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

by Dyrk Ashton

  Mrs. Mirskaya leans to Fi with tears of joy in her eyes. “We did it, Fiona. We saved our brother. We saved The Bull.”

  Fi smiles wide, caught up in the moment, and claps more fervently, shouting Asterion’s name. She catches Zeke watching her, also clapping and cheering. She grabs him and kisses him on the mouth, then goes back to clapping as he stands there in a daze.

  Brygun brings an oversized chair while others slide aside to make space at one of the tables. Only after Asterion eases into it does the applause die down.

  “Thank you,” Asterion says in his rich baritone voice. “It is a great pleasure to be here, and an honor to be in your presence once again.”

  “The honor is ours, Minotaur!” Léon bellows. Then more softly he says, “We are all deeply grieved at the loss of Brother Arges. You have my deepest condolences.” Asterion nods, his large brown eyes wetting. “And, I am sorry about your...” He points at his own head where a horn would be.

  Asterion fingers the ragged stump. “Yes, well. Such are the scars of war.”

  “I may be able to do something about that,” says Pratha.

  “And I will help!” shouts Myrddin.

  “Thank you, both of you. Whatever is possible, but it is not necessary.” He gazes at all the faces he hasn’t seen in a long time, some not for millennia. He nods with respect to Freyja and Pratha, and smiles with a sigh at Peter, who smiles back with gratitude and hope.

  Asterion’s eyes fall on Zeke, who gulps, then Fi. All of them here are daunting, Fi thinks, overwhelming, formidable, but in The Bull’s big watery eyes she sees a loyalty, a strength, a pain, and even a love, she hasn’t experienced with the others. Except, at times, from Peter.

  A smile, grateful and unaffected, graces Asterion’s fleshy, square, bovine lips. He looks back over the others. “It is good to see you all in this time of trial. So very good.”

  Freyja speaks from her place at the head table. “Is there anything we can get you, Asterion? Anything at all?”

  Asterion ponders a moment, then looks up hopefully. “There wouldn’t be any wine?”

  Léon cries out, “Wouldn’t be any wine? To whom do you think you are speaking?” He throws his hands in the air. “Wine for The Bull! Wine for everyone!” The crowd cheers once more.

  As Léon taps a barrel of wine, which he, of course, also brought with him, Tanuki puts a hand on Asterion’s shoulder, standing on tiptoes to speak in his ear. Still, Asterion has to tilt his head down for him to do so. “I would rest for a short while, Brother, if you don’t mind.”

  Asterion places his hand on Tanuki’s. “Of course, Little Brother. You deserve it, more than any other.” He turns in his seat to face Tanuki, even though it causes him discomfort from his wounds. “Thank you, Tanuki. I wish with all my heart I could have saved the life of Big Brother Arges, as you have saved mine. I am forever in your debt.”

  Tanuki blinks back tears, swallows the grief. Unable to speak for fear words of truth will tumble out and condemn him to utter shame, he nods and pads away.

  Fi watches him go, feeling the sadness in his slouching gait.

  Many in the group are going to the serving tables to fetch their own wine. And not only wine, but shots of Greek tsipouro as well, which Léon makes a point of telling each of them he made himself.

  * * *

  Tanuki takes the last of the stone steps that lead to the dungeon beneath Castle New Vanaheim. His ears perk as he listens. Silence but for the hiss of gas and huff of flame from the few sconces on the bare stone walls. No hint of the revelry that’s taking place in the great hall at the opposite end of the building. Not a breath of air moves. His nose wrinkles at the dank scent of sweating stone. The smells of prisoners are long past. All but one. The musky odor of goat.

  Then a faint scrape of hoof on stone and clank of chain. Tanuki draws a breath, exhales deliberately, before setting off down the hall.

  Stone to his left, empty windowless cells, one after another, to his right, their heavy doors of iron left open. There are no cots or sinks in them, only manacles and chains and tiny pits in the corner for excrement.

  The last cell is different. This one has bars of Astra steel and the vitality of warded stone. Inside, on a bench attached to the wall opposite the door, sits Baphomet. Pratha’s chain is still around his neck, attached to a loop at the wrist of his right hand, the only hand remaining, which is attached to the chain at his feet, which are themselves strung together with chain. There are other bindings as well—manacles at his ankles, anchored by chains to the walls.

