by Dyrk Ashton
I am Zeke, son of my foster parents, book nerd, scholar, and you know what, a damn fine guitar player.
Pratha’s symbol glows faintly in his mind’s eye, hovering steadily in the maelstrom of images. It becomes brighter as he focuses on it, and he thinks about Fi. Bad Zeke roars in his head, breaking Zeke’s concentration as pains shoots through his brain. The other almost overcomes him and breaks free—nearly breaking Zeke’s mind in the process. But Bad Zeke has no self-control, only hysterical rage.
Think about something calm, something soothing to latch onto. The other knows his mind a moment later and tries the same, but he can’t conjure anything, so hysterical are his own thoughts.
Zeke thinks of one thing that has never failed him—playing the guitar. He knows that Bad Zeke also has his talent, but by tapping his memories, Zeke knows he never had the training or dedication Zeke had.
Zeke recalls sitting in a circle at the hospital, performing for the old folks, all the patients pacified. And Peter’s favorite song. In his mind’s eye, he begins to play, humming the tune to himself. The other Zeke shrieks, but Zeke ignores him, and plays the best he’s ever played. “Greensleeves,” slowly, deliberately, savoring every note, letting it fill his soul.
Then the song that could “soothe the savage breast” of the Firstborn attackers in Peter’s home replaces the notes. “Brian Boru’s March.” He has no idea if he’s doing it physically, but Zeke bobs his head to the tune in his own mind.
The hurricane of images slows, the sounds fade, and the ranting cries of the other Zeke begin to lose their potency, though they do not go away.
Zeke “plays” the notes faster in his head, and they mix into Fi’s favorite song, the one she used to relax him when he’d slipped his arm into the wall in an attempt to escape the Mahishas, and The Peafowl’s cry. Bach’s “Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring.”
He hums the song with all his might, stronger and faster, squeezing his eyes shut against the continued assault of the other’s memories. The images from Bad Zeke recede further, his own taking the foreground, knitting at the edges into a tapestry of his life that makes sense, blocking the other out. But Bad Zeke’s still there, scrabbling at the barrier Zeke has erected, scratching for existence, and he begins to claw his way through.
Fi’s face appears, her eyes sparkling green, beautiful lips, perfect for kissing, smiling that smile that beams sunshine—but literally, this time. Her whole body beams with sunshine, and she says, “You can do it, Zeke. You can do it. I want my Zeke. My Zeke!”
The breach in his memories that was created by the other begins to mend. The music slows. Though he fears the outcome, Zeke stops humming. The other remains silent and still, and Zeke realizes—he’s done it.
But he knows Bad Zeke isn’t gone for good. Just buried deep and locked away, for the time being.
* * *
A soft breeze caresses Zeke as the exterior world comes back to him. He’s on his knees, drenched in sweat, fists clenched at his thighs.
And somewhere Fi is pleading, “I want my Zeke. My Zeke!”
He opens his eyes. The whirlwind has stopped, stones and branches fallen back to the earth. There at the lip of the crater stands Fi, with Peter holding her back by one hand as she tries to get to him. Around them is an ethereal golden light, and Fi is rimmed by a rich amber glow. They look like angels, Zeke thinks, though tears stream down Fi’s reddened face and Peter looks worried. Then Peter’s expression changes to something like awe. The visible aura around them fades.
Fi gasps as she realizes Zeke is watching them. She tugs at Peter again and this time he lets go. She runs to Zeke, but stops in hesitation, dropping to her knees a few feet away. “Is it you?” she says, her voice quaking. “Please be you.”
Zeke wonders for a moment, questing in his mind while Fi searches his eyes. He can’t quite believe it, but he can say without reservation, “It’s me.”
She looks into his eyes a moment longer, then a magnificent smile of relief and joy erupts on her face. “It is you.” She lunges and hugs him, nearly knocking him over, and sobs into the hair at his neck while he holds her tight. “It is you.”
Peter stands over them now, gazing down with what appears to Zeke like a mixed expression of relief, amazement, and love.
A low rumbling roar, building in the distance. Peter’s features tighten. “We have to go.”
Fi breaks away and they help each other up.
Peter looks to the sky behind them, and they turn their heads to see the moon closing fast. It fills the sky, the shadow of the earth spreading on its surface. The rumbling grows louder, vibrating through the ground beneath their feet.
