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

by Dyrk Ashton

  “But your intentions are pure, Baphomet?” He moves the tip of the spear to right under Baphomet’s chin. “Why shouldn’t I be done with your treachery forever, here and now?”

  “For the same reason I’ve been kept alive this long, Pater. I have information.”

  “I’m beginning to wonder more and more if we’ll be able to parse fact from fiction, and whether the effort is worth suffering your continued presence.”

  “Then what of my utility as a pack animal?” Peter is not amused. “I know where you’re going. There is something there that will guide my tongue in any way you choose.” Curiosity twitches on Peter’s features. “I know not where she dwells, but last I heard, The Lady keeps the Siege Perilous.”

  The Firstborn exchange glances while Peter stares into Baphomet’s pink eyes, motionless as a statue. Fi and Zeke twitch, fearing more violence, but Peter drops the spearhead, Gungnir shrinking back to the size of a roll of quarters. “Have you a safe method of binding him, Pratha?”

  “Safe for whom?” she asks coyly. When Peter doesn’t answer, she says, “Of course.”

  “Then do so,” he replies, then adds, “please.”

  “I’ll need my things.”

  * * *

  Zeke shoves his backpack toward the front of the truck bed, takes Fi’s from Edgar and stacks it as well. He climbs out the back to join Edgar and Fi.

  Fi leans close to Edgar. “What was Baphomet talking about? Where are we going?”

  “To see The Lady of the Lake.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHINATOWN

  MAC’S GYM

  This world, the earth where Akhu, Kabir and Cù Sìth have resided all their lives, and this New York City, where Akhu has lived the last half-century, show no signs of invasion by giant grasshoppers or any other aggressor, human or beast. Citizens walk speedily along sidewalks, yellow cabs honk and jostle for position on tight streets. The air is warm and clinging, an extension of the hazy sky above. Akhu takes a deep breath and exhales in appreciation.

  “This way,” she tells them, and runs across the street, dodging traffic, Kabir and Cù in tow, then continues up the block to the recessed entry at the corner of an unkempt brick building.

  The wooden double doors are shattered, what remains of them hanging loosely on the hinges. Above them a faded sign reads Mac’s Gym with a smaller sign nailed at an angle, Closed for Repairs. From the looks of it, the place has been under repair for a long time, but the doors have been recently broken. Kabir surveys the side street. Much less traveled than the main street, and he finds nothing of concern. He looks up and studies the building—just as a set of windows on the fifth floor blow outward in a spray of shattered glass and mortar.

  The rusted steel frame of a transit window hits the far building and drops with a crunch and clang. A moldy leather punching bag bursts on the concrete, spilling sand, grain, sawdust and old rags. Glass crashes and tinkles on the sidewalk and pavement.

  A quick scan of the area shows no one close enough to have noticed. Yet.

  Akhu closes her eyes and reaches out for Mac, but again, no response. From above comes an unearthly roar, then a chicken-like squawk, and someone looses a string of curses in Scots Gaelic. Mac Gallus, The Rooster, is no real Scotsman, but he liked the name given to his mother’s genus and has long been fond of Scottish culture.

  “He still lives,” Akhu exclaims with relief.

  “I can’t say I’m surprised,” Kabir replies. “He’s a stout one.”

  There’s no sign of struggle in the vestibule, only peeling paint and water-damaged plaster. As quietly but quickly as they can, they head up the worn wooden stairs.

  On the fifth and top floor, they stalk down a narrow hall with mildewed brown paneling, past abandoned locker rooms, to the old boxing gym. The hall widens and the ceiling becomes higher before swinging doors that lead to the gym.

  From the other side of the doors come the thud of blows landed, whang of flung metals, howls and snorts, scratching of claws, snapping of jaws and gnashing of teeth. Then the taunting Bok bok buh-gawk! of Mac.

  Akhu eyes the wound the locust inflicted on Cù Sìth’s arm on the other world, which still bleeds freely. She reaches for it. “Allow me.”

  Cù flinches. “Save your strength for the battle to come.”

  “I have been saving my strength for a long time.” He doesn’t relax, but allows her to touch his wound. She closes her eyes, reciting words he and Kabir can’t hear.

  Kabir can tell Cù isn’t comfortable with her touch and considers, maybe he isn’t comfortable with anyone’s.