  “Hello, Tanuki.”

  “You swore Arges and Asterion would not be harmed,” Tanuki replies in a bluster, having finally worked up the nerve. Baphomet’s response is to look on in an inquisitive manner. “I only agreed in order to save them. You swore.”

  “No, Tanuki,” Baphomet replies. “You did it because you’ve had enough of being a servant. In both holocausts, you served. In The Order of The Bull, you served. Before that, in your homeland, you were ridiculed.” Tanuki’s resolve falters. “All of your littermates, your brothers, served Father. And they were all taken from you in the wars, weren’t they? All of them gone, killed in wars fought to save the parvuli, who had nothing but disdain for you and your kind, whom they felt existed merely for their amusement.

  “And you, a loyal, selfless Deva, you’d helped them in so many ways over the myria. Did they ever thank you? Did they ever help you? Freyja, and many of the others, you know it is true, look down upon you for abandoning your home, your watoto, during The Flood, for not staying to help them survive and rebuild. I understand, however. They deserved nothing.”

  Tanuki looks up, able for a moment to meet the intensity of Baphomet’s bright pink eyes with his own of soft brown, wet with tears. “But my brothers...”

  “Kleron changed the plan without my knowledge. I had no idea he was sending the likes of Ziz and Xecotcovach. There is only one way a confrontation such as that can end.” Tanuki looks on, perplexed. “Kleron and I are not seeing eye to eye, you see. In fact, I believe he wants me out of the way. I have exceeded the Master, and he does not like it. We have a common foe, you and I.”

  “There is to be an inquest,” Tanuki says. “What will you tell them of my part in the ruin of the Order, the death of Arges?”

  “That it was you who gave us the best route to approach the mountain?” Baphomet leans forward as he speaks. “That is was you who arranged for the nearby radar stations to be undergoing maintenance for a week? Who informed us of the fault line that, if struck with sufficient force, could bring down the hall to Asterion and Arges’s weapons vault, a weakness known only to Asterion, Arges, and you?” He leans back, moving as if to cross his legs, but of course he can’t. “It depends, Tanuki-san. What are you willing to do for me?”

  Shoulders hunched, Tanuki stares at the floor of Baphomet’s cell through the bars. He was going to tell Father everything. He rehearsed it over and over on the way here, fully preparing to throw himself on Father’s mercy and spill it all.

  But when he got out of the truck and stood face-to-face with The Pater, the others all around, saw grief and anger in their eyes, the condescension of Freyja, he couldn’t do it. Then, when he had another chance in the hall outside the infirmary, the words would not come.

  I am a coward. A stupid, gullible coward.

  But perhaps he does have some strength. Enough backbone, sufficient willpower, to set this right, to save his name, perhaps even his life, in the process.

  He sniffs and wipes the moisture from his eyes and nose. “Asterion will live. He is awake and greeting the others now.” Baphomet nods, his reaction neither approving nor critical. “Trejgun let me borrow the key to Freyja’s storeroom to find something for Asterion to help him walk. He is still not well. I found an Apis staff.” Baphomet listens, but his eyes betray that he’s wondering why Tanuki is telling him these things. “I’ve brought you something from there as well.” Tanuki retrieves a flat square box f
rom his shoulder bag. “Recently relocated here from the Crystal Vault of the Lady of the Lake.”

  Tanuki lifts the lid, which blocks Baphomet’s view of the contents, but a glimmer of silver and blue plays on Tanuki’s features and reflects in his eyes. “The greatest gift anyone can give one such as you. I’m going to release you from your miserable life.” He turns the box and tilts it so Baphomet can see the gleaming disk inside, and takes some small satisfaction at the look in Baphomet’s eyes.

  “Sudarshana,” Baphomet breathes. “Vishnu’s Chakra.” His eyes snap up to Tanuki’s, the tone of his voice not fearful or defiant, but one used to scold an errant child. “You don’t know how to use it, Tanuki. You will kill us all.”

  “I have seen Father wield it. I was there, by his side, holding this very box, when he released it upon the Asura in the final battle of the First Holocaust.” Holding the box with one hand Tanuki raises the other, palm forward, fingers straight, except thumb and pinky are folded to touch. He speaks esoteric words and the disk, a flat ring open in the center, floats out of the box to hover over his fingers. “I know Sudarshana well enough to carve through these bars, and through you. I am grieving. Distraught. Father and the others will understand.”

