had he felt that one before? It seemed vaguely familiar.

  When the voice sounded from behind him, he knew. Yes. They had only met once, but it was familiar, indeed.

  “You’re looking a little lost, Mr. Hidataka.” Itreus stepped up beside Kazuaki, his hands behind his back. He stared straight ahead, unwilling to draw attention to the god who still knelt on split cobblestone.

  Running his tongue over his teeth in exasperation, Kazuaki peered up at the golden-haired deity, through the blackness of his hair. “Shouldn’t you be busy playing with the dead?” he muttered, unmatched venom in his tone.

  A calm brow vaulted on Itreus’ face, yet still, he refused to grant Kazuaki any eye contact. “Such hostility. You do know that I didn’t kill your companion, don’t you?”

  A jab to the chest. Kazuaki grunted, tearing his gaze off Itreus’ neutral face.

  Finally taking in the sight of the tumultuous god with his eyes, Itreus tilted his head. His gaze assessed every inch of Kazuaki’s frustration, from the pursed lips, to the subconsciously tightened muscles that riddled every inch of his body. Itreus folded his wings neatly behind him, and straightened his posture. “Do you know what salvation means?” he asked, his inquiry filled with genuine curiosity.

  Kazuaki shot the god a look of aggressive incredulousness. “What?” he scoffed, pushing himself back into a less vulnerable position, as to spare himself the effort of having to crane his neck to view his unwanted visitor.

  “Preservation,” Itreus explained, turning his scrutiny elsewhere, after Kazuaki righted himself to stand. “Deliverance from ruin. Protection from harm.”

  What was this fool getting at? Was he trying to piss him off more? Kazuaki forced his eye shut, attempting to keep the memory of Rennington’s lifeless face from the surface of his thoughts. “He’s dead,” the god snarled in a heated whisper. “I delivered him from nothing.”

  Itreus nodded in calm agreement. “Perhaps.” He turned to Kazuaki, a curious aura about him. “But, in the limitless time that I’ve been escorting souls to the afterlife, he’s the only one who ever died with a smile affixed to his face.”

  With disbelief jogging to the forefront of Kazuaki’s emotions, the god scowled. His silence emphasized his sentiment.

  After soaking in the sight of Kazuaki’s reaction, Itreus’ expression softened. His head slowly cocked to the side, as perfect brows pulled together to shadow his eyes. “You have no idea how much you helped him,” he stated, his voice shifting to a more piteous tone, “do you?”

  This god was daft. Crazy. Kazuaki shook his head, his look of disgust remaining. “You may be well-versed in helping the dead,” he muttered, gesturing to himself with an aggressive hand, “but it’s my job to protect the living. My crew. Rennington Platts was under my command.” Old ire returned in his expression, and Kazuaki’s jaw nearly snapped from the pressure of his rage. “And if he’s dead,” he continued, leaning in with heated belligerence, “then I didn’t help him at all.”

  Much to Kazuaki’s surprise, Itreus met his wrath with a smile. He lifted his chin, staring at the gray skies above. “Salvation is a powerful force, Mr. Hidataka.” A quiet laugh, as quick as it was soft, left the god’s mouth. “I shudder to imagine what you would be capable of, if you embraced the power of being a god, instead of shunning it.”

  Kazuaki’s jaw hung open, enough for a sardonic scoff to squeeze through. “A powerful force?” The sarcasm coated his statement as it slipped out, and though little space already existed between the pair, he inched defiantly closer. “I have no power at all. I can’t even leave so much as a scratch on an opponent anymore!”

  Though Kazuaki’s irritation continued to climb, Itreus remained unaffected. “Power is a subjective thing,” he mused, sweeping his hand outward, toward the crowd that Kazuaki had left behind. “Mr. Addihein, for example, has never purposely taken a life. He cannot bring an army to their knees. He relinquished every shred of traditional power that has ever been gifted to him. In the eyes of the common man, he is now virtually powerless.” One half of Itreus’ lips tugged into an enigmatic smile. “And yet, he still managed to change the world.”

  Much to Kazuaki’s surprise, a tangible portion of his rage abandoned him after Itreus’ statement. He stared at the god, unable to find an appropriate string of words to throw together.

  Itreus’ strange smile blossomed into a full grin. It was a peculiar look, for the otherwise neutral-faced god. With a small bow, the golden-haired deity gazed upon Kazuaki, an extraordinary air surrounding him. “I’ll be seeing you around, Salvation.”

