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

by Dyrk Ashton

  Cù climbs, hand over hand. Instead of attempting to get over the top, he tugs on one of the straps at Ziz’s belly. Unable to pull it free, he swipes with his claws. His claws can’t harm the hide of Ziz, but the strap cuts easily.

  The chest jerks on Ziz’s back, nearly dislodging the soldiers. Hugin takes to the air and Kleron stands up at the base of Ziz’s neck.

  * * *

  Akhu narrows her eyes. “Stay here,” she orders Mac and Kabir, then bolts from the rocks.

  “Akhu!” Kabir shouts, reaching out, but before he can grab her, she slips away.

  Kleron dives from Ziz’s shoulder, flapping his bat-wings. He curves out and down to get at Cù Sìth—but doesn’t reach him in time.

  Cù swings to the next strap and cuts it as well. He grabs hold of one piece of the strap, letting go of the rope, then tucks his legs until he’s upside down, pressing his feet against Ziz’s stomach, and pulls.

  The pallet and chest slide behind Ziz’s wing, taking both men with them, and Kleron is forced to retreat out of the way of the plummeting cargo.

  Cù hits the ground on his back. The chest drops nearby, crushing one of the men. The other man bounces off it and flops to the dirt.

  Kleron alights as Cù gets to his feet. “Cù Sìth,” he croons. “The last of the Cerberi. Not quite what I expected.”

  Cù hunches, ready for an attack, while also paying attention to Xeco, who circles. Xeco may not be able to harm him, but he can be a distraction, enough for Kleron to strike. And Kleron, Cù cannot defeat.

  “You were my favorite, you know,” Kleron says. Cù grunts in reply. “You could be again,” Kleron continues, while Xeco stalks around Cù to stand opposite him. “Villainous enough to murder your own litter-mates. That is a quality I can respect. Come back to me now and all will be well.”

  * * *

  Kabir watches in anticipation he can hardly bear. He notices Ziz has retreated higher in the sky and is circling, watching, and waiting. “We have to help.”

  Mac catches a glimpse of something in the shimmering heat waves, beyond Cù, Xeco and Kleron. It appears and disappears so quickly he would have missed it if he blinked. He takes Kabir’s wrist. “Wait, laddie.”

  * * *

  Kleron’s ears twitch. He removes something shining and silver from his ear, like a large wireless earbud, and places it in a pouch at his waist. He turns his head slightly, listening behind him, but there’s nothing there.

  “I will never serve you again,” Cù says, turning sideways to keep an eye on both Kleron and Xeco.

  “Why have you done this?”

  “That is between Father and me.”

  “The Pater is weak. Not of body, but of mind. He will fail you all.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You don’t care?”

  “No.”

  That gives Kleron pause, but he doesn’t have long to think about it before he’s flung backward by a blow to the face that nearly knocks him senseless, a tremendous pinging sound ringing in his head.

  As heightened as Kleron’s senses are, as lightning quick his reflexes, he still couldn’t avoid the attack from Akhu as she appeared from a slip right in front of him, already swinging Ruyi Jingu Bang.

  * * *

  “Oh,” exclaims Kabir.

  Mac grins. “Aye.”

  * * *

  Akhu has disappeared again before Kleron hits the ground twenty feet back from where he stood. He’s still tumbling head over heels, wings flopping in a most ignominious fashion, when—PING—Xeco is struck on the side of the head. Xeco’s head slams into the dirt, followed by his body flipping over in the first of several sideways somersaults.

  Seeing what’s happening on the ground, Ziz screams and dives.

  Akhu grabs Cù’s hand, who is terribly perplexed at the swift change of events. “Come!” She yanks on his arm and they slip.

  * * *

  Mac nudges Kabir, a look of glee on his face. “What did I tell ya?”

  * * *

  Ziz’s wings whip up cyclones of red sand as he lands. Kleron rolls to his stomach and shoves to his feet. He rubs the wrinkled dark gray skin of his forehead, twitches the dirt from his ears, and ruffles his wings. He turns to Ziz, and would swear the beast is grinning. It’s hard to tell with the structure of his mouth. Hugin alights on the crest of Ziz’s head. That little bastard is definitely grinning.

