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

by Dyrk Ashton

  The mail of the harness is flexible, to accommodate breathing while remaining snug. He twists toward a rack only he can reach and retrieves one of his infamous scimitars, which is unbelievably large, befitting his size. Forged by The Prathamaja Nandana for the Firstborn warrior couple Gan-jiang and Mo-ye, they had gifted them to Naga for saving the life of their son during the First Holocaust. Naga named the swords after the pair when they perished later in that war.

  He snaps the sword into a specially-made blade guard, then fetches and places the other, identical to the first. Spreading his arms in a gracious manner, he says, “Naga is ready.”

  * * *

  “Is it ready?” asks Kleron. At the lip of the shaft, the specialist enters the final code on the device. Lights blink in time with a slow series of beeps.

  “It’s set,” the man says, closing and latching the case. More lights blink on the lid and the beeping can still be heard.

  “Excellent,” says Kleron. He places his hands on the specialist’s shoulders. “Thank you for your service.” He grabs the man by the chin and back of the head and twists his neck until it snaps, then drops him into the hole and kicks the case in after him.

  * * *

  Akhu, Mac, Kabir and Cù Sìth leave the armory with Naga. Though they have to run to stay near Naga’s head, they’re fully aware this is nowhere near the speed at which he can travel. His long body winds out behind them.

  Naga’s cobra daughter joins them as they proceed down a hall, away from where they entered Naga’s palace. He greets her, calling her Sheshali, and the two of them converse in long, modulated hisses. The other Firstborn understand even this esoteric snake-speech. Naga asks her about the other daughters. She tells him they’ve gone to the entrance and will not return. She says it without sadness or remorse, but simply as fact. Naga slows, head sagging. “A fine death, but I will miss them, nonetheless.”

  Naga stiffens. “I feel something in the stone.” He presses his flat snake-ear to the wall. “There is vibration, very slight, coming from the front stairs.” He closes his eyes. “And... something beeping.”

  The others exchange glances. Kabir says, “The device is armed.”

  “We must away with all haste, My Lord, or all is lost,” says Akhu.

  Naga rises before them. “Then you shall bear witness to the true meaning of haste.” He offers the tip of his tail to Sheshali, who bites down on it and holds on with her clawed hands. Then Naga opens his hood and strikes before they can react, grabbing them in his arms and scooping all four of them into his hood, folding them tight against his body.

  * * *

  Ziz touches down on a high ridge, far from the pit to the palace entrance. Xeco and the wampyr policeman slide down one of his wings. Kleron remains on Ziz’s back at the base of his neck, Hugin on his shoulder. They watch, and wait.

  * * *

  Naga’s serpentine speed is astonishing. Slithering around obstacles, pushing off walls, bypassing bridges to spring across chasms, smashing through doors, winding up massive columns, literally cutting corners as he knocks out chunks of stone with his passing. Through empty halls, chambers filled with treasure, and caverns piled with bones. Beneath a waterfall, diving into a dark lake, teeming with horrors that flee in fear of The Snake. Swimming, shooting out onto the shore, into a cave tunnel that angles sharply, corkscrewing up, and up.

  The earth shakes, pummeling Naga with stone. Superheated air blasts from behind, a shockwave of dust and debris, and the cavern begins to collapse. Yet Naga pushes on, even as the earth closes in around him.

  * * *

  The glacial landscape of Nagalok trembles from the detonation, cracking out in undulating waves. Steam spouts from gulfs in ice and stone.

  And Naga bursts forth, sending boulders and blue ice flying. He soars, spiraling in the air, lands and slides to a stop, scraping piles of snow with his coils. He shoots his head high and pops open his hood. Akhu, Mac, Kabir and Cù Sìth tumble out onto the snow, then spring to their feet, preparing to meet the enemy. Kabir whips out his swords and sets them alight, Akhu poises with her staff, Mac spins about, wings out in defense and fists raised, and Cù Sìth bares claws and fangs. Naga’s massive scimitars glint blue in the gray light of frozen day.

  The blast of wind from the hole they exited reverses, sucked back into the vacuum. They brace themselves so as not to be drawn in with it.

