Paternus: Wrath of Gods (The Paternus Trilogy Book 2)

by Dyrk Ashton

  Peter finishes what he started to say, “—do anything rash.”

  “Come along, lad,” says Edgar. “Fiona, please.”

  Fi and Zeke scurry after Edgar, Mrs. Mirskaya keeping rear guard as they go.

  Peter asks Myrddin, “Do you have your gambanteinn?”

  “Er... no, I...”

  “Then go with them.”

  “But Pater—”

  “The fewer targets the better. And you can still help them if need be.” Myrddin frowns and looks as if he’s going to kick a rock. Peter puts a hand on the back of Myrddin’s neck and pulls him to his chest in a soft embrace. The top of Myrddin’s head barely reaches Peter’s shoulder. “It’s good to see you, Son.”

  “You too, Pater.” He wipes a tear from his eye as Peter releases him. “Though it’s good to see anyone, to be honest.”

  Pratha approaches and Myrddin grabs her in an enthusiastic hug, pressing the side of his face to her chest. Pratha places a hand on his head and holds him a moment.

  Myrddin sniffles, “I missed you, Pratha.”

  “And I you, Myrddin Wyllt.” Myrddin steps back, wiping his nose.

  Peter points to Fi, who with Edgar, Zeke, and Mrs. Mirskaya, is taking refuge behind tall stones at the foot of the cliffs. “That’s your newest little sister.”

  Myrddin claps his hands. “Oh, wonderful!”

  “Watch out for her. And behave yourself.” He smacks Myrddin on the butt to send him on his way. Myrddin scampers off, heedless of the rough rocks beneath his bare feet, which hurt him not in the least.

  Peter and Pratha jog to help bring the raft and truck to shore.

  Myrddin capers up to the group by the rocks, singing, “Mokosh, Mokosh, Mokosh...”

  Mrs. Mirskaya hears him coming, rolls her eyes, and turns. “Da, da, Myr—” He walks right into her, throwing his arms around her bulk and burying his face in her chest. His skinny shoulders shake as he sobs. She pats him on the back. “There, there, little Myrddin. I am glad to see you too.”

  He separates from her, sniffing and rubbing an eye. “My apologies, but a thousand five hundred years, Mokosh... I was in a cave for fifteen centuries. Fintán found me. He saved me from Bödvar and Lamia.”

  Zeke blinks as his brain tries to process more names he remembers from myth and fable.

  Mrs. Mirskaya grimaces. “Lamia, The Leech? Disgusting.”

  “Yes, yes. Fintán killed them both.”

  “Good riddance. I am glad you are safe. We looked for you, you know, when we heard you had disappeared. Many of us came to search.”

  “I have been told. Thank you.”

  “You will tell us the story sometime, yes?” Myrddin nods. “But not now.”

  Myrddin beams at Fi.

  She stares at him until Zeke nudges her. Fi says, “Um, so, you’re Merlin. The Magician. From King Arthur’s court.”

  Myrddin is surprised and delighted. “You’ve heard of me?”

  “Everybody’s heard of Merlin,” says Zeke. “You’re a legend.”

  Mrs. Mirskaya crosses her arms. “They have made movies of Merlin. And television programs.”

  “They have?” asks Myrddin. “What are those?”

  “Moving pictures,” says Mrs. Mirskaya, as if that explains everything. Myrddin still doesn’t understand, but Mrs. Mirskaya says, “This is Fiona Megan Patterson, our baby sestrenka.”

  Myrddin takes Fi’s hand in both of his and stoops to kiss the back of it. “Good greetings, Fiona Megan Patterson.”

  Edgar looks on in disapproval while Fi blushes. “Good to meet you too,” Fi says. “‘Fi’ is fine.”

  Myrddin says, “I’m happy to pay any fine or tariff, but I haven’t any currency.”

  Zeke laughs, assuming Myrddin’s joking. He isn’t.

  It takes Fi a second to figure out what Myrddin’s saying, then she realizes and says, “I mean you can call me Fi, instead of Fiona.”

  “I see!” exclaims Myrddin. “And you can call me Myrddin.” He clasps Zeke’s hand. “As can you, young man.” Myrddin’s hand is small and bony in Zeke’s, but exceptionally warm and strong.

  “Thank you... sir. I’m Zeke.”

  “As in Ezekiel?”

