Wrath of an Angry God: A Military Space Opera (The Sentience Trilogy Book 3)

by Gibson Michaels

  As you’ve probably surmised by this time, I do have an unfortunate tendency to be a bit of a smartass, but I’ve noticed that we all tend to be an ass of some sort at times, and as they generally only come in two varieties... smartass always seemed preferable to dumbass, so perhaps that explains it.

  Time for me to finally put this one to bed and get going on Plan-A for my next project, because: “People rarely succeed unless they have fun in what they are doing.” -- Dale Carnegie.

  Again, my sincerest thanks to you, dear reader, and it’s my hope that you enjoyed this series enough to want to watch for the next tank of mental sewage to be flushed out of my warped, nonsense of humor. -- Gibson Michaels

  * * * *

  For anyone interested, you can follow my blog on my author’s website at: www.gibsonmichaels.com/blog

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  An excerpt from Gibson Michaels’ next book: Éeire

  Chapter-1

  If you want your children to be brilliant, read them fairy tales.

  If you want them to be geniuses, read them more fairy tales. -- Albert Einstein

  The Island of Éire

  81 A.D.

  Aryn Finnegan, of the clan Ó Fionnagáin, focused down the length of his bronze-tipped hunting arrow, and let it fly. He watched with satisfaction as his arrow buried itself in the throat of a black armored invader.

  Welcome to Éire... Roman.

  The Romans reacted instantly to that kill by his first arrow, beginning to scurry around like ants. He could hear orders being shouted and saw ranks beginning to form up. Two more quickly placed arrows dispatched two more Romans before he climbed down from the tree he’d been perched in, to move to a different location. The Romans obviously intended to come into the forest after him, and that suited Aryn perfectly. When the arrow barrage paused momentarily, nervous legionaries resumed their attempts to dig a series of three trenches across the entrance of the Drumanagh peninsula.

  After that black-armored Roman tribune fell dead to Aryn’s first arrow, they sent a full century of armed legionaries into the forest — to search him out and kill him. There was little enough danger in that though, for Aryn Finnegan was the unknowing master of an art that wouldn’t be fully appreciated for another two millennia. His self-made clothing was constructed from the hides of all kinds of small game — an irregularly shaped patchwork of various colors and textures that produced a mottled look that broke up his outline, making him appear to blend into the background. But, instead of retreating deeper into the forest as they might have expected, Aryn actually moved forward, shifting around a bit to the South.

  He climbed to the near the top of the tallest tree, nearest to the edge of the forest closest to the Roman camp. The robust ocean breeze caused the treetop to sway, so finding secure seating was precarious. With the top of the tree whipping back-and-forth, Aryn was finding it difficult to lodge himself into a fork, where he wouldn’t require a handhold. Never a damned sylph around, when you need one. Just as he finally managed to anchor himself to where he could use both hands to draw his bow and...

  “What are you doing up here, Aryn?”

  The unexpected appearance by the tiny pixie who had taken to plaguing his life recently, startled him so badly he overbalanced, almost pitching completely out of the tree. Barely catching himself with the fist of his bow-hand, Aryn regained his balance and hissed, “Damn it, Rhoslyn! You scared the shite out of me.”

  The pixie sniffed and said, “No, I didn’t... I smell no excrement.”

  Aryn sighed and shook his head. Faeries could be infuriatingly literal, not understanding human idioms at all. “Your popping in unexpectedly startled me so badly, I almost killed myself, falling out of this tree.”

  “Pfft... I wouldn’t have let you fall, silly. I would have caught you, if you’d fallen.”