Zeke and Fi follow Peter’s gaze to a ridge of mountains that rims one side of the city. Peter steps between them, taking their hands.
A tsunami, a mile high and stretching across the horizon, crashes over the hills. They slip away as the wall of water smashes into the dead city and the moon smacks the atmosphere, igniting the sky with heat equal to that of the sun.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
HIGHLANDS
THE WHEEL
Having seen the lightning and heard inhuman screams immediately upon slipping back to this world, Fi, Zeke and Peter, Gungnir at the ready, come running out of the fog.
The fires set by Max and his progeny have been doused. Only the helicopter, now tipped on its side and crushed, still burns. Water, black with silt, drains back into the bog beyond, bubbling out of open spider holes. Steam rises from the ground. There’s no sign of Hugin, Max, or Max’s progeny.
From the darkness on the other side of the burning helicopter, Pratha, in Trueface, leaps to a crouch on top of it. The flames don’t affect her as her golden eyes search the cratered and ruined ground for signs of the enemy. Satisfied, she jumps down.
Another creature, stocky and covered in black fur streaked with gray, stalks out of the fog, chanting to the sky. It joins Pratha and they walk together toward Peter, Fi and Zeke, the creature smacking its hands together as if dusting them off in satisfaction at a job well done.
Peter whispers, “Gungnir.” The spear snaps back to the shape of a gold rod and he puts it in his pocket.
Pratha morphs to human form, dressed in the outdoor clothing she wore earlier. She drags something dark, slim and bent behind her. But Fi’s attention is on the furry beast. In spite of its appearance, much like a cross between a beaver, muskrat, and human being, she knows exactly who it is. “Mrs. Mirskaya...” she breathes.
Coming to a stop a few feet away, Mrs. Mirskaya says, “Da?” then realizes she’s in Trueface. But before she can say a word or do anything about it, the helicopter heaves back to crash and splash in the marsh. Pratha and Mrs. Mirskaya spin as a spider, bigger than any they’ve encountered, scrambles out of a water-filled hole beneath where the chopper sat. Body and hair mottled with burns, half its eyes missing, it launches toward them.
Mrs. Mirskaya thrusts up a hand, splaying fingers with stubby claws, calling to the sky. A sudden wind slams into the demon spider and a bolt of lightning strikes. The spider crashes to the mud, crisped, split open and steaming. It flames green, breaks apart, and crumbles to dust.
They take one last look around. Mrs. Mirskaya quickly dons her human cloak before turning back. She smooths down her skirt, like a woman caught in her sleep-clothes by unexpected guests. She won’t look at Fi as she speaks. “Now you have seen Mokosh. Hideous, yes?”
Fi’s incredulous. “You just zapped a giant spider-monster with lightning. The two of you wiped out a whole family of those things, and you’re worried about how you looked doing it?” Mrs. Mirskaya’s uncertain how to respond.
Fi steps closer. Now that she’s witnessed what her old babysitter really looks like, by narrowing her eyes and focusing, she can see her true form at will, as if superimposed over her human cloak. Upon closer observation, Mrs. Mirskaya’s fur is sparsely streaked with silver, her large breasts, high and pointed, softened with fuzz. Her face is covered in short
fur as well, with buck teeth, whiskers and long lashes. Fi would recognize those brown eyes, and the person behind them, anywhere.
Mrs. Mirskaya is obviously uncomfortable under Fi’s scrutiny, but she says nothing.
Fi smiles with affection. “Hideous, no.” She hugs the old woman tight, though her arms don’t quite go all the way around her.
Mrs. Mirskaya cradles Fi’s head and strokes her hair. “Spasibo, Fiona.” She sniffs.
Zeke looks on, realizing Mrs. Mirskaya must have dreaded this day for a long time, fearing what Fi might think of her.
Mrs. Mirskaya catches him watching her, and Zeke prepares for a scolding. But instead of berating him, she asks, “You are good? Other problem is taken care of?”
“I’m good, thank you,” Zeke replies. “And, yeah.” She checks with Peter, who nods in confirmation. Pratha eyes Zeke as if not entirely convinced. Zeke notices her staring at him, but can’t hold her gaze. He fidgets and shoves his hands in his pockets.