  Cù’s arm grows warm. His facial features slacken and shoulders relax. Even the red gleam of his eyes dims as he experiences something he hasn’t since... Since when? And he remembers. Not since Father held him as a young pup. The feeling of kindness.

  When Akhu removes her hand only a jagged pink line remains where the deep gash had been. She wipes the blood with her sleeve. Cù looks at the scar, not unimpressed. His expression is one of distaste at the words, but he says them anyway, “Thank you.” She nods, then holds a finger to her lips and peeks through the doors.

  It’s obvious the fight has been going on for awhile. The place is a wreck, but then again it always is. Mac retired from training boxers in the 1980s and he isn’t much for cleaning or repair.

  The gym is an expansive open space with brick walls and high transit windows flaking with multiple applications of crappy paint. There are taped-up climbing ropes, racks of frayed jump-ropes, dusty gloves and old headgear. Stained leather heavy bags hang on chains from pipes fastened between concrete support columns. Much of the weight training equipment, long in disuse, has been shoved to the walls. The battered oak floor is stained with sweat and blood, and a single raised practice ring sits off to the side, now outfitted with a ratty couch facing a large screen TV hanging by ropes from the ceiling.

  The far corner is the one place Mac keeps immaculately clean, where he has his precious stereo system, bagpipes, vinyl record and CD collections, hard drives, and all manner of electronic music equipment. Akhu can see him there now, in Trueface, his puffed-up chest heaving, standing his ground before his pride and joy. She knows he can bear the broken feathers, bleeding scratches on his arms and fists, even the swollen eye, but the destruction of his music equipment and collections, that would surely upset him.

  She can’t see his assailants without opening the doors further, but among the lingering scents of mildew, old sweat, decaying canvas, rust and leather, she can smell them. The fetid swamp stench of Taesan, The Snapping Turtle. The musk and moose-shit stink of Cernunnos. The unmistakable pissy aroma of mule which comes from Adramelech. The other, with just the scent of freshly unearthed clay, can only be The Hands.

  Akhu backs away from the doors and sheds her pack, but Cù says, “I will go in first.”

  She looks to Kabir, who can see the reasoning in this. Cù Sìth and his brothers have always been the most loyal of Asura. Even the highest generals have long respected and feared the Cerberi. Kabir nods his consent.

  Cù removes his rucksack, as does Kabir.

  “I’ll be ready,” says Kabir, lifting the long canvas case he’s been carrying wedged between his shoulders. Cù eyes the case with respect, suspecting what may lie within.

  “As will I,” Akhu adds. She removes the black enameled chopstick from her bun, shakes out her long black hair. She focuses on the ancient Chinese-style glyphs of the chopstick while she holds it in her palm, and telepathically speaks the name of her weapon so the others can hear. “Ruyi Jingu Bang.”

  The glyphs glow and the chopstick lengthens, thickening proportionately, into a staff seven feet long, black and shining. The glyphs, much larger now, cease to glow.

  Kabir exclaims softly at the sight of the fearsome and renowned weapon.

  “It was entrusted to me by General Quon Kiang many years ago.” The staff looks unwieldy against her tiny frame, but she spins it deftly, finishing with a flo
urish, held at an angle behind her back in one hand.

  Cù eyes the staff with regard, then pushes through the doors.

  * * *

  Across the room, a large thick man in studded black leather jacket, leather pants and biker boots tackles Mac, smashing a bunch of Mac’s precious equipment beneath them. On his back, Mac holds the man off with his wings while punching him repeatedly in the face. “Now you’ve gone and made me angry!” he cries with his thick Scottish brogue.

  Cù Sìth recognizes Mac’s opponent as Taesan, The Snapping Turtle, in human cloak. Very old, nearly a True Ancient, but he’s never been bright and relies on his especially tough hide and the strength that comes with his age rather than cunning or skill when it comes to a fight.

  Adramelech, Firstborn son of a prehistoric donkey, crowds in, snatching at Mac’s kicking chicken-legs with his hooved fingers, biting at him with the square but razor-edged teeth of his mule-like mouth—but the claws of Mac’s feet are sharp. They cut Adramelech’s arms, and one of Mac’s leg-spikes catches him in the side of the head, sending him braying into the wall.

  Cernunnos, also in Trueface, stands behind them—ten feet tall, not counting the sharply pointed antlers on his long elk-like head. “Finish him,” he bellows at his companions. “We’ve taken long enough.”

