The Panagea Tales Box Set

by McKenzie Austin

  A curse flew from Nordjan, as soon as the bullet struck his fingers.

  The crew watched with bated breath, as the shimmering streak of the undamaged Chronometer fell from Nordjan’s grip. Sliding between the balcony rails, it struck the ledge of the floor beneath them, teetering on the edge of falling several stories farther to the ground level.

  A panicked Nordjan patted his chest, his stomach, his sides, his face. Had the bullet struck him? Any vital areas? He glanced at the blood on his fingers, and for a moment, he panicked. But no—the blood—it was not from the act of inspecting his body, only from the flesh that he’d lost when the bullet grazed his knuckles.

  Nicholai’s eyes widened, and he reached back to grasp Revi’s shoulder. “Gods alive—the perfect shot!”

  “What are you talking about?” The man scowled, smacking the side of his gun, as it jammed after the last shot. “I missed.”

  Cradling his hand, Nordjan looked out. His heart raced at the sight of them.

  This couldn’t be it. He had planned everything out. How, still, could they not know how wrong they were? How much chaos their attempts at change would bring? He could not let them thrust Panagea back into a lawless, anarchic state. They had come too far to go backward now.

  He needed to get that Chronometer back.

  “Shoot him,” Kazuaki ordered, turning to Revi.

  Cursing, the man continued to smack the gun around. “It’s jammed, Captain.”

  Grumbling, he turned to the others. “Anyone else?”

  Bermuda and Elowyn patted their bodies, searching for extra bullets. They had unloaded all they had at the ornithopters, circling the ship. Extra ammunition had gone down with the vessel.

  Long-range weapons were out of the question.

  Brack watched, as Nordjan peered over the balcony, daring himself to make the jump to the fourth floor. “Nuh-uh, no sir!” After waggling a finger, the former monk grasped the railing and hurled himself over. His body swung onto the floor beneath. In moments, he had dashed down the side, sliding into a position that allowed him to scoop the dangling object safely into his palm.

  “Heyo!” Brack leaned over, trying to peer up at Nordjan from his place one floor below. “Gotta be quicker than that!” Glancing back toward the others, he grinned, waving the object emphatically over his head. “I got it!”

  The tension in Kazuaki’s shoulders dropped at the sight of Brack holding the Chronometer. “Good,” he growled, clenching his fingers into a fist. They could simply end Nordjan’s life with a blade to the throat. “Let’s get this—ah!”

  Everyone turned, as the captain hit a knee. One hand dug into the flooring to hold himself up, while the fingers of the other drove into his temples.

  “Kazuaki!” Bermuda knelt beside him, a hand on his shoulder, as she struggled to look at his face. “What? What is it?”

  Straining to speak through a hardened jaw, Kazuaki forced his eye open. “It’s Bartholomew.” The words trapped in a snarl behind his teeth. “He’s outside.”

  “Bart?” Bermuda’s brows furrowed together, as she looked toward the door. “What the feck is he doing here?”

  When the panicked intensity of Bartholomew’s plea faded from his brain, Kazuaki heaved and pushed himself back to stand. “He’s praying. For aid.” His gaze followed hers toward the door. “The airship—it wiped out a lot of the reinforcements when it crashed.”

  Bermuda’s stomach clenched at the confession. Knowing that Bartholomew was outside in the heat of battle brought no comfort. “Go.” She removed a small knife from her hip. “Six against one. We can take care of this bastard. Bartholomew first. You can destroy the Chronometer after.”

  Kazuaki hesitated. His chest tightened, as he looked over to Brack, who still waved the Chronometer enthusiastically over his head. His eye shifted upward, to Nordjan, who had retreated into the safety of his room.

  Yes. Six against one. They had this under control. Even Revi, with one functioning arm, could handle an untrained Time Father.

  With the walls of the crumbling estate vanishing from around him, Kazuaki appeared on the battleground outside. Immediately, he felt the sharp pinch of a bullet fly into his ribs and shoulder.

  Shouts accosted his ears, loud, and somehow less painful than the potency of prayers.

  He scanned the area for Bartholomew, locating the wreckage of the airship immediately. Fragments of metal comingled with the blood-caked snow. Kazuaki trudged through the banks, his boots sinking, snow biting at his knees with each footfall.