  Rhoslyn was a pixie, a flower faerie of the rose family, whose name meant, “lovely rose.” Dressed in the deep green of rose leaves, she had brilliant red hair... not the orangey color called “red” in humans, but the true red of the flower she was named after. About the size of Aryn’s middle finger, so tiny was Rhoslyn, it was difficult to actually see her pointed elfin ears and transparent, luminescent wings, even after she alighted on the palm of his hand. It was easy to forget that Rhoslyn’s appearance was entirely of her own choosing... a magical glamour of sorts, that she wore about her, like people wore clothing. Aryn knew that her ability to fly came from her inherent magical abilities, and not from those tiny pixie wings. She could have made herself appear the same size that he was, if she'd so wished... or even as big as a house. Whether she was actually capable of catching a full-grown man falling from the top of a tree wasn’t something he wanted to test for himself.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I got bored and began wondering what my friend Aryn might be up to these days. That’s exactly what I was just asking — why are you so high up in this tree? Oak trees don’t produce anything mortals consider edible... you’d be much better served climbing a walnut, beech or cherry tree for that.”

  Aryn rolled his eyes at her and replied, “I’m not searching for nuts or berries... I’m killing Roman invaders, if you must know.”

  “Romans? Isn’t that what the invaders that Finvarra prophesied were called?”

  “Yes, they’re here now... so I’m killing them.”

  “Humpf, good luck with that. The way this tree is swaying in this wind, even you might find it difficult to hit anything from up here.”

  Rhoslyn somehow maintained her position standing on the upturned palm of Aryn’s left hand, despite the motion of the tree, and the resultant jostling of his hand. Aryn figured it must be something else he didn’t understand about how faerie magic worked.

  “Yes... too bad you’re not a sylph, so you could calm this wind down for me. That would be helpful.”

  “You wish that I was a sylph?” Rhoslyn sniffed — miffed. “I nurture the most beautiful flowers in all creation, and you wish I was a sylph? Be careful Aryn... that’s coming awfully close to an unforgivable insult to a pixie.”

  “I didn’t say that I wish you were a sylph, but flowers aren’t what I need right now. What I need is for this damned wind to settle down. You can’t do that, can you?”

  Rhoslyn’s indignation morphed into a pout. “Well... no,” she finally admitted sadly. “My powers cannot affect the wind, but I can see if I can find you a sylph to help with that.”

  “I would appreciate it — and while you’re at it, you might alert Queen Úna, so she can pass the word on to Kyla. Can you remember this exact location... the Drumanagh peninsula?”

  Rhoslyn snorted. “Are you trying to insult me again? Of course I can remember.” The pixie disappeared with a soft pop, like a soap bubble bursting.

  Damn, she disappeared so suddenly, I never had a chance to ask her to fetch me more arrows from my cave.

  The swaying motion of the tree prevented him from focusing in on a specific target, so Aryn just watched as Roman legionaries spread out and entered the forest, looking for him. Only a couple at the far right end of their line came anywhere close, and he watched them pass to either side of his perch. Both carried their rectangular, edge-rounded shields close to their bodies, glancing up, as well as around in search of their prey, but Aryn was much too far up to be spotted from the ground.

  Aryn watched in frustration as the sun sank lower and lower in the sky, but still that damnable wind kept up, unabated. Just as he had about decided to abandon his perch and search out another that didn’t try to throw him like an unbroken horse...

  POP!

&
nbsp; There beside him appeared a white-haired sylph he’d never seen before. She was about twice as large as Rhoslyn, dressed in a white diaphanous gown, having silvery, nearly transparent, butterfly wings with steaks of light-blue in them, and a pattern of medium blue spots. Looking closely, Aryn could just make out that her hair wasn’t totally white, but also had faint streaks of light blue in it. Sylphs were air-faeries who generally inhabited the high reaches of mountainous areas, and were generally what humans envisioned when thinking about the fae.

  “You must be Aryn Ó Fionnagáin,” said the sylph, as she looked him up and down, critically. “My name is Eupnea. Rhoslyn, the pixie, told me that I’d find you up a tree here.”

  “Nice to meet you, Eupnea. Can you calm this damned wind, please?”

  Eupnea’s facial expression changed in a flash, from mild annoyance to a thundercloud.

  “Damned wind? — You dare to curse the wind to the face of an air-faerie?”

  “No! — Wait, don’t go... please.”

  The sylph looked at him with the same disgust he might have shown to a slug. “Rhoslyn told me that you sometimes suffered from a lack of decorum. She didn’t mention that you have the manners of swine.”