  Craning over Cernunnos from the back, a reptilian beast nearly fifteen feet tall honks through his elongated snout in assent to Cernunnos’s command. With a mouth like a duck’s but with a sharper beak, narrow shoulders, slim chest, pot-belly, squat legs and big floppy feet, other than his size he doesn’t appear particularly intimidating—until one remembers he’s a True Ancient, born of a natural Therizinosaurus mother, a species of dinosaur that roamed the earth during the late Cretaceous Period some seventy million years ago—and sees the reason he’s called The Hands. Made for digging the earth for food, they’re a third the length of his body. Instead of the three fingers his mother had, he has five, tipped with scythe-like bones over two feet long, and sharp as scythes as well. It’s said they slice and pierce like an Astra sword, and few have escaped once he’s locked those hands around them. Cù Sìth has never had the pleasure of trying, and he doesn’t think he’d like to.

  Cù roars, “Asura!”

  Mac’s the first to see him, standing near the swinging doors like a town marshal having entered a bar in the old west. He’d been hoping for help from Akhu. This is the opposite of that. “Aw, c-r-r-rap,” he says.

  Mac tucks his legs and kicks at The Snapper’s chest. The Snapper lets go with one hand, clutching torn wing-feathers in his webbed claws, but yanks Mac up and ducks under a punch, around to Mac’s back, where he pins Mac’s wings with thick arms, holding him tight.

  The Snapper drops his human cloak, peers at Cù Sìth over Mac’s shoulder with beady, close-set eyes. The others face the door, ready to take on a new adversary. They relax at the sight of him, but remain cautious.

  Cù strides toward them. “What in all the hells is going on here?” He stops in front of Cernunnos, who’s eyes are milky black. Looming over him, the tiny eyes on the long narrow face of The Hands are the same. Both of them, brought back from the dead.

  In life, Cernunnos would have been the leader of this squad of ruffians. Cù assumes the same now. “I’ve been sent to find out what’s gone wrong. You were supposed to have returned a day ago.”

  “Sent by whom?” asks Adramelech.

  “Whom do you think?” Cù growls back. Adramelech drops his surly demeanor and slides behind The Hands. Cù glares up at Cernunnos. “The Master is not pleased.”

  Spittle pops from Cernunnos’s fleshy cow-lips as he speaks. “It is the parvulus assassin’s fault. He did not notify us we could proceed until a short time ago.”

  “I’m sure the Master will be happy to hear your excuses,” Cù replies. The Snapper and Adramelech shift nervously. “There are four of you, mighty Asura. Against one Deva. A chicken, no less.”

  “And proud of it, laddie!” Mac shouts in defiance, struggling but unable to break The Snapper’s hold.

  The Snapper speaks from over Mac’s shoulder. “He’s tougher than he looks.”

  “Damn right!” Mac shouts, then reconsiders, “Och!”

  Cù has never fought The Rooster, and though Mac is young for a Firstborn, his martial skills, swift technique, the power of blows from his wings, and the wicked spurs on the backs of his legs above his feet are well known. “Your failings don’t concern me,” says Cù to the four Asura. “Plans have changed. The life or death of this Deva matters not. We’re to rendezvous at the extraction point immediately.”

  Cernunnos eyes the door. “Where are Surma and Wepwawet?”

  Cù glares back. “Following orders.”

  Cernunnos studies Cù with his dead fish eyes, the appearance of them enough to make even Cù Sìth uneasy.

  “We will kill the Deva, then we will follow.” He turns toward Mac.

  Cù prepares to tackle Cernunnos, already considering who he will take on next, plotting the fight before it begins. He’ll dispatch Cernunnos with a claw-swipe to the living-dead atrocity’s throat, then swiftly help Mac. One snap from Taesan’s sharp turtle-beak and Mac’s vertebrae would be severed. Adramelech is of no concern. Cù just doesn’t want him to escape. The Hands, however... Cù will need to avoid him until last, then hope to get behind him and latch his jaws to the back of the monster’s neck.

  But Cernunnos stops and turns his great head and antlers to Cù. “Where is it we are to meet the others?” he asks.

  Adramelech begins to answer, but a shooting glare from Cernunnos silences him.

