by Dyrk Ashton
Fi’s appalled, but she can’t turn away. One of the spiders in a tent tears open a soldier’s chest with a sickening crack, exposing lungs and heart. Its pedipalp mouthparts scoop out the organs and it slurps them down. Next to her, Zeke has no time to stoop or turn away before he power-pukes, spraying vomit that barely misses Mrs. Mirskaya. No one notices but Fi, who places a hand on his back as he leans over, hands to knees, and continues to retch.
Mrs. Mirskaya inspects the spider horde. “Look at their eyes, Pater.” The color of the eyes on each spider range from black to red to blue, green and yellow, but they’re all clouded with gray.
“I see.”
There’s bile in Mrs. Mirskaya’s voice. “Now we know why Max serves Kleron. His children have been returned to him from the dead.”
A ragged caw catches their attention. On top of one of the rocks in the formation that contains the door to the vault is small dark figure, a little over a foot tall.
“Hugin?” utters Myrddin Wyllt.
Fi tries to make sense of the little creature that glares down at them with shining jet-black eyes. Like a cross between a monkey and a raven, but there’s a metal plate in the side of his head and another in his breast. His demeanor exudes hatred, and insolence.
“I thought him brought down by an arrow after he betrayed us,” says Mrs. Mirskaya.
“Dead and lost in the mayhem of the final battle of the Second Holocaust,” adds Myrddin.
“Hugin,” Peter calls to him, but there’s no rancor in his voice, only wonder and concern. “My son. What have they done to you?” A malevolent smile crooks on Hugin’s lips as he spreads his wings and vanishes. A split-second later they hear his caw again from where he’s perched on the highest limb of the willow.
Zeke says to Fi, “Hugin was one of Odin’s ravens in Norse mythology. The other was Munin. Their names mean ‘thought’ and ‘memory.’ Peter told me they’re the only Firstborn who could slip from one place to another, not only between worlds.”
“We could use Munin right now,” says Myrddin. He asks Peter, “Do we know where he might be?”
“I do not,” says Peter, his eyes still fixed on Hugin. “But he has been on my mind. I’m hoping Freyja can tell us something.”
“If they have Hugin... This is nekhorosho,” says Mrs. Mirskaya. “We will need his brother.”
There’s a creak from across the way. One of the helicopters, dragged from the Templar camp along with the tents and trucks, sits near the tree, ruined and strung with web. The engine isn’t running, but one of the spiders sits on top of it, slowly spinning the blades.
Hanging from the first passing blade by thread that binds them upside down at the ankles are three dead soldiers, entrails dangling from split-open abdomens, dragging in the dirt. Then come another three in the same condition. A third blade moves into the firelight and stops.
From a single thread hangs Maskim Xul in hideous Trueface, grinning madly, pus-yellow eyes reflecting the flames. In his clutches is the colonel, trussed in web and gagged. She grunts and struggles. There’s fear in her eyes, but also defiance. Strung from the same blade behind them is the lieutenant, similarly bound as the colonel, also alive, though he bleeds from a bone-deep gash that runs through one eye and his lips.
Max grins wider. “Hello Pater, and friends. So good to see you too, Pratha, my dear.”
An inhuman growl emanates from between Peter’s clenched teeth. Pratha reveals her Trueface and splays her claws. Her tail whips the ground with a resounding whack.
They step forward, but a circular portion of the ground in front of them springs open and four hairy and clawed front legs of a spider larger than any of the others spring out. Peter and Pratha jump back from its considerable reach. The spider-demon stares with green eyes veiled in gray. Other trapdoors of various sizes, at least a dozen in all, lift and clap shut, legs shooting out and snapping back, repeatedly and in random order, until the first recedes below ground, closing its trap, to wait. The others retreat as well.
Fi is aghast. The whole place is mined with spiders.
“I will say this once, Maskim Xul,” says Peter, electricity crackling over his spear, “and I make this vow. Leave this place immediately, harm the humans no more, or the next time I see you I will pluck off all of your legs and leave you alive.”
Pratha adds, “I, however, will not be so kind.”
Myrddin glares at Max, an ancient hatred rekindling. “If only I had my gambanteinn...”
