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

by Dyrk Ashton

  Freyja gives her the once-over. “You would, would you?” She chuckles to herself and walks off.

  Fi stares back at Freyja’s armor and says to herself, “I would.”

  Zeke peruses along the aisle in a daze. So many artifacts that would astound scholars and scientists alike. He can’t imagine what the reaction would be in academic communities if anyone discovered this place. This one collection would knock the world on its ear.

  * * *

  As the group exits the barn, the sound of a horn floats to them on the breeze. One long note, then another. “Someone requests permission to enter New Vanaheim,” says Freyja. She sniffs, then squints across the vale, beyond the castle and animal compound. “Someone unexpected. One welcome, but injured. The other... hmph.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  NORWAY

  THE HEALING

  OF THE BULL

  Freyja marches ahead, surprisingly spry given her appearance. They reach the circular drive at the front of the castle as a covered truck comes chugging up, the engine clanging and smoking. A half-dozen of the men and women from the kennels flank it in escort, rifles over their shoulders, and wary. Brygun and Mol are with them.

  The truck door swings open with a grinding creak and a little round fellow in a fur coat and ushanka-style fur hat hops out in a panic.

  “Tanuki,” Peter says.

  Tanuki gapes at the group, gulps at the presence of Pratha, cringes from Freyja’s scowl, then jogs to Peter regardless. “Father.” He takes Peter by the hand, dragging him to the back of the truck. “It’s Asterion.”

  The group crowds to the back of the truck while Peter and Tanuki open the gate. Fintán, Brygun and Trejgun help them remove a wooden crate, nearly twelve feet long and five feet wide. Mol comes up to Freyja.

  “Molossus, my boy,” she says, stooping and taking him by the jowls. They rub noses, then lick each other’s tongues. Fi and Zeke squirm at the bizarre greeting. Freyja pats Mol on the head as the crate is set on the ground. Peter and Tanuki remove the lid.

  Inside, Asterion lies on his back on a padding of straw, eyes closed, and deathly still. The wound from where Ziz stabbed down into his shoulder with Asterion’s own horn still seeps red, the edges black and crusted. There are other wounds as well. Deep scratches, some to the bones of his ribs, and bite marks. Peter presses fingers to Asterion’s neck, then holds his palm over his muzzle to feel for breath.

  “He still lives.”

  He tugs at the side of the crate, breaking it free. Fintán and Brygun do the same with the others. Pratha and Freyja kneel on either side of Asterion, checking him as well, lifting his eyelids, prodding at the wounds. They glare at each other, as if in competition.

  Fi and Zeke have seen many strange beasts these last few days, but The Bull is something quite remarkable.

  “The Minotaur,” Zeke breathes, eyes flitting over Asterion’s features, the sizable blue garnet in his pierced left ear, and the stump of one of his horns.

  “He’s more than that, lad,” whispers Edgar. “Much more.”

  Pratha says, “He is dying.”

  “Thank you,” Freyja snaps back. “Your powers of observation never cease to amaze.”

  “Fetch my things,” Pratha commands to any and all.

  Fintán shifts to his true form and flies off. Brygun and Trejgun sprint after him.

  Freyja fingers the stump of Asterion’s broken horn. “Who did this?” she asks Tanuki.

  “It was Ziz, Módir Freyja,” Tanuki answers, throwing a blanket off something in the back of the truck. “The Beast of the Sky, with beak and talon.” He pulls out Asterion’s mighty horn. Nearly five feet long it would be if stretched out straight. “And Ziz stabbed him with this.” The group gazes at the horn. “Why do you ask?”

  “It helps to know, whelp.”

  Tanuki swallows. “Some of the wounds were inflicted by Xecotcovach.”

  Freyja spits at hearing the name. “Filthy creature.” She runs a disapproving eye over Tanuki. “I see you’re not harmed. Run off and hide while your brothers did the fighting, did you?”

  Tanuki’s face falls. “Yes.”

  “Freyja,” Peter says in an attempt to placate.

  “Tanuki is a coward. Always has been.”

  “This does not help.”

  Tears form in Tanuki’s eyes. “Brother Arges...”

  “Yes?” Peter asks.

  “He’s gone. Speared by Ziz. Beheaded by Xeco.” He sniffs. “Xeco took his eye.”

  Mrs. Mirskaya mumbles a string of curses in Russian while the others groan. Myrddin Wyllt’s shoulders shake with grief as he weeps.

