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

by Dyrk Ashton

  Another thought occurs to Fi. She clenches her fist. “I’m strong.”

  Edgar gives her a reluctant smile. “Much stronger than you think.”

  They duck from another passing helicopter. Fi wipes her eyes and notices Edgar’s coat is torn and he’s bleeding. “Your arm,” she says.

  “It’s nothing,” Edgar replies. Fi chews her lower lip. “I’m no weakling myself,” he says. “But you, my dear. You are Firstborn. You’ll find you can do things you never would have imagined.”

  “I already have,” says Fi. “Lots.” She watches her feet as she walks the path, stepping over stones with agility. “Look, I’m not even tripping and falling down.”

  Edgar chuckles, but stifles it as two soldiers leap over a narrow expanse ahead. Luckily they don’t glance this way, moving as if they’re in a hurry, or chasing something.

  “Why do they keep coming?” Fi asks. “Don’t they know what they’re up against?

  “Perhaps they know. Perhaps not,” says Edgar as they continue along the corridor.

  “Are they vampires, or those werewolf things?”

  “Those we just encountered were not wampyr nor werebeasts of any kind. They were human soldiers, highly trained, though they wear no country’s insignia of identification.”

  Baphomet speaks. “Most are men and women who have been paid generous sums not to fail. They may not comprehend the true extent of the Firstborn’s power, but they must be aware what they hunt are not human beings. They also fear certain death should they fail, and the deaths of their families. Not quick deaths either, but a long, ghastly demise for all. “

  “More ghastly than we’ve already seen?” Fi asks.

  “Oh yes.”

  * * *

  Zeke kicks a rock in frustration at having been left behind, then hops, saying, “Ow, ow, ow,” to lean a hand on a boulder. As the pain subsides, his mind on his aching toe, his vision blurs and there’s a ringing in his ears, then the whine, whir and squeak that bring on the nightmarish visions of a past that’s not his.

  But this isn’t so far in the past. Not so far at all.

  * * *

  An entire ocean, floating before him, boiling away. Turning to a coastal city, buildings crushed, bodies broken, burning, spinning in the air. The earth quakes, and the moon cracks...

  * * *

  Zeke slaps his hand on the boulder. “Not now!” To his surprise, the signal withers, sounds disappear, and the nightmare is gone.

  His hand tingles. He pulls it away and the sensation fades, then returns when he puts it back, only stronger. All other perception diminishes, and he’d swear he feels the breeze on the boulder’s surface, as if it were part of his own skin. The sensation is similar to what he felt when he accidentally got his arm stuck in the wall after slipping away from Peter’s house during the attack by Kleron’s underlings. But this doesn’t hurt. It’s almost pleasant. Communal, even.

  He explores it further, finding he can also feel the warmth from the rays of the sun on the stone, even though its light is diffused by clouds. Then the cool interior of the boulder, and the gritty moistness of the dirt on which it sits. And it feels like the stone is feeling him, feeling it...

  Zeke jerks his hand away and the sensation vanishes. “I must really need some sleep,” he says out loud. He takes a breath to steady his nerves, slaps his cheeks and swings his arms, then hears the rapid pop-pop-pop of gunfire in the distance. “Fi...” He clenches his fists, makes up his mind and says, “You’re batshit crazy is what you are, Zeke.” As if to prove himself right, he runs toward the sounds of battle.

  * * *

  Edgar, Fi, Mol and Baphomet come to a high pile of rocks and climb over into a sizable circular canyon. Only two other gullies lead out, but they’re on the other side, quite a ways away. They creep close to the curved wall and are halfway to the other end when Mol halts, growling, hair rising along his spine.

  Urgent voices and the pounding steps of many boots come from ahead. “Get back,” Edgar whispers. They turn to run, but gunfire tears up the dirt at their feet.

  A voice echoes through the canyon. “Halt!”

  The way back is too far and the exit is blocked by the rubble they had to climb to enter, so they obey and turn back.

  Soldiers appear on the cliffs at the far side of the canyon. Below them, more jog out of both gullies and spread out, weapons aimed. Of those on the floor of the canyon, two step forward. The first pulls down his tactical mask, revealing fangs behind parted lips, then lifts his protective combat glasses. The sclera of his eyes are shot through with red around ice-blue irises. The other pulls her mask down as well, revealing herself to also be wampyr.