Fi releases Mrs. Mirskaya from the hug and takes her hand. She and Zeke smile and shrug at each other at the same time. Fi snorts, then whips her hand up to cover her mouth and nose.
“What of Max?” Peter asks.
“He escaped with Hugin,” says Mrs. Mirskaya. “He will have bad headache, I think. And he left something he will miss very much.”
Pratha shows them what she’s been holding behind her. It’s one of Max’s legs.
The moaning of Templar soldiers reaches their ears, along with a feeble call for help.
“Some of them are still alive,” says Fi.
“I will collect them,” says Peter, opening the door to the vault. “The rest of you go below, see what progress Myrddin has made with the Wheel.”
The air snaps and the ground trembles at the whump of something heavy hitting the dirt.
It’s a Nidhogg, with the same basic shape as the one Zeke saw earlier, like a fat lizard with only two legs, up front, and a wide reptilian head that’s nearly all mouth with sharp teeth on the outside, interlocking on either side of gnawing, rodent-like incisors. Its thick pebbled skin is black as pitch. Unlike the other, it has a spiked head-shield, like a triceratops. And this one is bigger. With clear eyes at the end of its chameleon-esque eye-cones, it gazes at them with malevolence, then smacks its massive jaws together with the sound of clapping boulders.
“A child of The Nidhogg,” says Pratha.
“But this one is alive,” Peter observes, “not brought back from the dead.”
Hugin releases a cackling caw from where he perches on one of the beast’s horns. He disappears, but returns seconds later with another Nidhogg. This one’s bright green and smaller, but equally as foul-looking.
“He is bringing wyrms from Asgard,” says Mrs. Mirskaya.
Again Hugin is gone and back, a third Nidhogg dropping from several feet above the ground to tremble the earth. This one’s orange-ish in color, with a single stubby horn on its forehead, behind which sits Max, with Hugin perched on his shoulder. Max’s yellow eyes smolder red at the center.
“Now Maskim Xul is angry,” he says. The first Nidhogg roars, then the second, and the third.
“It’s all fun and games until someone loses a leg, right, Max?” Pratha says, waving the leg at him.
“Give it to me!” Max cries, frothing at the mouth.
Hugin vanishes once again.
“How many can he have?” says Mrs Mirskaya.
But when he returns this time, a swarm of buzzing, chittering locusts come with him. The moaning Templars catch the attention of some of them and they attack ferociously, finishing the soldiers off in what amounts to a grisly but swift mercy. The others head straight for Peter and his group with the howl of a thousand chainsaws.
“Get below! Now!” Peter shouts, drawing Gungnir from his pocket and activating it.
He doesn’t have to ask twice. Fi and Zeke hurry down the stairs, Mrs. Mirskaya at their backs. Peter releases a thunderbolt into the mass of locusts and a dozen of them fragment into flaming bits. The others spread out, making it harder to kill more than a few at a time as Peter fires again, but they keep coming—and the Nidhoggs charge.
Even Pratha sees the wisdom in retreat and backs down the first few steps. “Father, come.” Peter backs to the doorway, firing.
The Nidhogg that carries Max sprints to the front and leaps. Peter hauls back and flings his spear. A comet’s tail of electricity streaks behind it, but the Nidhogg vanishes. The spear shoots through empty space, skewering locusts beyond where it had been.
Peter shouts Gungnir’s name. It flashes back into his hand. The Nidhogg that vanished reappears, still charging, right in front of him. Max cackles atop its neck, Hugin at his shoulder.
Peter leaps backward down the stairs, stabbing with his spear and piercing the Nidhogg’s snout. It roars and retreats. Peter activates a crystal switch and the door begins to close—but the first Nidhogg to appear, the black one and the largest, slams into the stone. Head turned sideways, it clamps hold of the side of the doorway with its massive rock-crushing maw. The door grinds to a halt against its teeth. Peter cocks back his arm to stab it, but it crushes the stone in its gargantuan jaws, leaving a ragged gap where the door should seal.
More concussions shake the stairwell as the Nidhogg rams and chomps the rocks above. The walls crack and dust falls.
“The outer wards are breaking,” says Pratha.
They retreat further down the stairs. The black Nidhogg chomps another hunk of stone away, further opening the gap. The green one shoves its snout in, one coned eye spotting Peter, and spits out its tongue.