  Fi and Zeke look at each other, neither having any idea what to say.

  Palm on Asterion’s chest, Pratha says, “His heart has stopped.”

  Freyja and Pratha’s eyes meet and an understanding passes between them. “Together,” says Freyja.

  “Together,” Pratha replies. They each place one hand on his massive chest, the other on his broad forehead.

  They begin to speak, each in a different language, but the same words. Softly at first, and slowly. Their hands emit a barely perceptible glow. The chant becomes more like a song, growing in volume and intensity. The glow from their hands spreads, blue from Pratha’s, pure white from Freyja’s, lighting Asterion’s skin from within. In unison, they hold on one last word, drawing it out, louder and louder. The light from each of them meet in a bright flash.

  Asterion arches his back like he’s been hit with a defibrillator, gasping, eyes wide. Freyja and Pratha end their song. Asterion falls back, eyes closing again—but his respiration is deep and steady.

  Sighs of relief pass through the group.

  Pratha and Freyja slump from the exertion, then push to their feet, Freyja using her cane, but Myrddin helps her as well. She pats his hand on her elbow.

  “He’s not out of the woods yet,” Freyja says. “Far from it. Father, bring him to the infirmary.” Peter slides his arms under Asterion’s back, and in spite of Asterion being far larger and heavier, lifts him as if he were a child. One massive hand and both of Asterion’s feet reach the ground. Pratha folds his hands onto his chest, while Mrs. Mirskaya takes his head and Myrddin and Edgar his legs.

  Freyja shoves through the others to lead the way, looking them over as she goes. “There are only three of us, but we can try the rite.”

  “There are four,” says Mrs. Mirskaya, nodding to Fi.

  Freyja inspects Fi, who has no idea what they’re talking about. “Is she strong?”

  “She is strong.”

  “She’ll have to do,” Freyja utters. “Though five would be ideal.”

  Thunder rumbles like the roll of a giant drum. The group halts, looking out over the valley to where a woman jogs toward them.

  The woman does a forward roll and comes up a young black buffalo, trotting along, then the buffalo somersaults, and becomes white.

  “Lord be praised,” breathes Edgar. “Unless my eyes deceive me, this is The Buffalo Woman, in the flesh.”

  The white buffalo rolls and becomes the jogging woman once again. She stops some distance away, eyeing the group in silence. Her hair is jet black, her fringed buckskin jacket white, as are her pants, and decorated with colored porcupine quills sewn flat in various designs. Her expression is severe, her eyes intensely black with creases at the corners, yet her skin is perfectly smooth otherwise, and she appears to be only in her mid-twenties.

  Peter says, “Pratha,” and hands Asterion to her. She holds him with no more effort than Peter had. He walks out to greet the new arrival.

  “Unbelievable, if I say so myself,” says Freyja.

  Edgar edges closer to Fi and Zeke. “I have only heard stories of her. Though she is young for a Firstborn, she’s something of a legend among them.”

  “What’s her name?” Fi asks.

  “Ptesan-Wi,” Mrs. Mirskaya answers. “Though some have called her Wohpe.”

  “Born on the North American c
ontinent,” says Edgar, “revered by tribes of what are today called Native Americans. Firstborn, yes, but she is different, from what I’ve been told.”

  “Solitary and nomadic,” Mrs. Mirskaya continues. “Always has been.”

  “A powerful mystic,” Freyja says. “Shaman, medicine woman, whatever you want to call it, it amounts to the same. Privy to secrets as deep as Pratha’s, though without the strength and experience of Pratha’s age. She has other talents as well, knows things no one else can divine. And she can slip. Something of great consequence has happened for her to travel here, where she has never come before.”

  Ptesan-Wi and Peter converse in hushed tones, though she appears angry. She stares at Zeke with hatred in her eyes. Zeke’s blood runs cold.

  “What’s that all about?” Fi asks.

  A memory not his own bubbles to the surface of Zeke’s consciousness. “She was on another world,” he says quietly, close to Fi’s ear. “One that got destroyed.” He swallows. “She couldn’t stop him.”

  The sounds of footsteps running up behind, and creaking wood. Brygun, Trejgun and Fintán set the litter down.

  Freyja bids Brygun and Trejgun to take Asterion. They head into the castle with him while Pratha gathers her things. Edgar and Myrddin go to help her.