  The leader calls out, “Face-down on the ground and no one gets hurt.”

  But wampyr are not to be trusted, so instead, Edgar sings.

  “His truth is marching on...”

  “Edgar, what are you doing?” Fi shouts.

  Baphomet glances at the canyon wall beside them. A chimney of stone runs from the ground to the cliff over twenty feet above. Too wide and smooth to climb quickly, but the side away from the soldiers offers some shelter. He shoves Fi back and tries to get Mol behind him as well, but Mol snaps at him and stays where he is.

  Edgar nods at Mol to back away and Mol obeys, taking a place next to Baphomet, though it’s apparent he’s not happy about it.

  “Better get down, all of you,” Edgar says. He continues his song, though humming instead of singing, as he lowers himself to one knee and drives the tip of his sword into the dirt.

  The two lead wampyr exchange glances, obviously wondering what this crazy old fucker with the sword could possibly think he’s doing. The wampyr woman aims her rifle and fires, hitting Edgar in the shoulder.

  Fi cries out as Edgar jerks, but Baphomet holds her back. Edgar continues his song, humming even louder.

  Head lowered, eyes closed, he squeezes the grip of the sword in both hands, and the blade begins to glow.

  The wampyr leader gives the order. “Contact front!”

  The roar and clatter of every rifle being discharged is deafening.

  And yet, cringing against the rock, Fi can still hear her uncle humming “Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

  Sparks fly and acrid smoke rises as Edgar holds his position. Fi covers her eyes, unable to watch.

  The barrage goes on and on. The tangy stench of cordite on the breeze, tinkling of expelled shell casings on stone, and through it all, Edgar’s song.

  Finally the last gunshot echoes away, and Edgar is quiet.

  Fi dares to look. As the smoke clears around her uncle, her surprise is mirrored in the faces of their attackers.

  Edgar gets to his feet, one hand on the haft of his sword, and he lifts its tip from the ground. But it no longer looks like a sword. Every round has been caught by the blade, cocooning it in mangled lumps of lead, copper alloy and steel. Edgar swipes the sword in an arc, flinging the bullets to the dirt.

  The leader of the enemy force clenches his jaw and reloads. The others do the same.

  Fi shoves past Baphomet and runs to Edgar. Hugging his arm, she sees the wound in his shoulder leaking blood. “Edgar.”

  Not taking his eyes off the enemy, he says, “Shh.”

  They feel the thunder in the ground from the helicopters and hear them coming before they rise to hover above and behind the soldiers on the cliffs. Three of them in formation, machine guns trained on their position.

  The wampyr leader shouts, “Hand over the albino, and we’ll leave you in peace!”

  Baphomet speaks only to Edgar and Fi. “I will go, but they’ll fire upon you either way, and they will not stop.”

  Mol lifts his ears and grunts at Edgar.

  Edgar’s eyes narrow. He leans on his sword, both hands on the pommel. “We’ll wait!” Then, loud enough for their adversaries to hear, he recites from Psalms, 18:13, “Thunder in the heavens against the enemy, O Lord.”

  The wampyr leader groans, then relays a
n order through his throat mic. “Helo One, prepare to engage—”

  His order is drowned out by the screech of a falcon, a hundred times louder than any natural bird. A sound that strikes primordial fear into the soldiers.

  A white streak skims the top of the cliff. Shredded soldiers and broken weapons fly, some landing atop their comrades below, then Fintán mac Bóchra swoops up through the spinning blades of one of the helicopters, which shatter on impact. The helicopter careens and crashes on the rocks. All the soldiers on the ground duck or throw themselves face down in the dirt. The other choppers rise and separate, evading harm except from small pieces of shrapnel from their ruined comrade.

  A flash of golden lightning strikes another of the choppers and it explodes, sending flaming debris in every direction. Rocked by the blast wave, the remaining helicopter elevates again and remains in flight.

  Peter leaps from a nearby cliff to land on his feet with a thump in the canyon, between Edgar and Fi and the attacking force. His arm and Gungnir sizzle. Fintán rockets down beside him, sending up a spout of dust.

  Peter shouts over his shoulder, “All well, Galahad?”