  Where was he? He could almost feel him: Bartholomew. His prayer acted like a beacon, an unseen thing that pulled Kazuaki toward him with a supernatural force. Ripping his way through sheets of bent metal from the airship, it wasn’t long until he found the scholar.

  Kneeling in a snowbank, with his face peering into the sight of a large gun, he looked far worse than he had when Kazuaki left him in Southern.

  Crimson liquid oozed from Bartholomew’s collar bone, staining his suit. One of the lenses from his glasses had been shattered and left several cuts near his eye. He was covered in blood. Whether it was his, or someone else’s, Kazuaki could not immediately tell.

  “Bartholomew!” The captain snarled, as he slid into the ground beside his comrade. “What the feck are you doing here? I told you to send soldiers, not hurl yourself into battle!”

  “I knew damn well Nicholai didn’t write those letters.” Bartholomew panted, pulling away long enough to load more bullets into his weapon. “You’re a terrible forger, Captain. I could spot your haphazard penmanship anywhere.”

  Kazuaki drew back, tempering his anger at the sight of his old friend. Sensing a presence behind him, he turned, taking in the visage of Kal Rovanas. The man held a gun, his face as pale as the snow surrounding them, despite his obvious attempt to try to maintain his composure. Kazuaki’s nose wrinkled, and he snapped his head back to Bartholomew. “Kal? You brought your fecking ambassador to a firefight?”

  Bartholomew closed one eye, lined up a shot, and fired. “He wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

  Placing himself in front of Bartholomew to act as a shield, Kazuaki scowled. “I know the type.”

  Leaning back, the scholar panted heavily, in more physical turmoil than he let on. His eyes found Kazuaki’s and comingling with the raw adrenaline of combat, something else hid behind them: mourning and a desire for vengeance. “They killed the finest soldier the Southern division ever knew.” His lips tightened, as his finger caressed the trigger of his weapon. “This is one fight you will not battle without the full force of your crew, Captain. It’s about more than just the Chronometer right now.”

  Biting back an impulsive retort, Kazuaki growled and looked to Kal. The man tried to cover the tremors in his hands as he held his gun, but every inch of him screamed of an internal dread. A dread that any man who wasn’t a war machine would wear. He had seen horrid things in Northwestern, after accompanying Kazuaki and the crew to the war-torn land … but being at the forefront of the battle, with his lover’s life on the line … it was a fresh kind of horror.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Kazuaki assessed the pale-faced man, unsure if his appearance had any ties to injury. “Have you been shot?”

  “No.” Kal increased his grip on his gun, his heart pounding, as he leaned into the snowbank behind him. “Not yet.”

  “Not yet,” Bartholomew repeated. He stood and leaned to the side, to shoot around Kazuaki’s body. The bullet shattered an approaching footman’s shin, sending him face-first into the snow. “Not ever. The odds would have been higher in your favor had you stayed behind, Kal. Even out here—” Another shot left Bartholomew’s gun. “—no bullet will find you, as long as I’m standing.”

  An exasperated laugh, built by nerves, leaped out of Kal’s throat. He nodded, swallowing. “I believe you.”

  Ducking back down to avoid oncoming fire, Bartholomew tugged Kazuaki down with him. “We’re outgunned, Captain. Even with all o
f the—”

  From behind, bypassing the rubble of the airship, two Northern footmen flew over the bank. Each reared their arms back, ready to bring the blades of their swords down onto Kal’s head.

  Their heads detached from their spines before they had the chance.

  Kazuaki only saw it briefly. The flash of silver from the halberds. The trail of red their swings left behind. And a familiar set of eyes, hiding underneath an Eastern-issued helm.

  Wulfgang raised his arm in victory. A triumphant battle cry flew out of his throat. Several men from the Underground flanked him, matching his conquering cheer before they all disappeared into the chaos of the fray.

  A virtue, that they received his letter. He wasn’t sure if they’d come.

  Feeling the sting of burden from his inability to help them bring down the mortal footmen, Kazuaki tensed. His gaze flew to Bartholomew—to his extensive injuries. Gods only knew how many more hid beneath the blackness of his suit. The man needed medical attention; another slice of assistance that Kazuaki could do nothing to give.