  Cù Sìth chooses bluster in absence of facts. He growls, his eyes gleam, and he reveals himself in frightening Trueface. Bearing his fangs, he growls, “You question me, Elk?”

  Mac watches, hopeful the tension between his foes escalates, waiting for the right moment to kick backward and drive a leg-spike into The Snapper’s shin.

  Cernunnos squares off with Cù Sìth, lowering his head and its threatening horns. “It is a simple question, Cerberus.” The Hands moves closer to Cernunnos side, lending weight to his demand. He snorts, drawn out, like a horse, and a thin greenish vapor swirls from his snout.

  Cù has no idea what the answer is, but he’s ready to fight anyway. Cù Sìth is always ready to fight. “The docks, of course,” he guesses.

  Cernunnos studies him, then straightens. “Wrong.” Moving incredibly quickly for one his size, he charges. His antlers catch Cù in the chest and Cernunnos barrels across the gym, carrying Cù off his feet and into the double-block wall, brick and mortar cracking at the impact. Cernunnos rears back, and before Cù can disentangle himself from the beast’s antlers, bashes him against the wall again.

  Mac kicks back with his spur as hard as he can. It hits The Snapper’s leg with a loud crack and pain shoots up Mac’s own leg—but The Snapper flinches, distracted enough for Mac to jerk free. He hops away, favoring his good leg, then faces The Snapper, putting his fists up like a boxer and ruffling his wings. “Come on then, ya filthy reptile!” Taesan rubs his leg, then runs at him.

  Cernunnos isn’t old or strong enough to seriously harm Cù Sìth, but the sharp pointed antlers jabbing into him are less than comfortable, and Cù finds himself at a strategic disadvantage. Besides, The Hands is approaching, slamming giant fist into enormous palm as he comes, which makes a sound like a cow’s carcass being smacked against a stone slab.

  Cernunnos grabs Cù with his cloven hands and flings him, using antlers and powerful neck—right into a waiting palm of The Hands. The Hands grips him, pinning one arm, and proceeds to punch him repeatedly in the head with his knobby boulder of a fist.

  A sloppy whistle cuts through the ruckus. Adramelech neighs in an outburst of surprise and all heads turn to the door—except Mac’s, who’s loath to turn his back on The Snapper.

  Akhu brandishes her staff while Kabir, now in Trueface, has two fingers shoved into his mouth. He tries to whistle again, b
ut the side of his feline upper lip where he lost his saber-tooth flaps, the sound produced as much raspberry as whistle. “It was better before I lost my tooth,” he says to Akhu.

  Cernunnos says, “Little Akhu. The Rat still lives. We’ll complete the human assassin’s task ourselves. Save the head for our Master. Feast on what remains.” He tilts his head and antlers at Kabir. “And Zadkiel. Now we know how deep the Moddey Dhoo’s treachery runs.”

  Mac backs away from The Snapper and Adramelech. “Akhu, lassie, you came! I’m saved!”

  Still held tight in the grip of The Hands, Cù Sìth shakes his head to clear it. Blood strings from a split lip, and one of his eyes is beginning to swell. “Your timing is a little off.” The Hands, undaunted by the newcomers, resumes Cù’s beating.

  Kabir and Akhu spread out.

  “Pacifist Akhu. Last I knew, you’d sworn off violence,” remarks Cernunnos.

  Kabir answers for her. “Not violence. Just killing.”

  Cernunnos sneers. “Then we fight.”

  Akhu glances at Kabir. Kabir repeats her words. “She says, ‘This fight is already over.’”

  Swift and nimble beyond reasonable physical ability, Akhu launches herself into the air. Her Astra staff, one of the most renowned weapons ever forged by Arges, grows as she spins, a blur through the air, adjusting its physics to the task at hand.

  The effect of the staff can be described in terms of quantum superposition, current thought on falsified micro-realism, and string theory, though any modern explanation would be lacking. In truth, the quantum world is far more complex. All matter is conscious, and quantum particles are in many places at the same time—and they’re aware of where they are, where they are going, and what will be there, everywhere, all the time. They can be “taught” to draw on the energy and matter around them to adjust for what’s coming.

  In this case, what intersects the path of Ruyi Jingu Bang is The Hands’ massive skull. The staff’s density increases to compensate for its target on impact, even if that target is a Firstborn True Ancient of dinosaur stock.