  “Peachy, milord.”

  “Fi?”

  “Well,” Fi responds. “People are trying to kill us. Edgar got shot. But other than that, you know...”

  Someone else shouts Fi’s name, and she and Edgar turn back to see Mrs. Mirskaya and Myrddin Wyllt standing atop the cliff above the corridor where Edgar, Fi and Baphomet entered the canyon.

  “I’m all right,” Fi answers, “but Edgar’s hurt!”

  Mrs. Mirskaya scowls. “Can you climb?” she asks, pointing to the rock wall behind them.

  Edgar responds quickly, “Yes!”

  “Then do it!” She holds out her hands, closing her eyes, and begins to chant. The soldiers atop the ridge are regrouping after Fintán and Peter’s assault. One of them shoots at Mrs. Mirskaya, but the bullets disintegrate on the iridescent shield she’s thrown up in front of her and Myrddin. She doesn’t even stop her incantation when they hear a distant shrieking roar.

  The soldier ceases firing. The earth trembles, and trembles again.

  The sound comes from beyond where Mrs. Mirskaya and Myrddin stand on the cliff—but Mol is looking beyond the soldiers at the opposite end of the canyon, his ears raised. He barks a warning at Edgar.

  Edgar scans the wall beside the chimney. “Up you go,” he orders, pushing Fi toward it. The rock there is rough, with cracks wide enough for handholds, and ledges as well. Edgar gives her a lift and she scrambles up with dexterity she didn’t know she had. Edgar climbs as well, unimpeded by his wound, until they stand side by side on a narrow ledge, clinging to the stone. They made it fifteen feet but are unable to go any further due to the smoothness of the stone, and press close to the side of the chimney for the little protection it provides. Mol bounds to the top of a chunk of rock that lies nearby, but can go no further. Baphomet stays calmly where he is.

  The sound of claws dragging on stone comes from the ravine behind Mrs. Mirskaya and Myrddin. A lot of claws dragging on stone, like metal blades on slate, a keening screech that sets nerves on fire. The stone that blocks the gulley entrance glows blood red, getting brighter as whatever is coming draws closer.

  Fi can see the head of some blue-skinned beast, crowned by a gilded headdress higher than the cliffs themselves. The beast makes its way through the canyon from which they entered, breaking the stone walls around it, quaking the earth with each step. Now Fi sees a red dot on its forehead, and narrow vertical pupils in its smoldering golden eyes.

  The blue beast crashes through the pile of boulders as if they’re made of styrofoam, and strides into the clearing.

  Fi gasps. “Is that really Pratha?”

  Edgar is just as surprised, but answers, “One of her many avatars. She can mold her form like no other. This one has become known as the Hindu goddess Kali—‘she who is death.’”

  Pratha’s avatar is smeared in gore, her mouth nothing but fangs, and her four long arms end in hands with claws like carmine scythes. Other than her red pendant, all she wears is a crudely strung necklace of soldiers’ heads, some with helmets still on them, and a skirt of bleeding arms and legs held together by belts and strips of torn uniform.

  She glances at Fi and Edgar as she passes, her head higher than where they cling to the wall. Her grin is a hideous sight on her nightmare visage, and she winks. Then she nods to Mol and points a gnarled clawed finger at Baphomet as if telling him to “stay.”

  Fi utters, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

  To which Edgar replies, “Aye.”

  Pratha towers over Peter’s shoulder, blocking Edgar and Fi from the enemy with her gigantic body. “Hello Pratha,” says Peter without taking his eyes off the soldiers.

  “Father.”

  “I wondered where you’d gotten to.”

  “I could say the same,” she retorts.

  Peter and Pratha give the enemy a ruthless grin. Fintán would as well, but he can’t because in Trueface he only has a wicked flesh-rending beak.

  The wampyr leader and his second are finally realizing they might be outmatched.

  The ground vibrates again, but this is low and constant, and another sound rises. The murmuring rush of the river, answering Mrs. Mirskaya’s call.

  Edgar shouts down to Mol, “Run, lad!” Mol hesitates, then leaps from the rock and bolts to the gully opening Pratha has cleared.