  Now Baphomet is concerned. “You are not a killer, Tanuki. You would add this sin to your guilt as well? You will be miserable the rest of your life.”

  “I can handle misery, Goat. More than you will ever know.”

  “What if there was an alternative?”

  “There is no alternative.”

  Baphomet stands, looking Tanuki in the eye. “You want justice. Revenge. You can take that now, but it is all you will get. I am all you get. Then emptiness, and nothing else.” He takes a step closer. “I can give you more. What you desire most of all.”

  “What might that be?”

  “Redemption.”

  The word catches Tanuki off guard.

  “You won’t be Tanuki the servant anymore, nor the traitor, nor the murderer, but Tanuki the savior. Tanuki, the legend.” Baphomet takes another step from the bench, manacle chains grinding on the stone floor. “You see, Tanuki, in every unique set of possibilities, there is always an alternative.”

  He moves yet closer, until the chains halt him before the bars. His eyes gleam in the light of the spinning Chakra. “Tell me, little brother, what else did you see in Freyja’s storeroom?”

  * * *

  “Evíva!” cries Léon, standing with shot glass raised, and the others cheer as well. Peter does three shots in a row, as does Léon. Sekhmet and Anubis sip their wine, having abstained from the tsipouro altogether. Even Thoth does a shot, then goes back to his writing without having looked up.

  Ochosi, however, downs six in quick succession, using both hands. “Evíva!” he shouts again, and smashes all six glasses against the table with his palms, grinning to reveal shining white teeth with frighteningly oversized canines.

  Edgar takes a drink of his wine and leans close. “True to Yoruba mythology, Ochosi is not only a renowned hunter and crack shot with a bow, he is also quite the party animal.” He chortles at his own joke.

  Fi and Zeke, not wanting to be left out, throw back their shots as well. Zeke gags and coughs, leaning on the table with both hands, trying to keep the fiery liquid down.

  Fi says, “It’s sweet.”

  Zeke looks at her in disbelief, red-faced. “Water,” he gasps.

  Fi hands him his water and pats his back as he gulps it.

  They all fling their glasses to the floor, Freyja as well. Then she points out over the crowd. “You’re all cleaning this up afterward, no excuses.”

  They answer in a jumbled, “Yes, Mother,” and sit. All except Myrddin, who’s leapt on his table and is doing quite a good impression of a traditional Greek dance while holding a porcelain snack plate over his head.

  Freyja groans. “Wyllt!”

  He spins away from her, whipping open his robe to flash the crowd, then flings the plate to the floor, cries, “Opa!” and hops into his seat. Freyja groans again, pinching the bridge of her nose.

  Peter leans to her. “Every court must have a fool.”

  “Court?” she retorts. “This is kindergarten.”

  Peter rises from his seat once more. “My Firstborn,” he addresses them as a group, then indicates those who came through the gate today. “Honorable Orishi. Faithful Deva all. Tonight, we hold a tribunal.”

  “For whom, Pater?” Anubis asks.

  “Baphomet, The Goat. He has long been Kleron’s closest advisor, but in a stroke of luck, he is now being held in the cells below, thanks to The Prathamaja Nandana. This will be an inquest to learn what we can, as well as a trial to determine his punishment.”

  “Why not now?” says Léon. “Bring the bastard up. I’ll get the truth out of him.” He cracks his knuckles, which pop like gunshots.

  Ochosi lays his cruel-looking Ngombe sickle blade on the table. “And I will help.” There are murmurs of support.

  Freyja slaps the table. “Not until after dinner!” Freyja reprimands. She mutters, just loud enough for them to hear, “Uncivilized boors.”

  Peter looks to Asterion, who sits with eyes narrowed, rubbing the garnet in his ear between hooved thumb and forefinger of one hand, gripping his staff tightly in the other. The enmity between The Bull and The Goat goes back even further than that between Baphomet and Horus. “I would have noble Asterion preside.”

  Just loud enough to be heard, Asterion says, “It would be an honor. Thank you.”

  All of the sudden the windows darken, dimming the hall, and as sturdy as the building is, it creaks at the force of the wind.

  “Again with the interruptions,” Freyja grumbles. “We’ll be here all day at this rate.”