  Zeke looks embarrassed, but answers, “Yes. I mean, not the Ezekiel, from the bible or anything.”

  “Of course not,” Myrddin responds. “He was a fine fellow, though.”

  Zeke fumbles for a response. “That’s... good to know.”

  “There is much in a name. A single word that stands for your very being and marks your time in this life.” He’s close to Zeke now, looking up at him, his hazel eyes clear and intense. “Ezekiel means ‘God strengthens,” or ‘the strength of God,’ you know.”

  Now it’s Zeke’s turn to blush. “I’d heard that, but—”

  “A name doesn’t get much better than that,” Myrddin says, speaking over him.

  Mrs. Mirskaya clears her throat, looking back and forth between Myrddin and Edgar. Myrddin approaches Edgar as if to embrace him, but, seeing his cold countenance, thinks better of it.

  “This boy...” Myrddin says softly, affection in his eyes. “I would know your face in any time and place. You’ve no idea the relief it is to see that you still live, and thrive.” Edgar’s demeanor remains impassive. Myrddin lowers himself to one knee. “There are so many things I would say, Galahad.”

  “I know everything, Grandfather,” Edgar says, resting his palm on the pommel of his sword. Myrddin’s face falls. “I’m called Edgar now, and no longer a boy. There’s nothing for you to say.” He walks onto the beach, where he stands looking into the sky.

  Confused, Fi says, “Edgar,” and starts after him.

  Myrddin stops her with a hand on her wrist. “No, it’s all right.” He gets to his feet. “I was never there for him. He didn’t even know who I was. And I was a wretched man. Still am, I suppose. He owes me nothing.”

  Mrs. Mirskaya says, “He will need time.” She looks to Myrddin. “Maybe a lot of time.”

  Out over the ocean, lightning splits the sky. The resulting thunder rumbles in their chests. They join Edgar.

  “So, that was really Horus,” Zeke says, a statement he can’t believe he’s making.

  “Horus is his Truename,” Edgar responds. “For thousands of years now he’s gone by Fintán mac Bóchra, and been called the White Ancient and The Watcher here on the Isles. But he was known by many other names before.”

  Another snap of lightning and peal of thunder and a section of the dusky clouds part to reveal a tiny white figure, flapping to hover in place. Then it starts to grow.

  “Behold,” whispers Myrddin.

  A fighter jet races toward it, firing its machine guns with tracer rounds, but the figure is unaffected.

  Myrddin continues, “As in the days of old, The Falcon reveals another self.”

  Fintán grows and grows, becoming dark and nightmarish, reaching incredible proportions. The whipped clouds retreat at the beating of his wings, nearly a quarter mile in span. Fi and Zeke gape at the sight. Edgar’s jaw is slack.

  Louder now, Myrddin says, “Witness the majesty of Garuda, King of Birds. Lord of the Air.”

  The jet fires two rockets, which disappear into the giant void of bird-shadow. The plane veers, but Fintán claps his wings, creating a wind shear that sends it tumbling out of control. The canopy blows and the pilot shoots out, parachute catching the air.

  Fintán dives, normal-sized, out of the enormous bird shape, which collapses and dissipates, melding with the clouds. He buzzes the chute, tearing it with his claws, and the pilot plummets to the waves from far too high and with more velocity than he could possibly survive.

  Fi utters, “My God.” Zeke grips her arm. Fintán soars back up into the clouds, which are growing darker still.

  Mol barks and Peter and Pratha come wading out of the ocean holding a rope attached to the raft and truck. They drag the raft clear of the water while Baphomet and Dimmi busy themselves undoing various de
vices that hold the truck to the skid. Peter turns a plug on the raft and it begins to deflate.

  “I should help,” says Edgar, moving to join them.

  “Stay,” says Mrs. Mirskaya. “They can do this.”

  Edgar stops, begrudgingly.

  Back in the sky, there’s the scream of stressed engines and another jet dives out of the clouds, Fintán clinging to it. He punches through the canopy then launches away, flapping his wings to hover and watch as the plane roars on, smoking and flaming, then plunges into the sea. Fintán once again shoots back into the clouds.

  The now familiar but no less intimidating roar of a fourth plane reaches their ears, the last fighter that was following them. It drops out of the clouds to zoom along the beach right toward them, machine guns spitting deadly lead, blasting sand and rocks skyward in a deadly fountain.

