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

by Dyrk Ashton

  Cù is quiet for a moment. “As for why I’ve defied my master, I don’t comprehend entirely. Nor do I know what I expect to gain from it, or from serving Father. It goes against every fiber of my being. All I do know is it feels right.” He says it as if ashamed.

  The group is silent for a time, then Akhu asks, “Is it possible you fear for your soul?”

  It takes awhile for Cù to answer. “I doubt it.”

  Mac rises to his feet, dons his pack and says to Naga, “He looks at any of us cross-eyed, you’ll still gobble him up, won’t you, Brother Snake?”

  “With little thought and no conscience at all, Brother Rooster.”

  “Sound fair to you, Brother Cerberus?”

  * * *

  They walk out to the open terrain, the aurora borealis putting on its light show in the distance.

  Akhu says, “With Naga accompanying us, we should stay on this world as long as possible before slipping. It’s a long journey, but the frozen oceans will make it faster.”

  “We will move more quickly if I carry you,” Naga offers.

  The response is a swift jumble of all speaking at once: “No no,” “Wouldn’t want to impose,” “Once was quite enough,” “Thank you, though...”

  Naga huffs.

  Then Kabir spies something and points toward the Northern Lights. “Look.”

  A portion of the borealis ripples, then bulges, and something comes through, like a pebble dropped through the surface of water that swirls with food coloring. Tiny in the distance, it zigzags toward them, floating over the ice. It disappears, as if passing through an invisible membrane, leaving snow spiraling in the wind—then appears before them, approaching slowly, suspended above the ground.

  The wind whips up their fur and clothing as they gape at the sight. A whirling vortex, sucking up snow, wound through with streamers of red and green light. It grows brighter, illuminated by a white inner glow. A vague form floats at its core.

  Akhu’s expression is one of pure joy. “My sifu comes.”

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  HIGHLANDS

  THE LAKE

  The sky is still gray but the air has cleared, and the white disk of the sun dips toward the mountains to the west.

  Peter leads the group, all loaded with their gear, through a ravine with high walls on either side. A pair of Templar soldiers flank him, alert and scanning their surroundings. Mol trots along, sniffing the edges of a stream that trickles through the center of their path.

  Behind them the ravine widens into a larger valley where the main force of Templar troops bustle around their trucks, beyond where the helicopters have landed.

  Myrddin’s bare feet slosh through the stream. “The last time I was here,” he says with melancholy in his voice, “this was a glorious river, teeming with grayling and trout.” Mrs. Mirskaya offers a look of sympathy. All of them have seen so many things change, and not always for the better.

  Pratha keeps an eye on Baphomet, as do the others of their Templar escort.

  Fintán is not with them, Peter having asked him to fly ahead to Norway and inform Freyja of what has taken place and tell her they’re on their way. From there he’s to proceed to Egypt to ask the Cats and Dogs to gather their numbers and prepare for Peter’s arrival, then return to Freyja’s.

  At the back of the group, Edgar and the colonel walk side by side, he with the strap of his duffel slung over his good shoulder, she with hands clasped behind her back.

  “Where we’re going has been hidden for millennia,” says Edgar. “I hope you understand, we can’t allow your troops to gain knowledge of how or where to enter.”

  “Of course.”

  “It is not only for the secrecy of the place, but out of respect for the one who dwells there.”

  The colonel speaks with an air of reverence. “The Lady of the Lake.”

  “Our business here could take us well past sundown,” Edgar continues. “I’m not comfortable with you staying, but if the mode of transportation we hope to use is not available, we may need to impose upon you for a plane flight.”

  “I’ll have one standing by at Lossie just in case. With escort, of course.” She nods to the shockproof molded case he carries in one hand. “You should have enough radios to set up relays as needed. Please test it when you’re in place.”

  “Of course.”

  “And don’t worry about us. We have the latest in perimeter surveillance tech. We’ll know if anyone, or anything, approaches from surface or air. We’ll report immediately if we detect anything out of the ordinary.”

  “And we will hasten to you with all possible speed.”