  When the wind stops, the enemy is nowhere to be seen, but beyond a high ridge, a dark rolling cloud mushrooms in the sky. An aftershock shakes the ground, tumbling stones off the ridge, then earth and ice are still.

  Naga remembers something and twists back, lifting his tail to his face. Sheshali is not there. He scans the area for her, then goes back to the tunnel. Ice and stones are funneling in, and then it is full. He lays down his scimitars and presses an ear to the surface. After a full minute, he rests his chin on the ground and sighs, a sound like a mournful wind in a forest.

  He rises, bows his head, and recites an ancient prayer which can still be seen in the Sanskrit writings of the Hindu Brhadaranyaka Upanishad.

  “Asatho Maa Sad Gamaya.

  Thamaso Maa Jyothir Gamaya.

  Mrithyur Maa Amritham Gamaya.

  Om Shanti, Shanti, Shanti.”

  Mac and Kabir repeat the prayer in English.

  “From untruth lead us to Truth.

  From darkness lead us to Light.

  From death lead us to Immortality.

  Om Peace, Peace, Peace.”

  Akhu says, “I am sorry, My Lord.”

  Naga shakes the snow and grit from his satin-green scales, then retrieves his swords and clips them into the blade guards of his harness. “All of my children are gone. The race of Ahi is ended.” The features of his face, surprisingly expressive for a snake, alter from a countenance of grief to anger, and his voice seethes with vengeance. “Now, this is Naga’s war.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  HIGHLANDS

  POOR FELLOW-SOLDIERS

  A woman of perhaps sixty years of age, with stern features but the inquisitive and shrewd eyes of a scholar, steps out of one of the recently arrived gray helicopters which landed on the far side of the canyon floor. Wearing an officer’s combat uniform with a cocked beret, an insignia with a crown above a star denoting her rank as a colonel, she strides toward where Fi, Peter and the others are gathered. A lieutenant, a young man in his thirties, and several other soldiers accompany them, scanning the cliff-tops and gulley openings for any sign of trouble.

  The colonel surveys the captives, on their knees in a line, hands zip-tied behind their backs, with helmets, goggles and masks being removed. None of the enemy soldiers surrendered, but the British forces chased them down, killing all but a dozen.

  She stops as one of them has their helmet lifted off. The colonel steps up to her, grabbing her face and shoving her lip up with a thumb. The captive’s teeth are nearly translucent and her fangs sharp. It’s the second-in-command of the enemy forces, seen in the canyon earlier. The wampyr hisses. With calm and practiced swiftness, the colonel draws her sidearm and shoots it in the head.

  To the lieutenant, she says, “Those do not count as prisoners of war.” Holstering her pistol, she continues on her way to where Pratha, now back in human cloak and dressed in the hiking wardrobe she wore earlier, is attending to Edgar, who lies on a folding cot brought by the new arrivals. Along the way, she glances to where several of her soldiers are poking through the necklace and skirt of heads and limbs Pratha discarded.

  Pratha’s hand hovers inches above Edgar’s injured shoulder, her eyes closed while she chants under her breath. Edgar grunts and the bullet pops from the wound. Pratha catches it in her palm and hands it to Fi, who’s been watching, biting her nails. Fi grimaces at the bloody little instrument of death in her hand. Pratha pinches the wound shut, says more archaic words, and when she removes her fingers, the hole in Edgar’s flesh remains closed. She stands with a sigh as Mrs. Mirskaya takes over, bandaging Edgar wi
th supplies from a medkit.

  “He’ll be okay, right?” Fi asks Pratha.

  “There was no internal damage so serious I could not sterilize it and begin the process of repair.”

  Edgar says, “Thank you, milady.”

  “Apparently, it’s what I do,” Pratha replies.

  The colonel and her entourage approach. “We have medical officers among us,” she states. “I would gladly offer their services.”

  “Thank you,” says Peter, “but I think we have it under control.”

  The colonel looks at Edgar, and her features divulge a smile of wonder in spite of her controlled demeanor.