  “Back!” shouts Edgar, getting them behind the rocks. Still, they all peek out to see what’s happening on the beach.

  Bullets strafe the ground, flying stone and dust pointing a lethal finger straight for the truck. Peter throws himself on Mol, covering him with his body. Baphomet and Dimmi duck for cover. Pratha stands her ground, staring the plane down as it comes. Twenty-seven-millimeter rounds pound into her at the rate of seventeen hundred rounds per minute, only to drop flattened to the ground. They don’t even affect her clothes, which are merely part of her human cloak.

  Several rounds strike the truck as the plane buzzes over, its roar deafening, the wake of its passing rocking the truck.

  Peter checks Mol and tears the straps that hold him. Mol jumps onto the hood and barks.

  Edger whistles. “Molossus!” Mol runs to them.

  The jet thrusts into a climb and banks in a tight turn, preparing for another pass. Peter strides to the center of the beach to draw the pilot’s fire. Baphomet and Dimmi move away from the truck as well.

  “Stay where you are,” Pratha orders them, and joins Peter.

  The plane approaches, low to the ground. The pilot fires from a distance. Bullets once again chew up the rocky seashore.

  Pratha chants in the ancient tongue she and Peter invented when she was young, almost two hundred and fifty million years ago.

  A deep hum rises, heard even over the jet engines and firing weapons, and felt in the ground itself. Near Pratha’s feet, rocks twitch and float. Then more follow, rising all around her in an expanding circle. The waves struggle against her force, then reverse themselves in an arc from where she stands.

  * * *

  In the cockpit of the jet, instruments go haywire. The pilot coughs in his mask. His nose bleeds. Then his eyes. He blinks away the blood and keeps coming, thumb jammed against the trigger.

  * * *

  On the beach, bullets ricochet from Peter’s body, shredding his pants and shirt. He picks one of the floating rocks out of the air and hefts it in his hand. Pratha continues her incantation through a wicked smirk.

  * * *

  The pilot can’t take it anymore. The pressure and pain in his head, the blood in his eyes, blood spattering the inside of his mask from his nose and lips.

  * * *

  Zeke and Fi watch as the machine guns cease to fire and the plane begins to veer away and climb—but a white meteor streaks from the sky and smashes through it in a thunderous explosion. Flaming fuel and scraps of metal scatter the beach.

  Pratha ceases her spell. The hum stops. The rocks fall and waves return to normal.

  Edgar scans the sky, watching and listening, but only four planes were following them and no more appear to have come. He and Mrs. Mirskaya lead Fi, Zeke, and Myrddin Wyllt back onto the beach, Mol trotting with them.

  Pitch-black smoke rolls skyward, reeking of jet fuel, burning plastic and molten metal. Out of the flames and waves of heat, Fintán mac Bóchra emerges, flapping casually toward them.

  He alights and approaches, taloned toes curled under to precipitate bipedal locomotion on his predatory bird-feet.

  “Subtle,” Pratha says.

  To which Peter adds, “We had this, you know.” He tosses the rock to the ground, then gives Fintán a hug, brief but heartfelt.

  As Peter backs away, Fintán speaks through his beak, the words entirely human-sounding. “I’ve wanted to do that since they began making those infernal things.”

  “Is not natural, flying in machine,” adds Mrs. Mirskaya.

  “Agreed,” Fintán responds.

  “They aren’t the first,” says Peter.

  Mrs. Mirskaya says, “I never liked any of them.”

  “And these are coarse,” says Fintán, “loud and malodorous.” Then he glares at Baphomet and Dimmi.

  Baphomet doesn’t falter under his gaze, even as Fintán takes threatening steps toward him, but drops his human cloak to reveal his Trueface. Tall sharp horns, horizontal pupils in his pink goat-eyes narrowing. Fintán responds by morphing into a bird of prey—the species of his prehistoric mother. Dimmi backs away as, in turn, Baphomet takes the form of his mother’s kind, a large mountain Ibex, long of leg and muscular of chest and neck, horns even longer than they were before. Fintán cries the cry of a falcon—though much louder. Baphomet looses a caprine bellow, far more frightening than any member of the goat family today.

  “What are they doing?” Fi asks.

  “It’s called Metamorphosis Magic, among other things,” Edgar answers. “A Firstborn ritual that goes back far before the evolution of human beings, so I’m told. A challenge and sizing up. Performed before a duel, generally, but it doesn’t always lead to one.”