  “I don’t know why you prayed to me, Bartholomew.” The god’s rough words knotted in his mouth. “I’ve been rendered useless in war.”

  Beginning to show signs of his wounds, the former Southern Time Father wheezed, sweeping the sweat from his face with the palm of his hand. “I did not pray for the God of War,” he breathed, readying his firearm again. “I prayed for the God of Salvation.”

  Kazuaki turned his eye outward to the riotous clash. Men from Northeastern, Southeastern, Southern, and Eastern peppered in with the footmen of the Nordjan’s division. For as many as had come to their aid, their numbers were still too small. Too small to combat the violent appetites of the hardened Northern militia.

  The God of Salvation. A cruel, ironic joke. Yes, he had been reborn to keep people from harm, but how? “I … I don’t know how to spare lives, Bartholomew.” For the first time in a long while, Kazuaki felt small in the face of the raging skirmish. “Only how to end them.” And that, that had been taken away. Even in Seacaster, he had saved by slaughter. What could he do now, unable to drain the life from his enemies, the only way he’d ever known?

  “Bilge, Captain.” Bartholomew winced, feeling the burn of a former injury, as he fired another shot. “If you didn’t know how to keep a man alive, we’d all be dead by now.”

  Kazuaki shot his focus to the direction of the estate, where his crewmen hid inside. Yes. He had put much effort into keeping his team safe, but that was his team. From the day they signed up. Many other thieves and outcasts had come and gone under his command over the years, but this particular lot … somehow, they demolished every caution he had built for himself in his centuries of living. Even if he never uttered it aloud, he’d do anything for them.

  As if he read his mind, Bartholomew shifted his attention to Kazuaki. “Where are the others? Are they safe?”

  “They’re inside.” Kazuaki lifted his chin, his eye zeroing in on the door that the Northern footmen still tried to break into. “We got the Chronometer away from Nordjan. They’ll be able to handle one man.”

  Somehow, the sound of the door to Nordjan’s estate falling seemed to rise above the violent cries of the brawl. Kazuaki’s eye widened with Bartholomew’s, as they watched the footmen pore into the newly made entry.

  The scholar’s throat went dry. “But, will they be able to handle dozens?”

  Shit. Kazuaki stood, taking several strides past Bartholomew, over the wreckage of the fallen ship. Revi was injured. Bermuda. Even Granite. Penn could fire a gun, but he was no trained warrior. Asking Nico to kill anything was like asking a fish to fly. Elowyn and Brack were skilled fighters, but he could not chance that they would be able to keep the vicious talents of the Northern footmen at bay. They had nearly lost in Northeastern …

  He needed to stop them.

  To save the crew.

  To destroy the Chronometer.

  Free Panagea.

  There was no time left to ask ‘how’.

  No strategy. No tactic. Only intent. Only a desire. A desire, not to kill—but to save.

  As Kazuaki watched more enter, the fear of losing his comrades ignited him into rushing forward. As he ran, voices accosted him. Thoughts. Not his own. They were not like the others—not prayers—but beliefs. Considerations. Feelings.

  They were the thoughts of the Northern footmen in his line of sight.

  They felt tangled at first; an impenetrable ball of clustered opinions and reflections. It wasn’t until Kazuaki’s intentions to stop them rippled outward, that the tight knot of their thoughts began to unravel, appearing as single, manageable strings in his mind.

  He was able to see them; their individual thoughts and feelings, resting atop each untangled string. He saw the thirst for victory. The desire to succeed. The fear brought by battle. The human desire for peace.

  It was there. Inside all of them. Some boasted a bigger slice of longing than others, but buried in the hearts and heads of every human on the field—Northern, Northeastern, Southeastern, Southern, Eastern—everyone, to some degree, wanted nothing more than to live lives free from the fear of death.

  That had to be how the other gods did it. How they manipulated even the smallest threads of aggression that every man and woman held in their minds. Without questioning it, Kazuaki closed his eye, and breathed life into that small wish, that he somehow saw in their heads.