This time Peter’s ready. He sidesteps the bulbous tip, but Pratha grabs it in both hands and backs down the stairs, pulling it taut. The Nidhogg bellows, and Peter severs its tongue with his spearhead. The Nidhogg roars again as black blood sprays like water from a fire hose. It rears back and away, but now locusts scuttle in, clinging to ceiling, walls and floor like cockroaches.
Peter fires, sizzling the closest of them. “Go, Pratha,” he says. “Help Myrddin and the others. I’ll hold them off as long as I can.” She eyes the locusts with malice, but kisses Peter on the cheek and bounds down the stairs.
* * *
Pratha leaps from the landing to the vault floor and trots to where Fi and Zeke stand with Edgar, the colonel, Mol, and Baphomet. The colonel no longer wears Myrddin’s robe, but is dressed in a shirt, jacket, and trousers provided by Edgar, cuffs rolled up. Fi’s spare clothes were too small, but her old pair of tennis shoes fit the colonel just fine.
Mrs. Mirskaya converses with Myrddin, who scratches his head, staring up at a blank space of wall between the other two doors in the vault.
Myrddin calls to Pratha, “Do you know the secrets of the Wheelroom door?” he asks.
“I do not.”
“Father could break it down,” he says, “but the magic is strong, and it’s mighty thick.”
A flash and boom from the stairs and the ceiling cracks above the landing. The result of Peter using his spear to fend off the attackers higher in the stairwell.
Pratha snaps at Myrddin, “Can you do nothing?”
“I don’t know the wards.” He gazes at the wall. “But I know the stone. I could open it,” he says, looking helpless and forlorn, “if I had my gambanteinn.”
“Keep trying,” she says, and digs into her gear, which is now piled against the wall nearby with everyone else’s.
The roar of a Nidhogg, infernal buzz of the locusts, and clash of battle echo closer down the stairs.
Edgar’s sword rings from its scabbard and the hair rises on Mol’s back as he growls. Myrddin places his hands against the stone, eyes closed, trying another set of archaic words. The stone glows under his palms, but the light fades. He leans his forehead against the wall. “I can’t do it.”
Another flash and boom. Broken stone tumbles to the landing, Peter with it. He springs to his feet, firing and slicing at locusts that buzz down after him.
Pratha says Myrddin’s name, but he doesn’t answer. “Myrddin Wyllt!” she commands.
He looks up, his wet eyes widening at what she holds out to him. His gambanteinn, his wand, taken from him by Nyneve before she sealed him in the cave, fifteen hundred years ago. Realization dawns on him. “It was you...”
“You swore a solemn vow. A blood oath, never to reveal our secrets, to teach another the use of words of the First Language. Yes, it was me. Nyneve was innocent. I would have come for you eventually, but a millennium and a half of solitary confinement is a small price to pay for breaking your word to The Prathamaja Nandana, wouldn’t you say?” She throws the strap of a bag over his shoulder, identical to the one he once carried.
He swallows, still trying to take it all in. “Yes, yes it is. Better than I deserve, in fact. I’m sorry.”
He gazes at his wand as if it’s the most amazing thing he’s ever laid eyes on.
Pratha pulls a pendant necklace from the bag, the one she made for him a hundred thousand years ago, and puts it over his head. “Now hurry, my little Madman.” She kisses him on the forehead, then whips around and strides toward Peter. With a blood-curdling shriek, she takes the blue form of Kali, four-armed goddess of death, and begins to grow.
Myrddin still stares at his gambanteinn. Mrs. Mirskaya smacks the back of his head and says, “Nincompoop!” It’s not a Russian word, but it does the trick.
“Oh, yes, thank you,” Myrddin responds. He takes a deep breath, holds the wand like a conductor preparing a symphony, then utters a string of words in a lilting, Proto-Celtic language. Shards of colored light refract from the crystal at its tip.
Fi bites her nails while Zeke looks on in wonder. She’s clueless as to what Myrddin’s doing, and feels useless because she can’t help Peter and Pratha against the invading locusts and Nidhogg lizard battle-tanks.
Near the stairs, Pratha is a spectacle to behold. Twenty feet tall, indigo skin, four arms, fingers armed with red scythes for claws. For all her size and bulk, she whirls, lunges and leaps in an elegant yet ruthless performance that looks like a combination of martial arts kata and Hindu Odissi dance.