  “Baphomet has made many enemies,” says Mrs. Mirskaya. “But few hate him more than Horus. Goat is oldest, but Falcon is fierce warrior. It would be a good match.” She speaks as if she’d like to see it, a battle to the death between these two. Meanwhile, the would-be combatants have taken stances for attack, their eyes burning red.

  The thought of more violence is too much for Fi. And, being Fi, she shouts, “Hey! Stop that!” Her voice is a lot louder than she thought it would be.

  Fintán and Baphomet seem surprised. Mrs. Mirskaya reacts as if Fi said a very bad word, and Myrddin as if he heard the same word but thinks it’s funny.

  Peter says to the opponents, “You heard the lady. Enough, you two.” They’re confused, but comply. They step away from each other and take their true forms.

  Fintán strides to them, and he doesn’t look happy. He flaps his wings once, settles them at his back, then shimmers and becomes a man once again, tall and shockingly handsome.

  Fi’s jaw almost hits the ground. Figuratively, of course.

  Fintán speaks to Peter and Pratha, though he keeps one bright citrine eagle-eye on Fi. “I presume The Goat and The Hyaena are prisoners. To be interrogated, preferably unto death.”

  “That’s a distinct possibility,” Peter replies, loud enough for Baphomet and Dimmi to hear.

  Pratha adds, “It depends on how compliant and forthcoming they are.”

  Baphomet bows his head. Dimmi yips nervously and scratches the backs of his hands.

  Fintán briefly scans Pratha’s face, then kisses her on the cheek. “Hello, Sister.”

  She kisses him back. “Little brother.”

  “I have something for you,” he says, and retrieves a sheathed dagger from his belongings.

  “My Athamé,” she says. “I hope it has been useful.”

  He slides the dagger from its sheath. The blade and handle are forged in one piece, the blade three-sided, each side concave and engraved in strange runes. “It has. Quite recently in fact.”

  “Then keep it for now,” says Pratha. “And put it to more good use.”

  Fintán bows. “Thank you, Sister.”

  He sheathes the dagger and steps to Fi, studying her closely, which makes her nervous and feel all funny inside. “You interrupted the ritual,” he says, though more educationally than in an angry tone. “That is not done.”

  “She did not know, Brother,” says Mrs. Mirskaya, making it clear with her
demeanor there will be no trouble.

  “Right,” Fi pipes, having a hard time getting over his striking good looks in spite of all that’s been happening. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” Then she adds, “But really, enough fighting for now, all right?”

  It’s hard to tell from his expression if he’s irritated or amused. He reaches out a hand. “I am Fintán mac Bóchra. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” He studies Fi more closely. “Sister.” He lifts her hand and bends his tall frame to kiss it.

  Fi’s a mess. And now he called her ‘Sister.’ So. Weird. Her mind and body have no idea how to react, so she says the first and only thing she can, which sounds a lot like, “Unghng.”

  Mrs. Mirskaya mutters, “Such a lady.” She nudges Fi’s shoulder. “Fiona, say proper hello to your brother.”

  Fi recovers some of her composure. “Hello... Brother.”

  Fintán nods. “Miss Fiona.” Fi blushes, then feels like a complete idiot.

  Zeke might be jealous if he wasn’t still stunned by the sky battle and bizarre combat ritual—and the fact that one of the most well-known mythological beings of antiquity is standing right in front of him. When Fintán looks to him for an introduction, all Zeke can say is, “Horus.”

  Fintán shakes his hand. “Call me Fintán, if you would.”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Horus. I mean Fintán. Horus.”

  Fintán’s expression remains blank. “It’s all right, young man. I would react much the same way in my presence, if I were you.”

  Zeke’s perplexed, but Fintán smiles. Now it’s Zeke’s turn to blush and feel like an idiot.

  Mrs. Mirskaya rolls her eyes. “Brother, this is Zeke Prisco.” Then she adds in a disapproving voice, “Fiona’s friend.”

  Fintán nods to Mrs. Mirskaya, “Mokosh.” She nods stiffly back.

  Peter claps his hands. “All right, everyone.”

  Fintán steps between Fi and Zeke, facing Peter, and puts a hand on each of their shoulders as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. They each lean forward enough to exchange wide-eyed looks.