  Kleron reaches into the pouch at his hip, pulls out the device that allows him to receive communication from the locusts, and shoves it in his ear. He taps it and pulls it back out, seeing that it’s cracked, with a red LED blinking erratically. “Lovely,” he says. He eyes Hugin. “You didn’t know someone was slipping from another world? No communication?” Hugin shrugs. Kleron glares at him, then shakes his head and sighs.

  Xeco has managed to push himself up on his stunted arms and is wagging his head and massive beak, trying to rid the ringing from his skull.

  Kleron shoves the broken earpiece back in his pack. He strides to Xeco, grabs him by his long bird-neck and flies up to dump him onto Ziz’s back, then straddles the base of Ziz’s neck.

  “You’d think,” he says to Hugin, “after all these years, I’d learn.” Hugin nods. “Enough fucking around. Let’s do what we came for, shall we?”

  Hugin hops to Kleron’s shoulder, grabs his ear with his little monkey-paws, and whispers into it with his little monkey-mouth below a nose like the upper half of a crow’s beak. Kleron says, “That’s not very kind, Hugin. Not very kind at all.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  HIGHLANDS

  MINE EYES

  The gulley they entered has become a maze of steep-sided ravines. One of the helicopters buzzes by overhead and they press themselves against the shadowed walls before moving on.

  They pass the opening of another hall in the rock, from which a squad of soldiers opens fire with automatic weapons. Mrs. Mirskaya shoves Fi to safety as the rest of the group leaps forward to escape the bullets. She helps Fi up and checks her over, finding her no worse for wear.

  “Thank you,” says Fi. Mrs. Mirskaya’s reply is to pick a stick out of Fi’s hair. Then they notice Pratha and Baphomet are still on the far side of the entrance to the corridor where the soldiers are.

  “Do you want to die, Baphomet?” Pratha asks him.

  “I’d rather not.”

  The chain at his ankles comes loose at her touch. “Then be with them when I get back.” She shoves the chain into his hands, which she leaves bound. “And don’t lose that.” She tosses him past the opening like he’s a doll stuffed with straw, and walks into the canyon with the soldiers. Gunfire erupts, then the screams of men.

  “Let’s keep moving,” says Edgar. They continue to zigzag through the ravines, Mrs. Mirskaya calling up a thicker fog as they go.

  After a ways, a group of soldiers fires from down another side corridor.

  “I’m unfamiliar with these weapons,” Myrddin sputters after they sprint past the corridor opening to crowd behind a boulder. “What is their effect on our kind? Other than Father and The Pratha, that is.”

  Edgar says, “Molossus and I are susceptible to some extent. Fiona is young. I would not wish her tested. As for Firstborn of your age, I do not know.”

  “Perhaps it’s time to find out,” says Myrddin. Before anyone can stop him, he trots back to the opening. “Hoy, lads!” he shouts, waving his arms. A barrage of gunfire strikes him. He looks himself over as the bullets drop from his unharmed body, then cackles and slaps his knee.

  “Myrddin Wyllt!” Mrs. Mirskaya reprimands, striding toward him.

  He sees her coming. “It tickles!”

  She steps into the barrage with him and grabs him by the arm. “You old durak!”

  A rocket fired from one of the helicopters strikes the cliff above them. Rock shatters and the ravine wall tumbles, separating them from Edgar, Fi, Baphomet and Mol, who dive away just in time not to be buried. Fi leaps to her feet. “Mrs. Mirskaya!”

 
Mol barks, hearing more soldiers approaching. Edgar takes Fi by the arm. “They’ll be fine, Fiona. I promise.” Fi allows herself to be pulled away and soon they’re negotiating the maze again as fast as they can, Baphomet bringing up the rear. Though still suffering from a slight limp due to the bite of Maskim Xul, Fi only slows their progress a little.

  Running down a narrow corridor, they’re suddenly cut off by more soldiers who enter the gorge ahead. The walls are nearly twenty feet high, so climbing out before being fired upon is out of the question. The only other escape is back the way they came, but they’d be shot in the back long before they came to another turn.

  Edgar and Mol stand side by side, Fi and Baphomet behind them. The small squad of men block their path, but there’s only room for them to stand two across, shoulder to shoulder. The front two kneel and take aim, providing the pair behind them a line of fire as well.