  Mol stirs up a grouse at the edge of the ravine. As it flies away, wings whistling, he stiffens in the pose of an English Pointer hunting dog, as if expecting the soldiers to shoot it.

  Edgar scoffs at him. “Molossus, what on earth are you doing?” Mol drops the pose, his tongue flopping out of his doggy grin, and his grunts sound like laughing.

  Fi and Zeke share a grin at the joke—at a dog making a joke, no less.

  The ravine narrows further and the soldiers providing escort in the lead stay back, allowing room for the rest of the group to file in and join Peter where the stream dribbles over the edge of a severe drop. Here the ravine stops, opening dramatically onto a wide valley cupped in mountains, its floor at the bottom of a steep escarpment one hundred yards below.

  Yellow grass ekes out a living on hard cracked mud marked with spurs of weathered granite, sloping to acres of mucky bog. A solitary tree, a huge willow, looks to have seen better days, even from this distance.

  Zeke says, “This is the Lake?”

  “A magnificent waterfall fell here,” Myrddin replies sadly, “with rainbow mists. It was never a deep loch, but cold and blue and clear as day. My, it was beautiful.” His mood lightens. “The true beauty, however, has long been what lies beneath.”

  Peter examines the escarpment and begins picking his way down one side, the others following behind.

  “This is the place, then?” asks the colonel as she and Edgar step to the edge.

  “It is,” says Edgar. “Though not as grand it once was.”

  She speaks to her lieutenant, who has been following. “Have them set up a perimeter. Remain on high alert.”

  “Yes ma’am,” the lieutenant responds, then steps away to use his radio.

  Edgar gazes into the valley. “Our enemy is formidable. I would have you come with us below, if you would. I can speak to the others.”

  “Thank you, but I will remain with my troops,” the colonel replies. “That is my choice.”

  “I understand.” He thinks of something. Referring to a passage written for the Knights Templar centuries ago, he says, “De Clairvaux needs a bit of an update, so I’ll give it a go. ‘The Templar is truly a fearless knight, and secure on every side, for her soul is protected by the armor of faith, just as her body is protected by the armor of steel. She is thus doubly armed and need fear neither demons nor men.’”

  The colonel brightens. “Bernard de Clairvaux, from the year of our Lord, 1153.”

  Edgar says, “Faithful and armored as you may be, notify us at the slightest hint of trouble. We shall arrive posthaste.”

  “I will indeed.” She offers him a card from her pocket. “This is my contact information, as well as the direct number to the Order’s central command. I don’t believe you’ll have a problem convincing them who you are. They’re aware of the current situation. Call on us should you require anything at all, at any time, anywhere.”

  “Thank you,” says Edgar, taking the card. “Your kindness will not be forgotten.”

  “This is not kindness. This is duty.” Edgar smiles in appreciation. She faces him squarely and stiffens to military attention. “If I do not see you again, it has been the honor of my lifetime to serve you, Sir Galahad.” She salutes, as do the nearby Templar soldiers.

  Edgar looks them over, somewhat abashed, but he s
alutes back with pride, as crisply as they have. “It has been my honor to make the acquaintance of the granddaughter of a man I highly respected, and whom I called friend.” He holds his hand out.

  The colonel shakes it firmly, reciting an old Templar saying, “Sicut umbra transeunt dies,” which translates into English, “As the shadow pass the days.”

  Edgar replies with another motto spoken by members of the Order for centuries, “Veritas vos liberabit.”

  “The truth shall set you free.”

  * * *

  Not far from the wizened willow, Edgar joins the group as Peter runs his hands over the surface of the largest stone in a formation that looks eerily like a king’s crown.

  “There were once several entrances,” says Peter. “One at the bottom of the Lake itself. This appears to be the only one left.”

  Fi says, “I don’t see anything.”

  Myrddin says, “That’s entirely the point, fine maiden.”

  Fi chuckles at his odd way of addressing her.

  Peter places his palms on the rock and whispers a single multi-syllable word. The face of the stone smooths and recedes slightly, revealing something like a relief sculpture in the shape of a door, six feet wide and ten feet high, with a pointed lancet arch at the top and symbols of a Celtic nature on its surface.

