by Dyrk Ashton
“No,” Edgar grumbles. “We’re off the northern coast of Scotland.” Now he’s really annoyed. “It’s the RAF!” He turns in a huff, but Zeke grabs his sleeve.
“Wait,” Zeke says. “How long was I asleep?”
“Just a few hours lad. It’s still Monday. With the time change, not yet noon. Fiona woke shortly after you nodded off. I hadn’t the heart to wake you.” He turns to Fi. “This young man has barely slept or eaten, or left your side, the entire trip. He needs rest and food.” He waves his hand in frustration. “Not this bother.”
Edgar marches to where Baphomet and Dimmi have finished strapping the load on the truck and are now covering it with a taut safety net. He pushes a large button in a panel on the wall and the aft ramp of the plane drops like the lower jaw of a very large fish, accompanied by the loud whine of servo motors and increased howl of the wind. The water-laden mist of blue-black storm clouds spirals away behind the plane. Flashes of lightning spark the sky pink and green. It’s as if they’re looking down the eye of a tornado.
“Oh,” Zeke says. “I’m not liking the look of this.”
“Me neither,” says Fi.
Zeke realizes something. “Where’s Mol?”
Fi jerks her thumb toward the cockpit. “Up front, with Peter.”
“Have you talked to him? Peter, I mean?”
Fi frowns. She’s going to have to speak to him at some point. He is her long-lost father, after all. She’s just not looking forward to it. “Not yet.”
Zeke runs his hands through his hair and groans as he watches Edgar fuss with the truck. “Edgar seems pretty worked up. Is he worried?” Because if Edgar’s worried, Zeke figures, they all should be.
Fi’s attention is drawn to something outside the oval window in the fuselage next to them. “Well, there’s something else you should see.” She points.
Zeke squints through the window. It’s all dark rushing clouds. “What?”
“Part of the reason Edgar’s upset, I think. They showed up a while ago. Been communicating with Peter and Pratha using some kind of sign language.”
“What? Who? I don’t see anything—” The mist rips aside and Zeke jumps back. “Holy fuck!”
“That’s what I thought.”
Flying alongside the plane is what looks like a large man with a white bird’s head, wings and tail. On his back rides a skinny old man, stringy white beard flapping in the wind and snug knit cap held to his head with a strip of cloth knotted beneath his chin. His clothing, some kind of robe, is similarly lashed to his body to keep it from blowing away. The old man waves, grinning like mad, but loses his balance in his excitement and grabs hold of the bird-man’s feathers with both hands.
“Who is that?” Zeke asks.
“More Firstborn. They did tell me that. But these are supposed to be on our side. Edgar called the bird-guy Fintán mac Bóchra. Seemed genuinely excited to see him. The little guy on top, not so much.”
“Why?”
“That’s Myrddin Wyllt, Edgar’s grandfather.”
Zeke recalls what Edgar told them about his lineage. His father had been Sir Launcelot du Lac, and regardless of what the fables say, Launcelot’s real father was... “Merlin. No way.”
The mist thickens, obscuring the view. When it clears again, the figures are gone.
Back by the truck, Edgar whistles toward the front of the plane, startling Fi and Zeke.
They hear a familiar bark and turn toward the open cockpit doorway. Molossus, Fi’s uncle’s dog, pokes his big sandy head around from where he’s perched in the co-pilot’s seat. He ruffs happily, jumps down and trots to them.
Zeke greets him with a scratch behind the ears. Mol grunts in reply. His bandages are gone and there’s little sign of his battles with the terrible wampyr and werewolves, or his run-in with the locust swarm on another world. Instead, he’s wearing a makeshift harness of nylon straps and safety belts.
Zeke tugs on the harness. “What’s this?”
Fi says, “No idea. Like I said, they haven’t told me much. Mostly ‘Be still, Fi.’ ‘You’ve been through so much, Fiona.’ ‘You’re lucky to be alive, Fi.’ ‘You should be resting, dear.’” Mol barks and presses his head against her leg. “Ow!” she exclaims. He barks again, wagging his whole body.
Zeke says, “Guess I’m not the only one who’s glad you’re okay.”
She looks at Mol. “Until yesterday I was convinced he couldn’t care less about me.” She rubs his head. “All this time, I was wrong.” Mol barks louder and licks her hand.