  Wordless, Kazuaki watched, as the grand, gray wings of the God of Lost Souls expanded. In a flurry of feathers, he was gone.

  Left with nothing but Itreus’ observation to accompany him, Kazuaki begrudgingly thought back to the mom
ent that Rennington’s spirit left his body. Perhaps Itreus was right. The soldier did not seem to be in any visible anguish at all in his final moments. Kazuaki wrinkled his nose at the thought. He doubted very much that it was anything he had done. More than likely, it was just the adrenaline of Rennington’s last battle that disbanded all of his pain.

  A stern grunt followed the thought. Whatever it was … he shouldn’t be sitting here, fearing for the lives of his remaining crew. Fear paralyzed good men. He’d be damned if he was one of them.

  Tossing his wild storm of sentiments aside, Kazuaki strode back to the others. They were too close to stop now. Only one Time Father remained standing: Nordjan of the Northern division. If there was any magic left in all of Panagea, and wishes were real things, Kazuaki would find a way to cut the legs right out from under the bastard’s body.

  The powered walk back to where he had left the others seemed shorter than the endless stride away from them. By the time he returned, only Aggi and Nicholai remained within eyesight. The crew had already tirelessly set to prepping the airship, as commanded.

  Before Kazuaki could walk past them to assist his team, Aggi reached out an arm. “Mr. Hidataka, I’m glad to see you’re back.”

  “I don’t have much time to waste,” the god murmured, his concentration residing on his crew, and not the former Northeastern division leader. “I need to help them ready the airship, and lay out our plan of attack.”

  “Then I’ll make it quick,” Aggi chimed in, placing his palms together. “I’m afraid I may not have the same influence I had here only just several days prior,” he started, grasping for the empty space where the Chronometer once dangled around his neck, “but I can send any footman who is still willing, into Nordjan’s territory to fight alongside you. I will provide as much backup as a man who once ruled Northeastern can.”

  Nicholai nodded, stepping up beside Aggi. “I don’t doubt that Bartholomew will send reinforcements as well, if he still commands any pull over Southern’s militia.” His expression shifted, as he glimpsed Kazuaki. “I do find it a little concerning that he hasn’t yet issued a reply, though.” Perhaps it was too soon; perhaps the letter of Rennington’s death had been delayed?

  Kazuaki nodded, trying to pull himself back into command mode. “I’m sure Bartholomew is fine. More likely that he’s processing the announcement of Rennington’s death. They had gotten pretty close, after Bart took over as Southern’s division leader …”

  “Can I ask,” Aggi interrupted, clearing his throat, “are you planning an aerial attack on Northern? I can only surmise that with the airship …” He gestured toward the flying machine, his words trailing off.

  Eager to assist the others in prepping the ship, Kazuaki fidgeted before Aggi, nodding quickly. “That’s the only part of the plan I do know at the moment.”

  The confession caused Nicholai to cringe. “Northern is well known for their ornithopters. They’re not just personal transportation devices over there, Kazuaki. Those things can be fitted for war.”

  “War …” Aggi stroked his chin thoughtfully, his lips tightening, as he dragged the lone word out. “You know, I have something you may want to take with you aboard the airship, if you can spare enough moments to load them up.”

  Arching a brow, Kazuaki turned to Aggi. The man’s cryptic statement had earned his attention. “What kind of ‘something’?” he asked.

  For the first time since the somberness of the ambush, Aggi flashed an authentic grin. “Materials were in short supply after everything Panagea has endured. I ordered several men out in the few ornithopters that we had, scouting for Darjal’s ironclad off the coast. We were able to locate it, and I sent in some very talented individuals to fashion a makeshift system to return it to the shoreline. We had hoped to salvage various pieces from it, in our effort to repair Northeastern’s extensive damage.”

  The captain’s interest piqued. He remembered the ironclad well: the metal beast that was responsible for the loss of his beloved ship. “I’m hazarding a guess that you wouldn’t bring it up unless …”

  “That’s right, Mr. Hidataka.” Aggi’s confidence rose, as he adjusted his posture. “I do believe several of the ironclad’s cannons are still operational. It may take a few extra days to arrange for their delivery, if I’m still able to at all.”

  Cannons. Kazuaki’s memory filled with the thunderous booms brought by Darjal’s war machine. They were enough to eat entire chunks from his old, wooden ship. He ventured that, if they were still operational, they would be a boon in the upcoming slaughter on Northern territory.