  Peter makes a circle with his finger at Baphomet for him to turn around. Baphomet does so without complaint. Peter swiftly taps a half-dozen of the symbols in what seems like a random pattern. With each touch, a geometric button of rock is depressed. When he hits the last they hear faint clicks from inside the rock, the clunk of counterweights, and the door sinks back to reveal a stairway of polished granite, equally as wide as the door.

  At the same time, Zeke says “Whoa,” and Fi says, “That’s so cool.”

  “You say that a lot lately,” says Fi.

  “There’s a lot of ‘whoa’ going around.”

  “I suppose that’s true.

  Peter enters first, followed by Fi and Zeke. The rest file in, Edgar and Mol going last. The door slides shut behind them.

  * * *

  Far from being dark in the stairwell, it’s lit evenly by diamond-shaped crystals that glow in the walls, embedded at regular intervals. Edgar places a radio from the case given to him by the Templars inside the door, then due to the depth and the density of the stone, sticks more to the walls as they descend, each in line of sight of the last, using them to relay the signal.

  They follow the curving stair, down, down. Dark gray granite at first, the stone of the stairs and walls gradually becomes ivory-white, peppered with lit quartz-like crystals of many colors which together create clear white illumination.

  Peter explains to Fi and Zeke as they wind downward as if they’re on a tour. “This vault was long ago a refuge for the Deva as well as a storage facility. There are few left who know of its existence, let alone how to enter. After the Second Holocaust, the last Great War, it was used to store weapons and armor, to hide things from the Asura, and humankind as well. For the last six thousand years it’s also been the home of one who came to be known as the Lady of the Lake. It’s not only protected by its location and the stone of the earth, but also nearly unbreakable words of power, spells if you wish, woven by our most knowledgeable in the ways of wards, including Freyja and The Prathamaja Nandana. The Lady herself is also an accomplished sorceress. It’s by her grace and power that the vault has remained cloaked even to Deva who don’t know its secrets.”

  “You can cloak a place? Hide it so people can’t see?” Zeke asks.

  “So they cannot see or enter.”

  The stairs gradually widen as they descend until they come around a final curve to a landing, below which steps widen further to the floor of the vault. Peter stops short. “Great Élan...”

  The rest of the group gathers around them on the spacious landing. Those who have never seen the place—Fi, Zeke, Edgar and Baphomet—look on in wonder. The others, with despair.

  The design of the vault is simple, a rectangle with a peaked ceiling, but completely open, without column or brace, like an airplane hangar for multiple jumbo jets. The walls and ceiling are polished smooth, speckled through with glowing crystals, and two doors can be seen along the wall to the left. Running length-wise are dozens of rows of timber-framed shelves, four stories high.

  But the place has been ransacked. Shelves are broken and all manner of containers and packing materials from throughout time strewn about. Cracked pottery, trinkets and knickknacks, tarps and oil-cloths, blankets and tapestries, all apparently considered to be of no value, lie scattered or tossed into piles.

  But what holds Peter’s mournful gaze is a funerary dais, not far from the foot of the stairs, upon which a body lies beneath an oblong crystal dome.

  Edgar maintains the presence of mind to stick the final radio to the wall and switch it on while the others set down their bundles, shed backpacks, and approach in silence to look upon a woman, lying on her back in peaceful repose.

  It’s definitely a woman, but unlike any Fi and Zeke have ever seen. She’s at least seven feet tall, dressed in a humble white robe of silk, her feet bare, and her head is elongated like sculptures of Egyptian pharaohs. Her eyes are closed and her arms are crossed over her chest with the palms resting at her shoulders. Her skin is perfect, with no sign of age or deterioration, as is her clothing.

  Peter inspects where the crystal dome meets the dais and finds he can tilt it up. Once he does, it stays in place. The others crowd closer as he reaches slowly, respectfully, to place his fingers on her neck. He makes a small noise, and his eyes grow moist.

  Mrs. Mirskaya has tears in her eyes as well. “Papa. Is she...?”

