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

by Dyrk Ashton

  People come scurrying out of their homes, some carrying shotguns. Another emerges from a woodshed brandishing an axe. None can believe what they see.

  The beast drops to its side with a groan, its tail slapping the dirt. Then the tail lifts and Peter squeezes his way out of the creature’s cloaca, along with copious quantities of green goo and black blood.

  He gets to his feet, spitting and wiping his face, then sees the villagers, with their weathered skin and rough work-clothing of country folk. “Everything’s all right, good people,” he says. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

  Nidhogg burps. In another corral, a dozen sheep who have been watching, wide-eyed and innocent, fall dead.

  Peter addresses the stricken villagers. “Sorry about the sheep.” He looks around. “And the shed, and the truck.” He digs in his pocket and holds out a slime-soaked wad of various currencies to an elderly woman. “I hope this will cover—”

  The screech of The Falcon cuts the air and Fintán swoops in, snatches Peter up in his claws and carries him off.

  In even greater disbelief, the villagers watch them disappear into the clouds, then look to the money Peter has dropped, and back at Nidhogg, who smolders, combusts in green flame, and crumbles to ash.

  * * *

  Edgar has the hood of the truck open, waving away steam. “It looks like we’ll be hiking the rest of the way, unfortunately.” But Pratha, Mrs. Mirskaya and Baphomet are looking off down the ravine the way they were headed. Mol growls in the same direction.

  Mrs. Mirskaya says, “Edgar. Trouble.”

  Edgar doesn’t hear or see anything, and neither does Fi. “What manner of trouble?” he says. Then they hear a low rumble.

  Around a curve and through the low fog in the distance, a convoy of military vehicles appears. Then above them, out of the low clouds, three black attack helicopters.

  Edgar spies an opening in the rock face that runs along the ravine. “This way, quickly.” He snatches his scabbard and sword from the front seat and belts it on. “Leave the gear. We must make haste.”

  The group hurries to the entrance of the narrow gulley, all except Pratha, who stands in front of the truck, and Baphomet, who leans against it.

  “Sestra,” Mrs. Mirskaya shouts.

  “I’ll be right along,” Pratha says calmly, keeping her eyes on the approaching convoy.

  “Milady,” says Edgar, getting her attention. “Begging your pardon, but we may need you.” She weighs his words. Edgar motions to Baphomet. “They may be looking for him.”

  Pratha eyes Baphomet, then the convoy. She strides to Baphomet, grabs him by the upper arm and drags him toward the others. “You’re ruining my fun, Goat.”

  * * *

  Peter plummets from the sky to plunge into a deep loch. Fintán lands on the shore and Zeke dismounts, still tingling from the flight and excitement. Fintán shifts back to his human cloak and steps into the water to wash the Nidhogg muck from his feet.

  Peter wades to shore, shirt and pants in his hands, having apparently disrobed in the loch. Zeke takes a mental note to tell Fi he doesn’t think Peter will ever ‘stop with all the naked.’ “Are you okay?” he asks.

  Peter wrings out his clothes and begins to put them on. “Of course. Rather exhilarating, actually. I’m troubled, however. If The Nidhogg is here, there could be more Asura present. We need to get to the others.” Sitting on a boulder, Peter struggles to get his wet pants on. “As soon as—I—get—dressed.” He tugs and the seam along the lower part of one pant leg rips. “Wonderful.” He stands and shakes his leg, scowls at the flapping cloth, then reaches down and tears it off below the knee. “That’s better.”

  Fintán unzips his waist pack. “Your spear, Pater.”

  Peter peers in as Fintán holds it open. “And you still have the locust, good.” He retrieves Gungnir and puts it in his pocket. “Thank you. You were careful with it, I see.”

  Fintán looks at Zeke, who fidgets under his gaze.

  “I picked it up,” Zeke says. “Sorry.” Peter gives him that scrutinizing look that makes Zeke wither. “I mean, not sorry.”

  “Hmm,” is all Peter says.

  “‘Hmm’ what?” Zeke asks. “Is that, like, not allowed?”

  “Gungnir draws power from the aether, but through its wielder. Other than me, few have ever touched it without serious injury or death.”