  Peter seems to have calmed The Buffalo Woman. She makes a sign with her hand, and they bow to touch foreheads. They walk straight toward the castle. Peter nods as they pass. Ptesan-Wi doesn’t spare them a glance.

  Freyja says, “Now we are five.” Then, as if speaking to herself, “Five sisters. Five daughters of Odin. Not since the Second Holocaust has this occurred, nearly twenty thousand years ago.”

  * * *

  In an area of the castle unharmed by the Asura attack, Freyja shoves open double doors to an infirmary, a large room with whitewashed walls and high ceiling. Sunlight enters in soft blocks through sheer white curtains covering slim windows. It reminds Fi of a chapel. Cots are arranged in rows along either wall, but Freyja instructs Brygun and Trejgun to place Asterion on a long central table. Peter, Myrddin, Fintán, Tanuki, Zeke and Edgar enter, but Freyja blusters to them.

  “Out, all of you,” she says, then waves a hand at Brygun and Trejgun. “You too.” She shoves Peter, last through the doorway, closes the doors and turns to find The Buffalo Woman standing right behind her. Freyja’s surprise only lasts a moment. She places a hand on the woman’s arm. “Thank you for coming, Sister.” Ptesan-Wi stares at Freyja’s hand, then at Freyja, and nods.

  * * *

  The men shuffle aimlessly outside the room. Brygun indicates benches along both sides of the hall. “Please, sit. Can I get you anything, anyone?” They sit on the benches, but no one answers. Brygun goes to Tanuki, who alone still stands, hunched and forlorn. “Brother Tanuki.”

  Tanuki looks up. “Yes?”

  “Would you like anything? Tea, perhaps?”

  “Tea would be lovely, thank you... Brygun, is it?”

  Brygun nods and strides away.

  “Good guess, Tanuki,” says Peter.

  Tanuki shrugs. “Fifty-fifty chance.”

  Peter beckons to him. Tanuki is apprehensive, but sits next to him. “We have all seen terrible things,” Peter says, “and lost ones we’ve loved, but I can only imagine what you have been through. I’m gravely saddened to hear of the passing of Arges, as we all are.” The others agree. Myrddin wipes his eyes, then blows his nose on the sleeve of his robe. “That was very brave,” Peter continues, “bringing Asterion here on your own. And noble.” Peter puts a hand to Tanuki’s face, wipes a tear with his thumb. “Thank you.”

  At his father’s touch, the look in his eyes, Tanuki fights what might be the hardest battle of his life. A battle between being forthcoming and keeping his secret, between truth and lies. Tell him everything, he commands himself. You said you would. You swore! But he can’t do it. How can he possibly tell his father, in front of his brothers and the truest knight he has ever met? How can he confess it is all his fault The Order of The Bull lies in ruin, Big Brother Arges is dead, and Asterion lies dying?

  * * *

  Fi watches, biting her nails, as Pratha utters strange words while preparing a concoction from her bottles and vials on a counter with a sink at the end of the room.

  Freyja, who can barely reach over the top of the table, positions Asterion to be as comfortable as he can. With the help of Mrs. Mirskaya and The Buffalo Woman, she straightens his head and places his arms along his body. His breathing remains regular but shallow, his massive chest barely moving, like old bellows operated by exhausted men. Bellows of a once-great furnace with its coals dimming, never to be lit again.

  Pratha hurries to the table. “Lift his head,” she says to Mrs. Mirskaya. Pratha pours a brown liquid into Asterion’s bovine mouth, then holds it shut. Asterion swallows. Dipping her fingers in a smudge pot, she swiftly sketches a simple white glyph on his brow with her finger, again uttering ancient words. Fi’s nose wrinkles at the smell of the paste. Like catnip and chicken shit. Pratha draws a different glyph on the palm of each of his hands, then the bottoms of his feet, and one over his heart.

  “No time for ceremony,” says Freyja. “Pratha, you should lead.” No smirks, gloating, or snide remarks. Fi can’t imagine how much respect and concern they must have for this massive beast on the table, to put aside their differences so easily. Asterion, they called him. And it occurs to her—he’s their brother. Her brother. Her head swims at the thought. They’re all her brothers and sisters.

  “What do I do?” Fi asks Mrs. Mirskaya in a whisper.

  “Do as we do.” She places a hand on Fi’s shoulder, adding, “And believe.”