  Edgar whispers, “I doth nay choose to die this day,” and starts to sing “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

  “Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord,”

  The soldiers glance at each other—and in that moment, Edgar strikes, his Astra sword hewing down through one of the kneeling soldier’s rifles. At the same time, Mol has lunged, knocking aside the other’s rifle barrel, and has the man by the throat.

  A soldier standing behind them fires, but Edgar turns sideways and the bullet grazes his arm. Edgar slashes upward and across, slicing both the soldier who fired and the man standing next to him in half. Edgar upends the sword and stabs straight down through the helmet of the one who still kneels, skewering him to the hilt.

  And he hasn’t stopped singing.

  “He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored,”

  Edgar is barely missed by a shot from the next nearest soldier. It ricochets off the wall, but the other beside him has taken aim at Mol. Edgar knocks the rifle aside, but the first man grabs him.

  His sword useless at this close range, Edgar leaves it buried in the first soldier and grapples with the man. Using his opponent’s own momentum he spins him, throws an arm around the man’s neck, and breaks it.

  “He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword,”

  He shoves the body into the man behind, while Mol hits the soldier beside him in the chest with all his weight, toppling him into the one behind. Mol bites onto the man’s face and helmet. By the time they hit the ground, he’s crushed them in his jaws. And Edgar still sings.

  “His truth is marching on.”

  The soldier Edgar shoved the body into knocks it aside, draws his knife and lunges. Tall and muscular, he outweighs Edgar by at least thirty pounds, but Edgar grabs his wrist and throws himself to the ground, bringing the man down with him and flipping him onto his back. Still gripping the man’s wrist, Edgar swings his legs over the man’s body, pinning his arm and breaking it at the elbow, then raises a boot and stomps down on his windpipe, silencing his cry of agony.

  “Glory, glory, hallelujah,

  Glory, glory, hallelujah,”

  Mol has the last of them down by the back of the neck. With a savage shake, the head comes free, helmet and all. Mol drops it, listens and sniffs for any more coming.

  Edgar gains his feet, unsheathes his sword from the helmet and head of the soldier who sits slumped against the wall, and the body drops.

  “Glory, glory, hallelujah,

  His truth is marching on...”

  He rubs Mol’s head. “Well done, lad.” Mol wags his tail. Edgar wipes his sword on the uniform of one of the dead and sheathes it.

  Crouched in a corner nook near where Edgar left them, Fi peers around Baphomet, mouth agape at Edgar’s fighting prowess. She saw plenty of his swordplay back at Peter’s house, but her uncle can kill with more than a sword.

  Footsteps are heard as another soldier runs up the ravine from the way Fi and the others came. He stops and takes aim at Edgar, unaware of Fi and Baphomet hunkered down next to him. Baphomet makes to spring—but Fi is faster.

  The word “No,” issues from her lips, and before she realizes what she’s doing she grabs the man, lifts him horizontal to the ground, and slams him against the uneven stone of the opposite wall. She holds him there, gritting her teeth, gripping his clothing with a strength she never knew she had. The shock at what she’s done nearly matches that of the soldier’s, who coughs blood and goes limp, dead eyes staring into hers. She lets go and he drops, his spine snapped.

  She cringes away, then turns to her uncle, her mouth moving wordlessly. Edgar’s expression of surprise is replaced by sadness.

  Baphomet steps away from Fi to assure them he’s no threat, then reaches up and takes a mangled bullet from his teeth, one he caught while he crouched in front of Fi after he shoved her there for her own protection.

  * * *

  A lone soldier stalks along the top edge of a gully. Another, who keeps stride with him on the opposite side, relays the all clear through the throat-mounted mic of his radio.

  In the gully below their squad leader replies the same. Then she hears a crack and thump above. She thrusts up a fist to halt her team and watches as something leaps the chasm overhead. Something swift, slim and blue, with a tail. The squad members jerk their weapons upward. The squad leader calls into her radio again, asking after the lookouts. No answer. Then something drops to the ground in front of her with a sickening crunch.

  The torso of one of her lookouts, with one arm and its head missing. Blood pours from the wounds and steaming entrails leak from a gash running sternum to groin.