  Peter touches the woman’s cheek. “She’s gone.”

  Mrs. Mirskaya lets out a sob while Myrddin Wyllt weeps openly. “No, no,” he says, as if willing her back to life.

  Pratha’s expression is rigid with anger as she begins to inspect the body. Mrs. Mirskaya joins her.

  “Who was she?” Fi asks, the sadness in the others affecting her even though she doesn’t know the deceased. “I mean, I know she was the Lady of the Lake, but what was her name?”

  Peter wipes a tear from his cheek. “Her name was Isis.” Zeke’s eyes go wide. “Yes, that Isis,” Peter confirms. “She was not my daughter, not Firstborn, but of a race that would translate roughly into English as the Greens. They had lifespans of tens of thousands of years, the force of life was that strong in them, but were by no means immortal. And they made choices long ago that led to their slow demise. She was the last.” Peter’s expression hardens as he continues. “She fled here to live out her days in mourning after the death of her husband, Osiris, in Ancient Egypt. Murdered, it is rumored, and believed by Horus, in a plot devised by Baphomet.”

  Peter leaps on Baphomet and slams him to the floor. Straddling his stomach, Peter grabs him by the jaw with one hand. Peter’s eyes gleam red as he says, “What do you know of this?”

  Baphomet remains surprisingly calm, but there’s a spark of fear in his pink eyes. “Why, Pater,” he says with difficulty between teeth clenched by Peter’s grip. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Peter roars, lifting Baphomet’s head and slamming it down hard enough to crack the stone beneath. The sound of the blow echoes through the room. It would have killed a human instantly, splattered brains over the floor. As it is, Baphomet is stunned. Fi and Zeke back away, huddling close at the sudden outburst and palpable aura of rage that radiates from Peter like heat from a stove.

  “Do not trifle with me!” Peter screams in his face. “None of your tricks affect me. None of your scheming lies. What happened here?”

  Baphomet’s eyes loll, unable to focus. “I do not know.”

  Peter smacks his head into the floor again, shattering stone this time, shards skittering. “DO NOT LIE TO ME!” His voice seems summoned from the stone of the hall itself. The crystals dim, then gradually their light returns.

&nb
sp; Pratha’s voice comes from behind them. “Pater.”

  Peter seems not to hear, his face only inches from Baphomet’s. “Tell me.”

  Pratha repeats more forcefully, “Pater.”

  Baphomet can barely utter the words, “I do not know.”

  Then Pratha is there, the only one brave or foolish enough to approach, placing a hand on Peter’s shoulder and squeezing gently. Peter’s breathing slows and gradually the red recedes from his eyes. He shoves to his feet. “What is it?”

  “I can’t explain the condition of the vault, but there’s no injury to Isis, physically or by curse. No trace of poison of any kind. She passed naturally.”

  Peter runs a hand over his face. His eyes fall on the body of Isis. “Or of heartbreak.”

  * * *

  The group stands before one of only two sets of double doors in the vault, equally spaced along one wall. Ten feet wide, tall and peaked at the top like the secret entrance in the stone above, but made of wood, with a tree carved in their varnished surface. Myrddin pushes them open to reveal a large domed chamber, also lit by crystals in the walls and ceiling. The only thing in it is a tumble of stone at its center.

  “Oh no,” Myrddin exclaims.

  Edgar speaks into the handheld radio he received from the Templars to test it. The colonel answers, “Coming through loud and clear. All is well?”

  Edgar says, “Not entirely, but we are safe. It looks like we’ll be needing that air transportation after all.”

  * * *

  In the valley where the trucks and helicopters are gathered, the colonel stands in the open back of a truck, inside which is the communications center for the Templar battalion.

  “Acknowledged,” she replies into her radio. “Word has already been sent to have one standing by.”

  * * *

  “Thank you,” Edgar answers, watching as Myrddin stumbles to the broken circle of stone and lays a hand on a piece of one of what looks like a dozen monoliths of pink granite, toppled and cracked apart. “And, Colonel—take care up there.”