  The sky outside becomes black as night, then colored light washes in waves through the windows at the end of the hall by the doors.

  Peter’s eyes light with hope, but many of the others leap to their feet, brandishing weapons. Edgar pushes up from the table, hand on the pommel of his sword.

  Peter touches Freyja’s arm, and at his prompt, she shouts, “Be still!”

  There’s a resounding thump from outside. The heavy doors open on their own and wind howls through the room.

  A white whirlwind enters, like a mini tornado, colored with undulating streamers of red and green.

  “Weapons drawn?” a jolly voice with a Hindi accent says. “Is this any way to greet an old friend?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  NORWAY

  SIFU

  The Deva lower their weapons, now knowing exactly who has come. The darkness outside fades and sunlight beams through the windows once more. The whirlwind dissipates, revealing a short round elephant-man poised on the tiptoes of one stubby foot, the other foot raised and tucked against his knee, arms held out, as if frozen in the middle of a graceful dance.

  His oversized head, big ears and trunk are almost entirely elephant-like, and he has short tusks both above his smiling mouth and jutting from his lower jaw. His eyes twinkle, and the grin on his face and the way his belly shakes with silent mirth make Fi smile in spite of herself.

  She leans to Zeke and Edgar. “Why does he look familiar?”

  “Never in my life have I laid eyes upon him,” says Edgar, “but that can only be His High Holiness, Ganesh. It is an honor to be in his presence.” From the reaction of the rest of the group, they feel the same way.

  Zeke tells Fi, “He’s an elephant god to the Hindus. Very wise and spiritual. Still the most popular deity in India, I think. You’ve probably seen paintings or wood carvings. Chubby elephant-headed dude with four arms sitting in meditation, or riding a rat, sometimes doing a little dance.”

  “Oh, I have seen those,” she replies. “He doesn’t have four arms, though.”

  “Neither does Pratha, normally.”

  “That’s true.”

  “The rat represents the Firstborn daughter Akhu,” says Mrs. Mirskaya. “She never ca
rried him, as far as I know. But she could.”

  Peter raises his voice over the cheerful murmurs of the crowd. “Pardon the cliché, but you are a sight for sore eyes, my son.”

  Ganesh releases his pose, putting his palms together in the Anjali gesture and bowing over his round belly. “Namaste, my father.” He rubs his palms together. “But I do not come alone.” He holds a hand toward the doors. Nothing happens. Looking back with an apologetic smile, he says, “I had to deliver them further away.” His ears stand out and he cocks his head, listening. “Ah, here they come.”

  Fi watches in anticipation as a small Asian woman, hair up and held by a black chopstick, comes up the steps and enters. She’s accompanied by a strutting chubby fellow in yellow and red sweats and jacket, with a short red beard under his chin and stocking cap.

  “Akhu,” says Mrs. Mirskaya, beaming. “My favorite sister. Other than you, Fiona.”

  Edgar says, “She is known as The Rat, but in the most respectful sense. And the other is Mac Gallus, as he’s been calling himself of late, from what I’ve heard. The Rooster. His Truename is Phanuel-Seval.” Fi looks through their cloaks to their Truefaces and can see why they’re called what they are.

  They take places next to Ganesh. Akhu bows, hands in her sleeves in front of her. Mac grins up at the head table. “Father! Freyja!” he shouts in greeting. He grimaces comically at Pratha, then bows his head. “Pratha.” His eyes find The Nemean Lion. “Léon! Drinking and carrying on without me, re malaka?!” he says with a thick Scottish accent, while also calling Léon something not very nice in Greek.

  Léon replies with cheer, “Forgive me Brother!” and strides to the serving tables.

  Another figure comes up the steps behind them, but stays in the doorway. This one Fi and Zeke recognize.

  Fi says, “That’s Kabir.”

  “Thank the Lord,” says Edgar.

  Then another, taller, dressed in a black fur coat, with red eyes. They recognize him as well.

  Léon drops the tankard he’s filling to clatter and splash on the floor. A threatening growl escapes his lips and his cloak drops, revealing the tan fur, tail, mane, and terrible fangs of his Trueface. “Cù Sìth,” he utters with loathing and stalks across the floor, lips curled in a snarl, extending sturdy claws. Cù Sìth glares back but does not move.