  The squad aims their rifles along the edges of both sides of the canyon, looking for anything to shoot.

  At the far end of the corridor, in the direction they were headed, a thick fog flows in. The soldiers train their weapons on it.

  Pratha looms out the mist in human cloak, nude but for her red pendant necklace. Blood drips from her lips. In one hand she holds a head, in the other an arm.

  Whatever the soldiers expected, it wasn’t this.

  Pratha’s grin grows impossibly wide, becoming a red crescent full of fangs. She begins to grow taller, and sprout extra limbs.

  The soldiers scream for their lives. Which don’t last long.

  * * *

  Traversing a nearby gorge, the members of a different squad hear frantic screams, the sporadic pop of gunfire, shredding of clothes and flesh, breaking of bones, then silence. At the sound of footsteps behind them they whip around, aiming their rifles.

  Myrddin Wyllt and Mrs. Mirskaya come running headlong into the corridor, but pull up short when they see the soldiers. The squad members aren’t quite sure what to make of the odd pair. Mrs. Mirskaya puts a hand on Myrddin’s arm to pass him and engage the enemy.

  “Allow me, madam,” says Myrddin softly. “I need the practice.” He smiles and waves. “Greetings, good people. Mayhap you can help us.” He casually leans his hand on the wall beside him. “We seem to have lost our way.”

  The soldiers aren’t buying it. They open fire, but the bullets fizzle and disappear as they strike an invisible shield of Mrs. Mirskaya’s conjuring. At Myrddin’s side, she speaks under her breath, one hand held out with fingers spread.

  Myrddin’s smile becomes a vicious grin and his eyes shine with a touch of crimson. He says two archaic words then slaps his palm against the wall.

  The walls on both sides of the soldiers shatter. In an instant, the entire squad is buried in an avalanche of stone.

  As the dust clears, the crimson fades from Myrddin’s eyes. He smacks his hands together at a job well done. “I wish I could have done that in the cave where I was imprisoned. The best I could do was scratch the walls with other rocks. Just like a man.”

  “The cave must have been enchanted,” says Mrs. Mirskaya. “How did Matunos get in?”

  “With the strength of The Bear, and a very large hammer.”

  “That explains why we could not find you.” She holds a hand for Myrddin to c
limb over the rubble first. “Proceed, mighty wizard.”

  “Absolutely not,” Myrddin protests. “Ladies first.”

  Mrs. Mirskaya shoulders past him and clambers up the pile of rock. Myrddin follows, pleased at his cleverness, because now he has a nice view of her broad, skirted backside.

  From the top of the tumbled stone they step to the cliff and look around. In the distance, Mrs. Mirskaya spies a river. She incants in a whisper—

  —and the river answers, bulging toward them to lap at the bank.

  * * *

  From Fintán’s back, Zeke sees the parked convoy far below and the half-dozen soldiers who’ve been left to stand sentry, a few of them rummaging through Edgar’s truck.

  Fintán swoops down amongst the hills to avoid detection. As he lands in a secluded gulley, he tips and rolls his shoulder to force Zeke forward, at the same time reaching up and grabbing him to pull him off and set him on his feet.

  “Stay here,” he says, and takes off again.

  Zeke’s shaken by the sudden dismount, but also upset at being left behind. He starts to shout, thinks of the soldiers nearby, and utters a soft and ineffectual, “Hey!” But Fintán is gone.

  Peter runs by along the top of the gulley, so fast that Zeke only has time to raise his hand to try and catch his attention. Then Peter, too, is out of sight. Zeke grunts in frustration.

  * * *

  Prowling down a corridor, Edgar says, “I deeply regret you had to do that, Fiona.”

  “I can’t believe I did it,” Fi utters, still in shock. She looks at her trembling hands. “All I could think was he was going to shoot you in the back. And then he was dead.”

  Edgar says, “It is a dreadful thing to take a life.” He stops to face her, sadness in his eyes. “You should know, Fiona, that all of us have done it. Most at a younger age than you.” His affection for her, appreciation for what she did for him, as well as remorse that she had to do it, are written on his face. “If this deed must be done, best it be to protect the ones we care for.”