  Pratha kisses Asterion on his broad forehead, then moves on around the table. Freyja does the same, followed by Mrs. Mirskaya, and then The Buffalo Woman. Mrs. Mirskaya whispers, “Fiona,” and Fi realizes she’s supposed to do it too. She goes to the head of the table and gazes down at the bizarre beast that is her brother, one of many. Her lips touch the dark short fur of Asterion’s brow. It’s warmer and softer than she thought it would be—and lightning flashes through her mind.

  A quick montage of picture, scent and sound. More than Fi can keep track of.

  Standing before crowds in ancient temples. Leading charging armies on bloody fields of battle. Laughing, deep and hearty, with a prodigious beast that looks half-man and half-rhinoceros, on the white sand of a beach before a blue Mediterranean sea. And Fi knows this is Arges. Armorer of the gods, but also a brother and a friend.

  Islands and cities, jungles and deserts, mighty armadas of ships at sea. Asterion constructing monumental stone structures with his bare hands.

  And Ziz, The Quetzalcoatlus, gigantic, winged and atrocious, stabbing his pike of a beak into Arges on a high terrace. Then Asterion falling, falling, Ziz diving after him from above, and crashing through the stone roof of a temple hall...

  Fi jerks up, the barrage of memories ending as abruptly as it began. She staggers back, dizzy.

  “Fiona,” Mrs. Mirskaya calls out, coming toward her.

  But Fi catches herself and holds out a hand. “I’m okay.” Mrs. Mirskaya doesn’t look convinced. “No really. I’m fine.” Fi looks around at the others, who gaze at her with expressions that vary between worry and simple interest.

  “She is clairvoyant,” Mrs. Mirskaya says to Freyja and Ptesan-Wi, as if that explains everything. “But new to it. She has no control.”

  “Not yet,” says Pratha, her voice both sly and confident.

  “Fascinating indeed,” says Freyja. Ptesan-Wi tilts her head and continues to stare.

  “Places, please,” says Freyja, the moment passed.

  The women space themselves evenly in a circle around the table, and Fi notices for the first time there’s a design painted large on the floor, with the table at its center. A pentagram, with other symbols drawn within it, as well as between the arms of the star. Sanskrit, Gaelic, Slav, Norse, Native American, and others she can’t gue
ss the origin of. Symbols of nature, health and femininity. The only colors are black and red. The black appears to be sketched in charcoal, though it doesn’t smudge beneath their feet. Upon closer inspection, Fi’s pretty sure she doesn’t want to know what the red is.

  She sees each of the women are standing at a vertex of the five-pointed star. Fi takes a place on the last open one, next to Pratha, who is at Asterion’s head, and looks to Mrs. Mirskaya for confirmation that she’s doing it right. Mrs. Mirskaya nods. Fi wonders, with Pratha at the lead point, then Freyja, Mrs. Mirskaya, Ptesan-Wi, and her, if they’re arranged in order of age.

  Pratha spreads her arms and begins to speak in the ancient language Fi’s heard her use before. The First Language. Except now Fi knows the words. It’s a poem, of sorts. A call to the power of the cosmos. A plea for life over death, and an offering.

  The others hold their arms out and join in, in their own ancient tongues, but speaking the same words. It occurs to Fi this is a coven. A coven of witches. A coven of sisters. And she’s one of them.

  Fi feels silly joining in, but not as uncomfortable as she would if she didn’t. She closes her eyes, saying the words. Somehow, she knows them all, even as they’re spoken. A warmth grows in her stomach—but not her stomach. Higher, below her sternum. She thinks she’s imagining it, but it grows warmer. Hot, even. She opens her eyes to see a burst of light on each woman, right where Fi feels the heat, a different color for each. Pratha’s is blue, Freyja’s white, Mrs. Mirskaya’s green, The Buffalo Woman’s orange—and Fi has one too, a rich amber. Their hands begin to glow as well, and so do hers. Then the pentagram and symbols light up in all the colors of the rainbow. The poem becomes a song, the light arcs from their fingers, one to the next, and the circle is complete.

  * * *

  In the hall, light flashes at the edges of dark curtains over small windows to the infirmary, and the men hear the song rising. Zeke feels the hair stand up on his arms and the back of his neck, as if from an electric charge.

  “Real magic,” Edgar says softly.

  “Is it safe?” Zeke asks.