“Molossus!” Edgar shouts. “If you please.”
Mol trots to the back of the plane and hops into the front seat of the truck. Edgar clips Mol’s harness to straps anchored to hooks on the truck floor.
Zeke mutters, “What the...?”
Edgar strides to them. “Not to worry. He can bite through the straps if the raft doesn’t deploy.”
Zeke and Fi both open their mouths to ask Edgar what the hell he’s talking about, but alarms buzz and red lights spin furiously along the ceiling.
Peter’s voice roars through the fuselage. “Incoming!”
“For Heaven’s sake,” cries Edgar. He shoves Zeke down into the seat, causing Zeke to let go of the blue backpack, which he still hasn’t put on, because it’s really heavy.
“I have Fiona,” shouts Mrs. Mirskaya, smashing Fi against the wall with her body, gripping handholds to either side, trapping Fi’s face between mountainous boobs.
In the cockpit, the missile approach warning system burps and blinks on the pilot’s console. Peter whips off his headset and flips the switches necessary to jettison the tip tanks—oblong storage containers for extra fuel on long flights, attached to the end of each wing.
Back inside the fuselage, there’s a loud pop and clunk as the tanks break free. Not a comforting sound.
Edgar finishes buckling Zeke in, then flips down the seat next to him and sits. With the parachute pack on his back, the best he can do is hang onto the safety belts to secure himself.
Peter flips more switches, deploying the plane’s countermeasures, then jams the throttle forward and leans on the yoke.
Zeke’s heart hops to his throat and his testicles feel like they’re crawling up into his kidneys as the plane accelerates and dives.
Fi says, “Mmf!”
The plane banks into a sharp turn.
Fi says, “Brmfp!”
Smothered by Mrs. Mirskaya’s bulk, Fi can hardly breathe, and she can’t see a thing, but Zeke’s eyes, wide in terror, catch sight of Baphomet and Dimmi clutching the sides of the truck to keep from flying out the back of the plane. Pratha, on the other hand, holds onto nothing. Her lips move in a silent chant as she somehow remains upright regardless of the plane's pitch and roll.
Behind them, streamers of light and smoke whirl away through the clouds, trailing from flares and chaff Peter has released in hopes of confusing the guidance systems of the approaching missiles. The flares flash bright as fireworks on the Fourth of July.
Still diving, the plane banks the other way, pressing Zeke hard against the back of the seat. Fi voices another muffled complaint, while Mol barks like a puppy, tongue flapping, tail wagging, as if he’s on Mr. Toad’s wild ride and enjoying the hell out of it.
The plane slams sideways and quakes, the concussion of a near miss louder than thunder. There’s another explosion on the opposite side, then two more above.
The fuselage quivers and groans, but the alarms cease blaring and the overhead lights stop flashing. The countermeasures worked. The drone of the engines drops in pitch as the plane levels out.
“The bloody gall.” Edgar drops the safety belts and thrusts to his feet.
Zeke never would have thought the incessant noise of the engines and wind could stand in for silence, but it does. He remembers to breathe and liberates himself from the safety harness. Mrs. Mirskaya releases Fi, whose eyes look far too big for her head.
Free of Mrs. Mirskaya’s protective
mass, Fi says, “Fuck!”
“Fiona,” Mrs. Mirskaya scolds, looking her over. “You are all right?”
Fi glares at her. “Are you kidding?”
“You are all right,” Mrs. Mirskaya replies, satisfied.
Edgar retrieves Zeke’s backpack, which has wedged itself between the skid and the front tire of the truck. “Put this on now, lad.” Zeke fumbles the straps over his shoulders, too dazed to question. While Edgar tightens them for him, Zeke glances out the window, fully expecting to see the plane on fire and trailing black smoke. And it is.
The end of the wing is aflame where a broken fuel line from the tip tank has ignited.
“The plane’s on fire! The plane’s on fire!” he cries.
Peter comes striding from the cockpit. “It’s all right,” he says. “We’re not staying.” He twists a finger in the air and shouts in his big Peter voice, “Time to go!” He snatches Fi up in his arms and proceeds to the starboard hatch near the base of the ramp. Mrs. Mirskaya follows, protesting in fervent Russian.