  That would give them extra time to plan. To organize. Kazuaki took a calming breath, and blew it out slowly. It was for the best. He did not wish to make the same mistake as before, rushing headlong into a precarious situation without fully thinking it over. He was better than that. When had his emotions started to prevail over strategy? It was a rookie move. “I believe that’s a handicap worth waiting a few extra days for.”

  “Excellent.” Aggi slammed a fist into his palm, visibly excited to be of help. “I will see what I can’t do to expedite the process of getting them here.” Rushing off with determination, the former Time Father of the Northeastern division vanished, content to find a new quest in a life that had recently been drained of every former purpose he knew.

  Outfitted weaponry. What an advantage. Kazuaki cupped his chin, trying to temper his desire to leave immediately, with the knowledge that waiting would increase their odds of a successful finale. He needed something to distract his mind. A task. Looking around to see where he could jump in to assist, Kazuaki spied Elowyn, Granite, Brack, Penn, even Revi, with his broken arm—all hustling to ready the airship for its departure.

  One face was missing.

  “Where’s Bermuda?” he asked, turning toward Nicholai.

  The former Time Father shrugged. “She said she had something to do first. It’s my best guess that she’s extending her thanks to the people of Apetlas, for their assistance in saving her.”

  An idealist’s reply. Not exactly in Bermuda’s wheelhouse. Kazuaki’s eye narrowed, and he turned to scan the streets. “Where did you go?” he whispered to himself, scanning the far corners for any sign of her face.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Bermuda burst through the doors of Northeastern’s military facility. Countless days had separated her from the last time she walked the halls, but she remembered every footfall that led to her destination.

  “You there!” a footman held out his hand, but bit his tongue when he saw the curved features of her face.

  He remembered those eyes.

  Once upon a time, she dragged herself in, carrying a katar. It was soiled with the blood of gods and goddesses. The woman didn’t clutch it in her possession this time; only a crutch, to replace the weapon that once vindicated the town of Apetlas, and surrounding cities. The change in carried objects didn’t make her any less recognizable. He said nothing, as she strode past him, continuing down the corridor.

  Guided by familiarity, Bermuda stepped up to the door of Northeastern’s medical services team, and pushed it open.

  A dark-haired man lifted his head, and threw his gaze across the room. When it landed on Bermuda’s stern face, his expression flattened immediately. Pushing his chair out from behind him, he stood. He splayed his palms on the table before him, as he leaned forward. “I thought Aggi Normandy banned you from this place,” he muttered, lifting one hand long enough to remove the glasses that sat on the bridge of his nose. “What do you want, Steel Serpent?”

  Bermuda shoved her crutch out from under her, and leaned it against the wall. She took several labored steps toward him, until she stood only feet away, on the opposite side of his desk. Panting, the quartermaster stretched her arm out, her waiting palm toward the ceiling. “Don’t play dumb with me, Victor. You know damn well what I want.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The air cut Nicholai’s face with more force than in the countless
trips he had taken prior. Even with his metal hand wrapped around one of the many cords that secured the airship’s helium-filled balloon, his feet still rocked. Still jostled, from the turbulence.

  Things seemed to only grow wilder, the closer they edged into the Northern division.

  It was the chill injected in the winds. That was the most unforgiving. The temperature drop was exacting. It reminded him that their entrance into Nordjan’s territory would not be met without opposition, even from the gales that dwelled there.

  With his free hand, Nicholai attempted to turn the collar of his dress shirt up. It was not enough to block out the full force of the wind, but he was happy to take any additional cover he could find.

  The airway was crystal clear. It was as if the sky had frozen in a sheet of transparent glass. Nicholai peered out over the edge, spying evidence of the manufacturing plants that remained in Northern. Scattered amongst them, hiding in the smaller plots, roofs of residential homes clustered into piles. It was hard to see them, through the smog, and the blankets of white snow that coated their shingles … but he knew they were there. Tiny little reminders that people lived here. People who had no idea just how explosive their next moments were about to be.

  Nicholai frowned. He had hopes that it would go well. That, perhaps, Nordjan would recognize his loss in Northeastern; realize that his ambush was a failure, and offer up his Chronometer willingly. It was unfortunate, that time had told him things like ‘hope’ were all well and good to have … but reality often enjoyed the art of clashing with idealism.

  Stealing a glimpse of Bermuda, Nicholai felt his fingers tense at his side. Whether it was the reflection of the arctic tundra that they ventured into or her rapidly deteriorating state … the quartermaster looked very much like the picture of an ethereal specter. A ghost. Her battle scars from the ambush remained ever-present. His heart quickened at the concern of her physical wellbeing.