Hands held at her hips, palms to the sky, Mrs. Mirskaya begins an incantation of a kind Fi and Zeke have not yet heard from her. Her voice is low, but there is menace there. Fi looks up upon hearing the rumble of distant thunder.
Looming over all, the moon stares down, its slanted position and shape that of an angry feline predator, yellow and glaring. Fi’s transfixed by it, but roiling storm clouds churn and block it from sight. Lightning shrieks through the clouds, then a barrage shreds the backdrop of night sky, striking the hilltops on the other side of the valley.
Fi can feel the electricity in the air—literally and figuratively. Goosebumps rise on her arms. Zeke runs a hand through his hair to keep it from standing up from the static.
“Mind the watoto, Mokosh,” says Peter. A lightning strike is not a precision weapon. Those who might live from the spider’s wounds would be killed. It’s the same reason Peter hasn’t already used his spear. Mrs. Mirskaya stops her incantation but for a few sporadic words, lessening the power of the storm but keeping it alive.
Max’s voice creaks across the distance between them. “Give us The Goat and we will be on our merry way.”
“Do no such thing,” Pratha says to Peter under her breath. “You know he will not be satisfied with Baphomet. He’ll kill the mtoto colonel at the very least, then flee.”
“I know,” says Peter.
Pratha raises her voice. “We will kill your children, Max, every last one. Then I’m coming for you.”
“The Master will make me more,” Max replies. “When this is over, I will have them all by my side, forevermore.”
Peter says, “I warned you once, Max. Do not doubt me.”
Max’s grin becomes a crooked leer. Without taking his eight eyes off Peter and Pratha, he reaches back and drags a serrated claw through the lieutenant’s throat. Blood spurts. The lieutenant coughs, wet and gargling. Max holds his head up until the man’s eyes glaze with death, then lets it flop.
The colonel groans and squirms, but Max squeezes her tighter, and laughs.
“If I go after Max,” Peter says quietly, “Hugin could slip him away, and his children will attack.”
“I will go,” says Pratha. “I may be able to save the woman and some of the others, if that’s what you want.”
Peter says, “Edgar, Myrddin, Mirskaya,” he waves a finger across Fi, Zeke, Mol, and Baphomet, “get them below.”
Fi isn’t going to argue. Not this time. Myrddin frowns at being left out. Mrs. Mirskaya isn’t thrilled about the idea either, but she doesn’t protest. Edgar’s beginning to usher them in when Fi stiffens and her eyes roll up into her head.
Edgar says, “Fiona?” but Fi can’t hear him. The others turn, but Fi can’t see them.
Flying through a dark night’s rain. In anger, frustration, and pain.
Mrs. Mirskaya says, “What is wrong?” Then Fi blinks, fear written on her face. “Kleron’s coming.” She goes stiff and her eyes roll up again, but only for a second. “I take that back,” she says. “He’s here.”
Heat lightning sparks the sky and thunder crashes. Out of the strobing clouds drops an umbral form with the wings of a bat. Peter clenches his spear and it glows brighter.
“Take him now, Pater, and be done with him,” Pratha hisses.
But Peter watches Kleron’s descent and does not strike. “There is something amiss.”
Kleron swoops to where Max and the colonel hang from the helicopter blade. He appears to lack full control of his flight, hits the ground
harder than necessary, and there’s an awkwardness to his movements. He shifts to his human cloak and stands there for a moment, staring at the ground.
At the top of the willow, Hugin cocks his head then transports himself to Kleron’s shoulder. They converse briefly, then Kleron straightens and speaks to Max, who seems shocked, then angry. Max cuts the colonel loose, dropping her to the ground, then hops down and shears the web that wraps her body.
Edgar groans through clenched jaw to see she’s been stripped of her clothes, her skin scratched and bruised.
Kleron faces Peter and speaks in Proto-Norse, raising his voice so they hear him clearly.
Zeke doesn’t know the language, but Fi does, thanks to Pratha’s awakening of her language center. “He’s speaking in riddles, but he wants to talk. I think.” Peter and the others are surprised, but wary.
“He petitions for one of the oldest accords of the Firstborn,” Peter says over his shoulder. “He wants to parley.”