  “Oh. Well, you could have told me.”

  Peter says “Hmm” again, but with a hint of a smile. “We should get moving. Who knows what else awaits.”

  “This isn’t it?” Zeke says, “The lake we want?”

  Fintán answers, “The Lake is some ways yet. Though not that far, as The Falcon flies.”

  Peter surveys the landscape ahead. “Or as The Pater runs.” He takes off, kicking up rocks and dirt with his bare feet, faster than any man could run. Faster than even a cheetah could negotiate this terrain.

  Zeke watches him hurdle boulders then clear a hill in a single bound, and he’s gone. “Holy shit.”

  “That is his jogging pace,” says Fintán. “Come.” He smiles. “Let’s fly.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  NAGALOK

  Akhu leads the way as she, Mac, Kabir and Cù Sìth jog over the icy tundra of Nagalok.

  Kabir says, “I thought Naga and his brood were taken to a jungle world after the conflict between his children and the offspring of Garuda.”

  “They were,” Akhu replies. “A beautiful planet, plentiful with wild things for them to eat. Much like our home world before the Cataclysm. And there were no watoto here, of course.” Kabir nods in understanding.

  “There was a primitive but sapient species of reptile, however, whom Naga’s brood would not prey upon. They received Naga as their god, helped him build his temples, and worshipped him. Large species of snakes thrived here as well, so breeding continued. Then, a thousand years ago, the climate changed without warning, as it does on occasion with all worlds. Within decades, Nagalok became as you see it now. None could have predicted the calamity, so no help came. All higher forms of life and most of Naga’s children were wiped out. Naga retreated to his favorite temple, deep in the earth, and put himself into hibernation. Mac and I visit from time to time, and my master has been here, but The Snake has not wakened since.”

  “Has Father come?” Kabir asks. “Since he brought them here?”

  “Not that I am aware.”

  Kabir scans the barren waste, thinking about all the species lost. But it has happened on every world, from what he’s heard. He himself has experienced glacial periods on their world, but what is occurring now on Nagalok is called a “snowball earth,” frozen right to the slushy equator. Their world has experienced them as well, but long before his time. Now Kabir can see what it must have been like. As much horror as he’s faced in his life, he can’t imagine living through this for millions of years at a time, as Father had, so long ago.

  “At least there are none of those infernal locusts here,” says Kabir.

  “There’s nothing to destroy,” Mac replies. “Or to eat.”

  Akhu slows, then stops. “Don’t be so sure.”

  High in the sky, nearly beyond sight in the distance and falling snow, is a vague black shape. It shifts, spreads thin, reforms, like a flock of birds, or swarm of—

  “Locusts,” growls Cù Sìth.

  “That’s not good,” Mac says.

  “We should keep moving.” They head off at a swifter pace while keeping an eye on the swarm. It comes no closer, but seems to follow along with them.

  Kabir says, “What are they doing?”

  Another dark figure appears in the sky, much closer, though still keeping its distance. The way it soars, it doesn’t look like a locust. They stop to get a better look as it dives closer.

  Mac gasps. “Is that Munin, The Raven?” But there’s a glint of steel to the figure as well, and before they can confirm, it swoops up and disappears.

  “I don’t know,” says Kabir,
“but I think we should move faster.”

  They set off at a run, but the wind picks up, the snow comes harder, and the temperature drops.

  “You feel that?” says Mac. “I haven’t experienced anything like it since the bloody Second Holo”—

  His words catch in his throat at the sight of Kleron standing not twenty paces ahead, his mouth wide in his hideous bat-face, fangs bared, wings partially unfurled.

  They halt. The snow obscures their sight, but they can make out something perched on Kleron’s shoulder. Part crow, part monkey, with dull steel plates embedded in its skull and chest.

  Cù Sìth bares his claws with a growl, Kabir and Akhu reach for their weapons, but as soon as Akhu activates Ruyi Jingu Bang and before Kabir can ignite his swords, Kleron and his small companion disappear.

  Kabir says, “We need to run.” And they do, kicking up snow.

  Akhu, short as her legs are, sprints out ahead of them, Ruyi Jingu Bang ready in her hand. “This way!”

  “But where are we going?” Kabir shouts over the wind. “Everything looks the same.”