  “My manners were quite good enough for Queen Úna,” Aryn replied, indignantly.

  “You’ve met, Úna?”

  “And her husband, Finvarra.”

  Eupnea looked startled at that revelation. “I’m surprised you survived an encounter with one of the old gods. They are not known for showing tolerance to discourteous mortals.”

  “I almost didn’t... survive it, that is.”

  Eupnea snorted. “I don’t doubt it. Perhaps you should learn some tact when dealing with faeries, before someone actually turns you into something more vile than your own behavior.”

  “Look, I’m sorry. I’ve just been swinging around in the top of this tree for so long, it’s made me a bit grumpy.”

  “Rhoslyn requested that I come here to help you. I normally don’t have anything to do with mortals, for as an air-faerie, I am a subject of King Paralda and Queen Vayu, not Queen Úna.”

  “Yet, are not both of them subservient to the demi-goddess, Kyla, daughter of Finvarra and Úna?”

  “That is above my station. I do not concern myself with the doings of royalty or gods.”

  “But, Rhoslyn did send you here to help me, right?”

  Eupnea rolled her eyes, but finally said, “Rhoslyn will owe me a boon for this. What is it you require, human?”

  “Can you calm this wind... please?”

  With a mere wave of Eupnea’s hand, the brisk wind died abruptly. “What else?”

  Aryn sighed with relief, as his unruly seat settled beneath him. “Nothing else... that’s all I needed. Thank you.”

  “That’s all? You sent Rhoslyn to fetch me, just to calm the wind here? Why?”

  “I need to kill Romans.”

  “What are Romans?”

  Aryn pointed toward the Roman camp, where beached galleys continued unloading troops and horses. Tents were being erected and supplies stacked near field-kitchens and mobile smithies. Legionaries were back to digging their defensive trenches across the entire mouth of the Drumanagh peninsula. Officers were shouting unintelligible orders, which the men obeyed promptly, with unerring dispatch — quite unlike the chronic arguments and bickering so common within the Celtae tribes of Aryn’s people.

  “Those invaders coming in from the sea are Romans.”

  Eupnea gawked at the unusual spectacle before her. “So many...”

  “Yes, now excuse me while I get back to killing some of them.”

  The sylph snorted audibly and said, “What can one man do against an entire army?”

  “I can annoy them and slow their progress. Watch.”

  Aryn loosed a quick volley of four arrows in rapid succession, the last in flight before the first struck home. Four soldiers digging in the trench closest to Aryn’s treetop perch toppled in progression and their comrades dropped onto their bellies into the trench, scanning the edge of the forest in search of additional threats. Legionaries digging the second trench also dropped to the ground, but when no further arrows were forthcoming, the centurion in charge goaded his men into resuming their task. Little further digging was accomplished after Aryn’s next arrow killed a man, working in the third trench.

  Eupnea noticed that Aryn’s quiver was now half empty. “You have more arrows hidden nearby?”

  “No, I’ll have to return to my cave to get more after these run out. I figure I can keep them pinned down until dark and then go back to get more.”

  “You can navigate this forest in the dark?”

  “Easily. I live here.”

  The sylph crossed her arms and tapped one tooth in concentration, as if in deep thought. “Would a storm help to delay them, until you can return?”

  “Most assuredly, but why would you volunteer to help me in this? Úna will surely send Kyla to rally the fae against these invaders, but you said yourself, sylphs answer to different rulers.”

  “If these invaders of yours truly represent a threat to our island, King Paralda and Queen Vayu will not wish to be seen as slacking in aiding the land’s defense.”

  “I thought you said that you didn’t concern yourself with the doings of royalty,” Aryn said with a grin.

  “Don’t be throwing my own words back into my face, human!” Eupnea snapped. “It certainly wouldn’t hurt my standing if I acted proactively in this, and besides... frustrating those mortals sounds like fun.”

  “Ah, now that I can believe!” Aryn laughed softly.

  Ignoring his amused smirk, she continued. “I’ll go fetch Aral and return here.”