Mrs. Mirskaya scoffs. “What is he up to now?”
Peter replies to Kleron with a few short words in the same language, which essentially mean, “Your request will be considered in good faith.”
Hugin flies up to alight on the blade of the helicopter and watches with dark unblinking eyes. Kleron helps the colonel to her feet, but she jerks away and stands on her own. Kleron speaks to her, and though she seems leery, she nods. She stands straight, embracing what dignity she has left, and allows him to take her by the arm and lead her toward the others. Stripped of her uniform she looks like what she is, a late-middle-aged, naked woman, but in her carriage is a fortitude few would be able to muster.
Edgar says, “Myrddin Wyllt. Have you your robe?”
Myrddin tugs it from his shoulder bag and hands it over.
Trapdoors pop up as Kleron and the colonel pass, but the spiders retreat at the sight of the Master of the Asura. Fi notices a limp in Kleron’s step as they approach, becoming silhouetted by the fires behind them, their faces shrouded in darkness. Still, there’s a shine to Kleron’s black eyes.
They stop twenty feet away and Kleron says, “A symbol of my sincerity.” He releases the colonel’s arm and indicates for her to join the others. She’s tentative at first, then walks past Peter and Pratha to Edgar, who helps her into Myrddin’s robe.
Edgar says, “I am sorry for your loss, and your suffering. I should not—”
“Say no more.” She looks him in the eyes. “This is our duty, and it is still our honor.”
Fi’s amazed at the colonel’s strength and dedication.
“Are you all right?” Edgar asks. “Harmed in any way?”
“Only my pride,” she replies. “They came in under the ground, swift and silent. Except for their leader.” She shivers. “Maskim Xul, he’s called?” Edgar nods. “He appeared within the perimeter, with that,” she searches for the right word, eyeing Hugin, but can’t seem to find it, “bird.”
“Hugin,” says Edgar.
The colonel shakes her head, knowing the meaning of the name and the myth behind it, but still not quite believing it. Her eyes roam the carnage, the absurdity of its display. “I have seen evil. I have known it exists. But this...” She half sits, half collapses on a ledge of stone. Zeke hands her his water bottle. She looks at him a moment before taking it. “Thank you.” She sips and gives it back, managing a smile. “As always, good will prevail.” But Fi sees the look in Edgar’s eyes, and Myrddin’s and Mrs. Mirskaya’s around them. They aren’t so sure.
Once they’re settled, Peter says to Kleron, “Why have you come, little one?”
Kleron shows no sign of indignation. “The reason I am here concerns all of us, Deva, Asura, and parvuli alike. Indeed, the very fate of the planet.” He changes his language to the one he spoke earlier. Fi understands it better now, and can tell he says, “I invoke the Oath of Odin, and call for safe parley with The Father and those who accompany him. To further prove my intentions are in earnest, I bring this.” He unlatches the straps of a satchel strapped to his shoulder and waist to keep it secure during flight, and pulls out a wooden box. Bizarre designs cover its surface. On the lid is a circle with wings.
A look of surprise appears on the faces of Peter and the Deva.
Myrddin says, “The Rings of Odin...”
“I thought they were lost,” says Pratha.
Peter says, “So did I. This request cannot be denied, and once entered into, cannot be violated.”
“Why not?” asks Fi.
“Because I created it. Odin’s parley is sacred, even among Asura. None have ever refused or dishonored it, and that is the way it must remain.” He addresses Kleron. “What else do you offer?”
“For the guarantee of my safety during the parley, I pledge you will not be bothered by any under my command for a day’s time from the parley’s conclusion. I will tell you now, I am not here to treat, but to provide you with information. I will divulge nothing I do not wish to, and this will not be an end to my plans.”
“We would also have you release the Templars into our care immediately.”
Kleron glances over his shoulder, then says, “They are not mine to give.” The Deva exchange glances. “Maskim Xul is here at my request, I admit, but he is a free agent. I cannot be held responsible for his actions or those of his progeny once I am away. I’m sure you understand.”
“Max has ever been unruly,” Peter replies.
Myrddin says, “Don’t trust the Lord of Lies, Father. Kill him where he stands.”