  “It’s not far. Just follow me.”

  “If my eyes do not deceive me,” says Cù. “That was one of The Ravens.”

  Kabir says, “It did not look like Munin.”

  “No. It was his hatchling brother, Hugin.”

  Mac hops and flies to keep up. “The traitor! Almost brought an end to us all, he did. But he was struck down by an Astra arrow in the last battle of The Second Holocaust. Ragnarök was his end.”

  “I saw him fall,” replies Kabir, “but his body was never recovered.”

  Akhu’s voice sounds in their heads. “We’ve all seen with our own eyes. Asura long dead, now resurrected. His eyes, however, were clear. Hugin still lives.”

  The swarm of locusts has come closer and flies above them. Their buzzing and clicking rises and falls in an erratic but distinct pattern, though they don’t attack.

  “What are they doing?” asks Mac.

  Akhu answers, “Communicating.”

  “Communicating?” Kabir repeats.

  “With whom?” Mac asks.

  Before anyone can answer, the swarm dives.

  “Run faster!” Kabir says, but as the locusts close in, he stops and spins, shouting “Lehavah!” His swords burst into flame and he waves them at the swarm, roaring to get the locusts’ attention. The others realize what he’s done and slide to a stop.

  Mac cries, “Kabir!”

  The swarm heads straight toward Kabir, screeching as they come. Kabir prepares to take as many as he can, but at the last moment they swoop back into the sky. Kabir turns, watching them zoom harmlessly over the heads of his compatriots.

  Then his friends’ eyes go wide and Akhu shouts in his head, “Kabir!”

  Kabir turns back to see a disturbance in the air—and a massive gray-winged form appears, the bones of its featherless wings and curved crest on the crown of its long head edged in red.

  Ziz, The Quetzalcoatlus, splits his tooth-edged, six-foot long beak and cries his klaxon cry. Snow scrapes from the ground beneath its force, whips up at the beat of his fifty-foot wingspan. And it gets worse. Kleron rides on his back, Hugin clinging to his shoulder, and beside them is Xecotcovach, The Terror Bird. Hanging from ropes secured to Ziz’s body are a dozen men in arctic thermo-camouflage, balaclavas and goggles, carrying assault rifles.

  Kabir snarls. Wanting to fight, but knowing better, he spins and sprints for Akhu and the others. They run as well. Bullets kick up the snow around them. The rounds that hit them don’t cause injury, but are annoying nonetheless. A launched grenade explodes ahead of them, then another—and the ice collapses. The other three leap over the crevasse of fresh blue ice. Kabir snuffs the flames of his blades and sheathes them. Another grenade explodes at his feet as he leaps the crevasse. He isn’t going to make it—but Cù Sìth reaches out, grabs his hand and drags him up. And they run. All the while, the swarm follows above.

  Ziz passes over the crevasse and the soldiers use devices at their waists to rappel to the ground.

  “How far is it?” asks Kabir.

  Approaching fast, Ziz cries out behind them, and they can feel his breath.

  “Too far,” Akhu replies. They all clasp hands at her command. As Ziz bears down upon his quarry, they slip away.

  * * *

  Still running, Akhu and crew appear on a flat savannah. They slow to reassess their situation, then hear the now familiar buzz and chitter of locusts. A swarm circles in the distance, making the same coded sounds they heard on Nagalok. There’s a clap of air being split. They’re cast in shadow and buffeted by wind as Ziz zooms over their heads.

  “No,” Mac cries in disbelief.

  Ziz reels in the air and heads back toward them. They turn and run.

  “Hang on,” Akhu says, and they slip again.

  * * *

  A silent battlefield. Heavy fog floats on the ground, tickling the treads of wrecked and rusted tanks, surrounding broken sandbags of machine-gun nests, filling trenches and bomb craters. And above, more locusts.

  They continue running, but once again Ziz’s form rips through the air, emerging from a bank of fog to cut across right in front of them, halting them in their tracks. Still holding hands, they retreat.

  “How are they doing this?” Kabir says in frustration.

  “The locusts are telling them where we are,” says Cù Sìth.

  “You know that to be true?” asks Mac.