  “Who is Aral?”

  “Aral is an air elemental. He is far more powerful, but much less intelligent than a sylph. Whatever small storm I can create, he can enlarge into a gale of truly monstrous proportions.”

  “Go then, with my thanks, little sylph. I will be in your debt for any additional delay that you and Aral can impose upon these invaders, giving the clans more time to gather their war bands together.”

  Eupnea gave Aryn another probing look and said, “Aye, and it’s good that you realize that. Perhaps there is hope for you after all, mortal. Farewell.” And with that, she was gone in an eye blink.

  Aryn continued annoying the Romans the rest of the afternoon, methodically picking them off one-by-one, while hidden amongst the trees of the forest bordering the Roman landing site. In the twilight, just before dark, he watched with satisfaction as his last arrow buried itself in the right eye of a Roman centurion. With his last arrow spent, Aryn looked sadly down at his now empty quiver. He could now only watch as the Romans continued disembarking from their ships. Their largest and grandest ship hadn’t come all the way to the mainland, but unloaded on the isle of Reachrainn, just offshore.

  That must be where their leaders are setting up camp... cowards.

  Aryn felt his way down from the top of the tree he had occupied for most of the afternoon and stood silently in the semi-dark at its base, listening for any sounds that might reveal the locations of the Roman soldiers sent into the forest after him. Navigating by dead reckoning and the meager light of a quarter-moon, he maneuvered among the trees as silently as any nocturnal predator on the prowl. Darting from tree to tree, he paused at each one, to allow his faint shadow to blend in with the thousands of others all around him. Full dark eventually revealed thousands of stars overhead, glistening in all their majestic glory through holes in the forest canopy overhead.

  Finally nearing the blind that he had hastily built for his horse earlier, he distinctly heard the soft snap of a fallen twig, just ahead. Aryn froze against a tree, listening intently for any additional signs of whoever, or whatever was so near to him. One of the Roman legionaries hunting for the elusive archer had evidently wandered a bit too far away from his fellows — and just a little too close to where Aryn’s horse was hidden. Eventually the Rom
an soldier crept by, oblivious to his crouching presence. Aryn easily slipped in behind him and cut the invader’s throat with his sharp bronze dagger. Without a sound, Aryn lowered the body to the ground and stripped it of armor, weapons and anything else that might be of value to the merchants among his people.

  Aryn greeted Frisky, his strawberry-roan stallion with a pat on the nose, and one of the carrots he kept in a saddlebag for just that purpose. After allowing his horse to take the carrot and then nuzzle his hand for more, Aryn stowed the Roman armor into a large sack he had with him. He then tucked the short sword into his belt and tied the shield over his horse’s rump. He mounted and wondered if he would receive enough in trade for all this Roman gear, to make hauling it all home worth the effort. He then negotiated the maze of twisting turns he’d installed at the entrance to the blind.

  Aryn needed more arrows, and that required him to return to the hidden cave that served as his primary residence. Now mounted, Aryn quickly outdistanced the Romans, who were still stumbling about the forest on foot, looking for him. Aryn reminisced within himself, as he rode back toward his cave — something he was always wont to do whenever the stark beauty of the surrounding virgin forest entranced him.

  His roan had an uncanny ability to retrace its steps, so there was little guidance necessary. Frisky always seemed to know his way back to the hay and oats stored in that cave. Memories flooded back to Aryn, as his mind emptied. Both good and bad... these memories simply came back to him, seemingly of their own accord.

  Aryn lived alone in the forest, which provided him with almost everything he needed. He had just finished trading some of his forest bounty to merchants in the coastal village of Loughshinny, just north of the Roman landing site, when he first saw the square, striped sails of low-slung ships bearing banks of oars protruding along their sides. Galleys... Warships. Traders had brought word of Roman legions subjugating the Gaelic tribes of Britannia, so everyone on the island knew what to watch for. Any other Celtae would have scurried back to sound the alarm, so the local clan warlords could gather their warriors to repel the invasion — but Aryn merely hid his horse.