Kleron cocks his head. “You survived The Bear and The Leech, Madman. I would be impressed, but I believe you can thank another for that.” His gaze falls on Baphomet, who stares back from the shadows.
Myrddin looks to Baphomet, who has drawn the eyes of the others as well, then back to Kleron, his features hardening. “More lies.”
Peter asks, “What do you mean by this, Lucifer?”
The colonel gasps at hearing the name. “Is it true?” she whispers to Edgar, who nods in affirmation.
“I will divulge no more on that account,” Kleron says to Peter. “For your part in the exchange, however, I would take The Goat off your hands. Don’t worry, he’ll be well taken care of.”
“I offer nothing,” says Peter. “You came to us.”
Kleron considers, then emits the smallest of sighs, his shoulders slumping. “I accept.” He straightens again. “Will you hear what I have to say?”
Peter is silent, and Pratha clearly seethes to leap and try to catch Kleron before he can slip.
Meanwhile, Fi creeps closer to Peter, her eyes glued to Kleron. “He’s in pain,” she says. “And he’s afraid.”
“How do you know?” Pratha asks.
Fi steps closer, eyes still on Kleron, then waves at him.
They’re all standing near the door to the vault, Fi between Peter and Pratha. Firelight plays across their features, except where Kleron casts a shadow over them. Fi raises her hand and waves.
It’s like seeing herself through a camera that has a delay.
Fi says, “Because I’m looking at me through his eyes right now.”
Kleron blinks, then looks to Peter, confounded. For Fi, the link is broken and the vision disappears. Pratha studies her with keen interest.
Peter gives Fi a smile, then addresses Kleron. “You will hold to what you have offered. In return, you may have your say in safety and leave in peace upon its conclusion. That is all.”
After a moment of deliberation, Kleron says, “Agreed.” He opens the box. Inside are eight rings, each of a different kind of metal. He lifts the ring of gold, speaks the word, “Draupnir,” and flips it to Peter. Peter catches it, speaks the same word, and tosses it back—but it stops to float in the air halfway between them. It glows, then grows until it’s one foot in diameter, hanging there, radiant and droning, spinning upright like a coin.
“The Pater’s word is inviolate,” says Kleron, “but he cannot be harmed, even by the powers of Draupnir. Another must
act as his proxy, as it has always been.”
Pratha, Edgar, Mrs. Mirskaya and Myrddin Wyllt all offer at the same time, then glare at each other.
Kleron says, “The Pater must choose. Though I’m sure you will agree Baphomet shall be excluded from these proceedings.”
Fi asks Peter, “What does that mean, to act as proxy?”
Peter says, “The proxy, as well as the other party, will be marked by the ring. If either breaks the terms of the parley, the offending party will die.”
“Oh,” says Fi. “And it works on Firstborn?”
“Even the eldest. If Kleron were to break his promise, he would die. If I or any of us here were to do the same, our proxy would die. For us, this will only be until the parley is concluded. For Kleron, we must not be bothered by him or his minions, at least those under his command, for twenty-four hours.”
Fi watches Kleron while Peter explains. “I’ll do it,” she says, to the surprise of all.
Mrs. Mirskaya exclaims, “Fiona.”
Zeke’s been silent in the shadows, but now he comes forward to ask Fi what the hell she could be thinking, to say something, anything, to stop her, but Edgar takes him by the arm and whispers, “Wait.”
Peter asks Fi, “Are you certain?”
“Yes,” she answers.
“Why?”
Fi looks over the group. Her uncle and Mrs. Mirskaya, the people who raised her, whom she loves. Zeke, who she’s beginning to think she loves too, but in a different way. Myrddin, crazed but wise and with a good heart. And Pratha, a true power to be reckoned with and probably the greatest asset to their little band. “Because I have to.” And though she keeps it to herself, there’s something she needs to know. She recalls what Pratha asked her when they discussed her visions of Kleron’s past. Had he touched her? “I want to.”
There’s a sadness in Peter’s eyes, but also a father’s pride. “So be it,” he says softly. He addresses Kleron, raising his voice, “My proxy shall be Fiona Megan Patterson, Firstborn daughter and youngest of The Father.”