  “I do not. It’s only a guess.”

  “I was thinking the same thing,” says Akhu. “It’s the only explanation. They’re speaking across worlds, telling each other where we are, and somehow also passing this information to Kleron, perhaps Hugin as well.”

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Mac says.

  “Neither have I, Mac. That doesn’t make it less real.”

  “Not even your telepathy reaches to other worlds.”

  “No, but whatever they are doing does.”

  Ziz materializes right in front of them, head tipped sideways, beak spread wide enough to take them all. They let go of each other and dive into a trench. Ziz passes overhead, the leathery gray skin of his stomach scraping the ground, spraying dirt and rocks onto them.

  They scramble out and join hands again, running in the direction from which Ziz came.

  Mac says, “With that bastard Hugin, they can slip to wherever they like!”

  “Without limitation to spatial distance, yes. Just like his brother, Munin.”

  Kleron’s voice rises, the air reverberating with an incantation of ghastly words from the ancient language of his old master.

  “Shite!” Mac exclaims.

  They come to a dry riverbed, down and across, up the other side. At the top of the bank, a scorching line of fire strafes the earth across their path, the wall of flames higher than they can leap and hot enough to melt stone.

  “Och, ya see?” cries Mac. “I knew that was coming.”

  They track along the riverbed, but Kleron’s words shift and shards of ice, sharp and crackling, erupt in a wall in front of them, cutting them off once more.

  “And that!” says Mac.

  They backtrack the other way. A line of flames chases them, then more ice bursts forth beneath their feet, tossing them into the air. Yet they still cling to each other as they tumble to the ground.

  Akhu says, “Enough of this,” and they slip, leaving fog to eddy in the space they’ve vacated.

  * * *

  Through a dozen barren unpopulated worlds they slip, one after the other. In each they spy and are spied by locusts, either singly or in swarms large and small. And also in each, Ziz arrives and Kleron ravages the land with ice and fire. The cry of Ziz brings down avalanches. Forests burn and lakes boil. It’s like the final battle of the Second Holocaust all over again, on a tinier scale, but no less terrible.

  “We could go back to our world,” Kabir suggests. “There are no locusts there.”
<
br />   “You may have noticed I’m avoiding populated worlds,” Akhu replies. “Kleron might follow.”

  “Yes, but he might not.”

  “Think of the destruction and death he and Ziz could cause. Are you willing to take the risk?”

  Kabir isn’t.

  Ziz shrieks, diving from above, and they slip.

  * * *

  Still running, they appear in a flat desert of cracked red earth. Round boulders, from the size of a car to large as a house, lie strewn on the landscape as if tossed in a titanic game of marbles. They sprint toward a tight grouping of stones in the hope of finding cover, perhaps escaping the sight of the locusts and losing Kleron.

  But the air cracks and Ziz is there. They barely have time to duck the tip of his wing as he passes.

  No longer using his vile words of primal magic, Kleron sneers at them as Ziz circles around, his flapping wings kicking up dust devils.

  They make it to the rocks and duck between them, then peer out as Ziz passes. They notice Kleron, Hugin and Xeco aren’t the only cargo Ziz carries. On his back, attached to a metal pallet, is a steel chest the size of a steamer trunk, held in place by straps that encircle his body. Two more soldiers crouch at either side of it.

  “Now what in all hells are they up to?” says Mac.

  Cù Sìth’s throat rumbles. “He’s toying with us.” Before any of them can try to stop him, he bolts from cover, straight for the enemy.

  Xeco leaps from Ziz’s back, his stunted, raptor-like arms held out for balance, and lands on his clawed bird-feet in a puff of red dust. He isn’t old enough to defeat the dreaded Moddey Dhoo, but his master is watching. He opens his hatchet-hammer of a beak, looses an ear-splitting, “SKREEEEE!” and charges at Cù Sìth on muscular, ostrich-like legs, gouging the earth and kicking up dirt behind him.

  But as fast as Xeco is, Cù Sìth dodges around him, following the path of Ziz’s flight, and launches himself into the air to catch one of the ropes the soldiers left hanging.

  Xeco leaps after him, but Cù Sìth swings up, leaving The Terror Bird’s beak to snap shut on empty air.