  The roar grows louder, and the soldiers in the canyon turn to see the river gush through the gullies where they entered, walls of water ten feet high. They don’t have time to cry out before they’re consumed in the flood. Peter, Fintán and Pratha lean into the surge.

  Water lashes at Fi and Edgar’s feet, and Baphomet is swept away.

  * * *

  Zeke jogs in the direction from which he heard more gunfire. At least he thinks he’s going in the right direction. Climbing up to see where he is seemed a good idea for a second, until he realized the bad guys would probably see him too. He comes to a fork in the gullies, makes a command decision and heads to the right—but hasn’t gone far before Mol comes sprinting around a bend ahead. “Mol!” Zeke cries, happy to see him, then worried because Mol’s alone and running as if his life depends on it.

  Mol barks in alarm, and the flood roars around the bend behind him.

  Zeke says, “Oh shit,” and turns and runs away. A few steps later, Mol has caught up to him, and the water catches them both.

  * * *

  Mrs. Mirskaya ceases to chant from her perch above the circular canyon. The flood begins to drain away, more swiftly than would seem possible.

  Peter, Fintán and Pratha remain right where they were. Most of the enemy has been carried away, but a few, broken and soaked, litter the canyon floor. Some cough and groan, still living. One of them clings to Pratha’s ankle. She kicks him away, sending him soaring across the canyon, where he bounces off the far wall.

  The last helicopter still remains. One of the soldiers atop the ridge cries out, “Fire at will!”

  And they do, concentrating on the three that appear to be the greater threat. Their rounds drop harmlessly from the bodies of Pratha, Peter and Fintán. Myrddin and Mrs. Mirskaya leap down into the canyon and hurry to where Fi and Edgar are still on the cliff.

  The helicopter opens up with both machine guns, strafing the ground, then the cliff wall. Bullets chew the stone and knock loose a large chunk.

  “Jump!” says Edgar. Mrs. Mirskaya arrives in time to catch Fi, and Myrddin catches Edgar the best he can—which is pretty well for a skinny old guy. They run and dive behind the fallen rock.

  Myrddin checks Edgar’s wound and says, “This is not too terribly serious.”

  Edgar pokes at it. “No, but it hurts like the dickens.”

  The remaining helicopter launches rockets into the center of the canyon. When rocks stop falling and the dust clears, Peter, Pratha and Fintán stand in a crater of rubble. Other
than that, only the fact that Peter’s clothes are smoldering and nearly shredded from his body shows them affected at all.

  Peter’s spear crackles and glows. Pratha opens her beastly Kali mouth and looses a shriek. Fintán prepares to take to the air and attack.

  Then there’s more machine gun fire—but it comes from behind them. Puffs of dust and blooms of blood appear on the chests of enemy soldiers along the top of the cliff, and they topple. A rocket streaks overhead and the last of the enemy’s helicopters explodes with a sound that rips the air. With a high-pitched whine and a mighty crunch, it plummets and crashes in flames on the rocks below.

  Fi looks back to see another helicopter rise above the cliff behind them, but this one is gray, and its guns are trained on the remaining enemy soldiers across the canyon. Soldiers in combat fatigues are already lined up in prone positions on the cliffs below the helicopter, and more arrive by the second. Another gray helicopter hovers up near the first.

  A woman’s commanding voice booms from the first chopper. “Cease fire! Drop your weapons, on your knees, hands behind your head. Any sign of movement will be seen as an act of aggression and you will be shot. On the count of three. One. Two...”

  CHAPTER TEN

  NAGALOK

  NAGA’S WAR

  Kabir, Cù Sìth and Mac lope over the snow-covered tundra of Nagalok, right behind Akhu. She points to a formation of black rock that protrudes from the ice. “There,” she says, and picks up her pace. The rocks look much like any other on this world from what Kabir can tell, but he and the others speed up and follow.

  She stops at the foot of the rocks and taps the ice with her staff. “This is it.” She spots a swarm of locusts on the horizon that’s been trailing them since they slipped back to this world. “We must hurry.”

  The others step back as she raises her staff, holding it vertically, and jams the end down into the ice, which explodes on impact. The effort only reveals more blue ice below. “The glacial sheet has gotten thicker,” she says. She hits it again, much to the same effect. She jumps down into the depression she’s made. “Kabir, some assistance please.”