On either side of the truck, Baphomet and Dimmi retrieve pneumatic ratchet wrenches attached to the walls by coiled tubing. They look to Edgar, who nods in confirmation. They remove the bolts that secure the truck’s skid to the floor. Mol hangs his head over the door to watch.
Edgar reaches into a storage panel on the wall, takes out his scabbard, sword sheathed, and belts it to his waist.
It occurs to Zeke that Edgar is the only one wearing a parachute. “Um... shouldn’t—“
Peter tugs the hatch open, which multiplies the roar in the plane.
Fi gets a blast of cold wind in the face and an eyeful of yawning storm. “Ohh! Peter?!”
Mrs. Mirskaya shouts in English now. “Papa. She is not well!”
Peter peers down through the clouds. “She’ll be fine.”
“What?” Fi demands. “I’ll be fine what?”
Mrs. Mirskaya waggles a finger at Peter. “You do not throw sick person from airplane!”
Fi squeaks, “Throw?!”
Edgar raises a hand and whistles sharply. Baphomet and Dimmi train their eyes on him. So does Mol, who barks his readiness.
“I’m not throwing anybody,” says Peter. “You ready?”
Fi shakes her head. “No!”
Edgar holds up two fingers, signaling Baphomet to release the small drogue chute from the back of the truck’s skid. It flies out the back of the plane, pops open and twists on its cord in the tailwind. Mol barks and wiggles with excitement.
Fi tries reasoning with Peter. “Um, it might be the first time ever, but I think I agree with Mrs. Mirskaya.”
Mrs. Mirskaya props her hands on her hips. “You see, Papa? Listen to Mokosh.” She turns to Pratha, who has moved closer to the hatch. “You tell him, Starshaya Sestra.”
Pratha shrugs. “He’s older than I am.”
Edgar drops one finger. Dimmi pulls a lever to release the latches that hold the skid in place. Edgar makes a fist and Baphomet looses the larger extraction chute. It snaps out over the ramp and opens behind the plane with a whump!
Skid, truck, Mol and all are jerked out with frightening speed. Mol’s thrilled yapping fades as the cargo disappears in the mist.
Edgar places his hand over his heart. “God be with you, old boy.” He nods to Dimmi and Baphomet, who jog down the ramp and jump.
Peter faces Mrs. Mirskaya. “She’ll be fine.” He holds Fi out as if in presentation. His voice rises and pride glints in his eyes. “This is Fiona Megan Patterson!”
Fi says, “Yeah but—”
“Finale Omega Paterna! The final and last of The Father!”
Mrs. Mirskaya stamps her foot. “Papa!”
“She is Firstborn!”
Fi says, “I—WAAAHaaaaah...!!!” Peter has spun, cradling her tight to his chest, and stepped out the hatch. Fi’s cry dopplers to nothing as they plummet away.
Mrs. Mirskaya says some very bad words in Russian while Pratha leans out the door to watch Peter and Fi’s descent.
Mrs. Mirskaya yells, “Out of my way, Sister!” and launches herself after them.
Zeke is speechless as Edgar drags him to the hatch. “We’ve no tandem rig,” Edgar explains, “nor parachute large enough to accommodate two persons, should we care to rig one.” He straightens Zeke’s backpack, clasps the waist belt and pulls it tight. “Pratha’s plan is the safest.” He places a pair of goggles on Zeke’s head. “Most likely.”
Zeke finds his voice, which is much higher than he’d like it to be. “Most likely?” He looks to Pratha, who winks, and he breaks into a cold sweat. His voice goes even higher. “What plan?”
“It’s a sturdy pack,” Edgar says in reply, giving the shoulder straps one last check. “The finest craftsmanship.” He snaps the goggles down over Zeke’s eyes and gives his shoulders a squeeze. “Chin up, cheerio, and all that.” He steps to the hatch and crosses himself.
“Wait!” Zeke pleads.
But Edgar is gone.
Zeke clings to the sides of the hatch, watching in terror as Edgar falls through the clouds, dropping fast—much faster than it looks on TV and in the movies—like he’s being sucked away by some powerful invisible force. Which he is. It’s called gravity.
Zeke’s stomach flops, scalp tightens and vision swims. He squeezes his eyes shut to clamp down the vertigo, but the alarms go off again, screeching, buzzing and flashing.