  Edgar sees her expression and glances around at the others, but they seem to have no more idea what this is about than he does. He says, “Get me up, if you would.” Mrs. Mirskaya rolls her eyes but helps him to his feet with Fi’s aid.

  “Thank you for your assistance, madam,” he says to the colonel. “But if I may, who are you and how did you come to find us?”

  “I’m Colonel Jacqueline Bryant-Hughes,” she says with a sharp salute.

  The lieutenant unzips a slim case to reveal a ceremonial sword in a silver scabbard. One of the other soldiers places a baldric sash over her shoulder, to which the lieutenant clips the sheath. Edgar’s brow furrows at the sight of a multi-pointed star adorned with a simple red-lacquered cross on a field of white on the baldric. “However,” the colonel proceeds, “the battalion under my command is something other than your typical British Army unit, the identity of which I have no problem revealing to you now.”

  The lieutenant and the rest of the troops unbutton their left breast pocket and fold out a medal with its ribbon sewn to the inside. The insignia matches the one on the colonel’s sash. Fi and the others watch, wondering.

  “We are the New Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ. The Knights of the Temple of Solomon, reborn.”

  “Templars...” Edgar utters.

  Then the colonel, and every member of her battalion on the canyon floor and above on the cliffs, remove their headgear in unison and lower themselves to one knee. A touch of awe and deference enters her voice. “And we are at your service, Sir Galahad.”

  Edgar stutters, unable to process what he’s seeing and hearing. Peter and Fi share a smile at the normally stoic Edgar’s complete loss for words.

  There’s a bark, and the colonel and her troops get to their feet. Mol, Zeke and Baphomet enter the canyon, escorted by a half-dozen of the colonel’s soldiers.

  “Hey!” Zeke shouts with a wave. He jogs toward them, but Mol sprints to Edgar, who takes his eyes off the colonel long enough to rub the dog’s head. “Hello, lad.”

  Zeke arrives, out of breath and soaking wet. “Whew.” He looks around, says, “Whoa,” then asks Fi, “What did I miss?”

  * * *

  The colonel’s troops hustle about, cleaning up the canyon area and loading the prisoners into one of several trucks brought in via a sufficiently wide and navigable route.

  Fi and Zeke sit with their backs to a wall, finishing a lunch of sandwiches, soda, and fresh fruit from a cooler placed there for them by the soldiers. Both have commented that it might be the most delicious thing they’ve ever eaten. They’ve been telling each other stories of what happened since they last saw each other, which now seems to them to be ages ago.

  Zeke didn’t tell her about his weird experience with the rock, or that much the same thing happened when he was swept up in the flood. He’s still convinced he imagined it. Flailing madly, his fear approaching all-out panic, his whole body had begun to tingle again, like his hand had when he was leaning on the boulder. The tingling faded, but then he would swear he could feel the water feeling him, and he could sense the rough stone and ground it washed over. He was aware of the river from which it had come, the leading edge of the flood-wave, as well as what lay between them. He’d felt another life in the water before they bumped into each other, and Zeke grabbed hold of Mol’s fur.

  The water seemed to lift him and Mol to the surface, and it was as if the current steered them safely away from the grating walls and around sharp rocks before setting them gently down as the force of the flood waned and water level fell. Zeke was following Mol back to the canyon when they came across Baphomet relaxing on a rock, toying with the chain Pratha had told him to hang on to, waiting, and then the colonel’s soldiers found them.

  He can’t bring himself to tell Fi about it because it’s... too weird. And though he feels fine, and not really tired, he’s sure it was all the result of stress or a figment of his sleep-deprived imagination.

  While relating their tales to one another, Zeke notices Fi isn’t her usual energetic and sarcastic self, as if she’s preoccupied with something, but he doesn’t want to pry so they eat in silence for a while, listening to the conversation between Edgar and the colonel.

  What he doesn't know, because Fi hasn’t told him, is that she’s killed a man. She's been trying to forget it happened, but that hasn't been going so well—and she keeps thinking about the strength she felt when she did it.

  Zeke leans close, speaking low. “I still can’t believe these are the Knights Templar.”