  The impact was sudden. Feet stopped charging farther into the estate. Several weapons clattered to the floor, and others dropped into the snow. The soldiers stared, almost blank in their expressions, as an emphasized feeling of serenity invaded them.

  Gods, it was a lot. The weight of countless soldiers, tugging at his brain. Beads of sweat started to drip down the sides of Kazuaki’s face, as the intensity of each man’s lifetime plowed through his mind. His arms began to shake from the effort. Though he inflated the peace in their heads, he had little to none left in his own. It felt as if his energy was being ripped from his body, his bones, his veins.

  Confusion painted the faces of those who fell under his effect. Confusion, and peace. Kazuaki felt them all, every single thin strand of desire that each warrior out there harbored. It was as if he seized it with his intent, wrapped his hands around an intangible thing, and aggrandized the human condition. At the heart of their wants, none of them truly wanted to kill another man. People craved peace. Not chaos.

  Bartholomew stared, removing his glasses, to be sure he was seeing correctly. Standing behind Kazuaki, the scholar shook his head. “He’s doing it,” he whispered, reaching back to seize Kal’s arm. He had tapped into the gods’ abilities. Instead of inflating human thoughts of carnage, he inflated the opposite. “You’re doing it, Captain!”

  His comrade’s words sounded like a far off echo. Kazuaki felt his ability slipping. A new god, with no training in this area—shit, the ability to manipulate one mind had been an unattainable feat before, but here, now, standing with hundreds under his influence—it was too much. “I don’t know how much longer I can—”

  He could already hear other thoughts trickling in over the peacefulness. Glimpses of human fear. Self-preservation. Duty to protect their division leader. They began to taint the strength of the calm, threatening to end it and return them to their normal state.

  “Try,” Bartholomew encouraged from behind, staring ahead. “Try for as long as you can.” He turned, rushing off, to take out the soldiers who failed to fall to Kazuaki’s influence.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Inside the estate, Brack continued to wave the Chronometer around. “Woo! Should we finish off ol’ Nord and get to helpin’ Bart?”

  Before his victory could be celebrated any further, the door to the building collapsed to the floor. Each crew member spun, catching sight of the footmen who invaded the room.

  “Damn it all.” Elowyn scowled, removing her trusty twin blades from her hips. “We should take them on the staircase. They can’t all c
ome at us at once if we—”

  “Wait.” Nicholai threw his arm out, his eyes narrowing. “What are they doing?”

  Each individual watched, as weapons started clattering to the ground. The footmen, who only seconds ago invaded with looks of ire in their faces, seemed to adopt a look of confusion. Of placid contentment.

  Bermuda’s brows pulled together. “What the feck is happening down there?”

  Glancing through his room at the captured attention of Kazuaki’s crew, Nordjan fumbled through the drawers of his desk. He was quick to remove his pistol. Quicker to slide over to the balcony’s railing, and line Brack up in his sight, while the strange behavior of his footmen left his enemies distracted.

  His hands trembled from the effort. He wasn’t a skilled shot. Damn it all, he should have honed his skills after the events that went down at Panagea’s center. He should have known better than to trust his life in the hands of hired guards.

  Nordjan pinched one eye closed. It was as clean a shot as he was going to get. He didn’t have time for second-guessing. Any second, one of Kazuaki’s damnable lackeys could look over, and end his life.

  He’d have to jump over the edge to reach the Chronometer, as soon as he fired. One shot. If he hesitated, he risked failure.

  With Brack’s head in his line of sight, Nordjan held his breath and squeezed the trigger.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Did someone just punch him in the neck?

  Brack’s hand instinctively flew to his throat. When the warm pooling of blood graced his fingertips, he knew. He heard the gunfire. Smelled the smoke. It wasn’t the crew … they had no bullets left.

  The room spun, and his head lolled to the side. Was someone screaming his name? It sounded like Elowyn. He couldn’t tell. The man hit his knees. His arms felt weak. He tried to keep pressure on the wound … tried to hold on to the Chronometer … but those damnable body parts … they just … wouldn’t … listen.

  “Brack!” Elowyn shrieked his name again, the single word rattling through the open expanse of Nordjan’s estate. Though numbness filled her legs, she swung down from the fifth floor, barely landing before she broke out into a run.