Strong slim hands take him by the shoulders and spin him around. Pratha puts a hand to his cheek. “Relax,” she purrs.
Zeke gulps.
Then her mouth is against his, her tongue slithering between his teeth, coiling around his tongue like a snake on a rat and flicking the roof of his mouth. Searing heat of involuntary passion ignites Zeke’s lips, spreads downward to melt his icy gut, inflame his loins and curl his toes.
She pulls away, leaving him barely able to stand. The alarms continue to blare as she places an elegant hand upon his chest, glances over his shoulder to the dark sky beyond, and gives him a good hard shove.
Acknowledgments
Writing must be one of the most selfish pursuits there is. Only when it’s shared do we crazed scribblers really do anything for others. But then our readers give back in return, more than we could ever bestow upon them, and the cycle of selfishness resumes. You have my utmost thanks.
There are more than a few folks to whom I owe a deep debt of gratitude and must be named. I could never have written, promoted or published this book without each and every one of them.
First, my beta readers. Brother Dillon and lifelong buddy John H., who suffered through every draft of every version. Thank you for your masochistic tendencies, the invaluable notes, and your undying encouragement. My parents, Richard and Harriette Ashton, who also read every draft of every version, and loved them all. Each was perfect and needed nothing more or less. Such is the love and perfection of wonderful parents. Thank you for your limitless tolerance and unconditional support. Nina O. and Mr. Christopher H., who were more like editors than readers, hatchet in one hand, scalpel in the other, neither afraid of my wrath nor seeking my approval. Without you Paternus wouldn’t be what it is, nor I the writer I am (for better or for worse). A. Dale Triplett (yup, I’m using your full name, Dale). A brilliant author himself, he copy-edited and proofed the living shit out of this thing, finding errors and offering insights no one else had. And they were brilliant. My sister Dianna, whom I know was dreading having to read this but now might be my biggest fan. Never stop giving me crap, Nan. Irina A., your help with all things Russian was indispensable! John D., Vince M., Lee F., Zach P., Elizabeth B., Kati A., Tess L., and Michael E. (who told me to just go for it). All of you read it and have a hand in this. You are more than readers, you are dear friends, and in my mind, might as well be family.
Folks who may or may not have read the book, but helped me tremendously along the way whether they know it or not. My brother Drew and sister Daphne, Simon, Sasha, Maggie, Donovan, Wyatt, Weston, Sven S.,
Dan and Lisby P., Lt. Col. Joe H., Steve A., Mark B., Chris L., Ralph C., Jenny L., Edmund L., Risa C., Ben P., Cynthia B., Don C., Jonathan C., all my pals in grad school, Donnie B., Joe & Stephanie S., Clay C., John S., Angus B., Jeff D., Ken S., Michael D., Kevin B., Hank T., Josh R., Rafael R., Jorge A., Heidi H. and Jim W.
Everybody at the local coffee shops for letting me squat for years at a time.
All my wonderful friends on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram, a fun and incredibly supportive bunch.
Each and every one of those special people in Maumee who keep me alive and sane. You know who you are. Especially you, yeah you, Tom T.
If I missed anybody, it wasn’t on purpose. Let me know. I’ll make it up to you in the next book.
Thank you all.
LATEST NEWS, MORE INFO
READ & POST REVIEWS
SHARE, CONNECT
Please consider signing up for the Paternus Books Media Newsletter for latest news and other fun stuff. Your inbox will not be e-bombed. Nobody likes that.
You can find the author at these fine online venues:
paternusbooks.com
Facebook
Twitter: @UnDyrk
Instagram: @UnDyrk
Goodreads
Amazon
FURTHER READING
IN THE WORLD OF PATERNUS
PATERNUS: WRATH OF GODS
The Paternus Trilogy, Book Two
“BERSERKER”
A stand-alone short story framed as a “missing chapter” from Paternus: Rise of Gods. It tells of the time when Bödvar Bjarki finally met his father, many centuries ago. Kindle eBook available for 99 cents through the title link above, or free by subscribing to the Paternus Books Media Newsletter.
LOST LORE
This free fantasy anthology contains “Deluge,” a short backstory in the world of The Paternus Trilogy concerning the adventures of Myrddin Wyllt and Fintán mac Bóchra in ancient Ireland at the time of the Great Flood.