  “The New Knights Templar,” Fi corrects.

  They’d listened as the colonel explained that while the Templars have existed since the Crusades, they’ve always remained, most importantly, keepers and protectors of ancient secrets. Today, they’re a clandestine faction of the British Armed Forces under the command of a certain major general who’s also a member of their order.

  As for the force that attacked them, many of its members were also in the British military, under orders from high up, beyond even the military command. A deeply secretive group, highly funded and difficult to infiltrate, though the Templars have tried. The mobilization of a force of that size, however, caught the Templars’ attention. They tracked them, but it took time to muster and mobilize themselves, as well as obtain proper orders, and the colonel apologized it took so long to get here—even though they’d begun preparations many hours before Edgar’s plane arrived.

  The Templars had initially been tipped off the enemy was up to something when they intercepted communications ordering the attack on the plane—but even that wasn’t the first they knew of Edgar.

  “We’ve been keeping tabs on you since my grandfather began to suspect your identity,” the colonel said. “You were a Mason then and attended regular meetings for a time in London. My grandfather was Lord Alexander Hughes.”

  “Good gracious,” said Edgar. “A delightful gentleman. A warrior-scholar if ever there was one. Insightful, intelligent, possessing a keen eye and keener wit, with just the proper balance of skepticism and boundless curiosity.”

  The colonel smiled. “That sounds like my grandpa.”

  “He used to come to my flat for tea. We’d talk for hours.”

  “He was also one of us. Please don’t think less of him, but he left memoirs about you and made reports to the Order. He’d become fascinated by your manner of speech, depth of knowledge, and collection of books and artifacts, including a few of your one-of-a-kind Bibles, but especially your sword and shield.” Her eyes fell on the sword that leaned in its scabbard against the arm of his field chair. “Is that it?”

  Edgar turned the question over in his mind, then answered, “Aye, madam, it is.”

  “And it’s truly the Sword of David, as my grandfather proposed from his research?” Edgar nodded, but divulged no more. “We have quite the collection, gathered over the centuries, inherited or looted from other sects, but nothing quite so magnificent as that.” Edgar knitted his brow. “Please, forgive me,” the colonel apologized. “I have no intention of asking you for it. None whatsoever.”

  “Thank you, Colonel.”

  “Please, call me Jackie.”

  Mrs. Mirskaya, who was sitting next to Edgar, had set her tea cup on the table more noisily than she needed to, leaned back and crossed her arms.

  “If you insist,” Edgar re
sponded to the colonel. “But only if you call me Edgar.” Mrs. Mirskaya rolled her eyes and got up from the folding table. The colonel either didn’t notice or decided to pay her no mind.

  “Edgar it is.” She continued her explanation, informing the group that the man who owns the private airport in Canada where Edgar stored his plane is one of the Templars’ North American operatives.

  Years ago, when Edgar first arrived in Canada to rent a hangar, the man recognized him from the few surveillance photographs the Templars had from decades ago, and suspected he was the man her grandfather knew. They’d lost track of him after that, but when he showed up recently with such an interesting group of characters, the operative reported it right away. The Order had been keeping tabs on their flight via satellite since, but were not aware planes had been sent after them until it was too late. That was when they tracked the force of attackers and followed them here.

  The colonel assured them the enemy faction was being monitored, and today’s incident, should it be reported, would be claimed a training exercise. They would have no more trouble from the military here, or from the local authorities either. She knew it was a thin excuse and their situation was tenuous, but she’d said, “This very thing, what is happening right now—this is why we exist. There are forces of evil in this world of which only we are aware, as far as we know, and we have vowed to fight them. Even if we should be revealed to the world, even if we were to perish, we are yours to command.”

  Edgar said, “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

  “One order we cannot obey, however,” the colonel added, “would be if you told us to bugger off. Not while you remain within the sovereign borders of Great Britain.”

  And that settled that.

  * * *

  Having finished their lunch, Fi and Zeke get up and move quietly around Edgar and the colonel to join Peter, who’s listening patiently along with Pratha, Myrddin Wyllt and Mrs. Mirskaya.