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

by Dyrk Ashton

  Peter’s eyes glint with a hint of red. “And we have me.” The cheer becomes a deafening roar, but Peter bellows over it in a voice only he can muster. “And unlike our enemy, brought together only by shared malice and intimidation, we fight for one another. We are a family. We are Deva!”

  The ovation that rises in Freyja’s hall rattles the windows, shakes the stone foundation, and, if anyone is listening, could be heard throughout the valley.

  * * *

  In his cell, deep beneath the castle, Baphomet hears it too, and smiles.

  * * *

  As the cheers die down, Myrddin Wyllt’s expression becomes thoughtful, not a glint of mischief in his eyes. “This could be the end of days, my friends. The end times foretold.” Some in the room scoff, but others listen. “If you think about it, Khagan and Kleron may be doing exactly what must be done to ensure that this world is the last. Perhaps it is fate. The prophecies being fulfilled.”

  Peter grumbles, “We’ve talked about this, Myrddin Wyllt. What I have told you of the cosmic calendar comes from facts acquired through my own experience. What the Hindus determined was exceptional, but it came from an acute sensitivity to memories of what had already come before, nothing more.”

  Ganesh clears his throat and all go silent. “Just an observation from one old elephant, of course, but even if nothing foretold has come to pass, it does not mean that none ever will.”

  Ochosi adds, “Anything is possible.” The words are repeated softly around the hall.

  Freyja looks up at Peter from her seat. “Be all that as it may, there is still one problem with your plan, Pater. Well, there are plenty, but one critical bit of information eludes us. We don’t know where Khagan’s world is.”

  “That is true,” Peter replies. “In all my travels in the last seven myria, since the First Holocaust, I have never come across it. None have, or none have seen it and lived to tell the tale. Not even Ganesh is aware of its location. From the description Fi has given us from her vision, however, we think Khagan may have returned to Kur-gal in Erset La Tari, his base of operations during the First Holocaust. I’d thought that world destroyed, but now believe Khagan has cloaked it and set up a powerful ward.”

  Anubis says, “Hiding and shielding an entire planet? Even from you and honorable Ganesh? Is that possible?”

  Sekhmet says, “What have we just been saying, husband?”

  “Ah, well, there is that.”

  Pratha says, “It could be done, though the energy needed to sustain it would be considerable.” She looks to Fi, which always makes Fi nervous. “Our little sister brings us another gift, however. She has heard the words used by Lucifer to pass through the cloak, as well as the wards.” The Deva eye Fi with renewed appreciation.

  “That’s all well and good,” says Freyja, “but we still don’t know where it is.”

  “There is one who may,” Peter answers. “One with roots in all the worlds.”

  The others nod, but Fi and Zeke have no idea who they’re referring to. So many things these people know, so much knowledge they share, sometimes words need not be spoken among them.

  “Tomorrow,” Peter continues, “I go to Asgard to consult The World Tree. I will also retrieve Munin, if he is there and will join us. The honorable Ganesh has agreed to take me.”

  “Will you recruit the outcasts?” Freyja asks.

  Léon grunts in disdain and spits on the floor. Others grumble. Freyja narrows her eyes at Léon, who hastens to wipe up his saliva with a napkin.

  “Your scorn is warranted,” Peter responds. “But we will need all we can muster. If they agree to fight for us and swear an oath of fealty and obedience, I will grant them pardon.”

  “If they refuse?” says Léon.

  “Then they will burn.”

  Léon grunts his satisfaction.

  Fi asks Mrs. Mirskaya, “Who are they talking about?” Zeke leans closer.

  There’s derision in Mrs. Mirskaya’s voice. “The petit gods. What is left of the Aesir of Asgard.”

  “What of The Twins?” Freyja asks Peter. “If they still live, I’m not leaving mine babyer behind.”

  Asterion’s voice rises, “We also must seek out General Quon Kiang and Azh.”

  “Agreed!” Léon shouts. Support ripples through the crowd.

  Ochosi speaks up. “I have searched for them many times. It is rumored they are in the forests of the mists, high in the Congo. A vast, dark and mysterious place. And when The Ape and The Flying Lizard do not want to be found, even Ochosi cannot track them.”

  “Pratha will leave in the morning,” says Peter. “First to seek The Twins, who Freyja believes are also in Africa, then Quon and Azh.” He looks to Zeke. “She will be accompanied by Mr. Prisco.”

  Zeke’s eyes go wide. Fi, Edgar and Mrs. Mirskaya are equally as surprised.

  “That is, if he agrees,” Peter adds.

  “Um...” says Zeke, his voice doing that higher-than-it-should-be thing again. He clears his throat. “I mean, of course, if you think it will help.”

  “I do,” Peter responds.

  “Okay. I’ll go.” He glances at Fi, who doesn’t look thrilled with the idea.

  Many of the Deva grumble and make remarks like “Why the boy?” and “This is a task for warriors.”

  But Peter’s voice comes loud and clear. “By serendipitous circumstance, Zeke has worked with The Twins in their current roles as medical doctors. They know him, and they trust him. It is settled.” The authority of his bearing quiets the dissent, though it’s apparent they don’t entirely agree.

  Freyja eyes Asterion, slumped in his chair. “That is enough for now,” she announces. “Preparations have already begun for a feast, and our brother Asterion needs rest. We will recess, then gather here for supper in three hours’ time. Afterward, The Goat will be brought up for the inquest. I’m sure you all have plenty of catching up to do. Feel free to wander the grounds. Our esteemed sister, The Buffalo Woman, has established a perimeter of protection none but Deva and our sworn allies may cross, from any direction as well as above or below. But no funny business!” She glowers at Léon, Cù Sìth, Fintán and Naga. The Nemean Lion points at himself, feigning innocence. “Especially you, Léon.”

  * * *

  Fi and Zeke make their way toward a hallway that leads from the great hall. “So you’re going to Africa,” Fi says, “with her.”

  “I guess,” Zeke replies, shuffling to a stop. Fi’s eyes narrow as she crosses her arms and faces him. “I swear, Fi, I didn’t know. We won’t be long. I hope. I mean, we can’t be. There isn’t much time, right?” Fi’s not appeased. “Besides, look at me. I’m worthless to these people. This is something I can actually do to help. I need to do this, okay?”

  Fi sighs. “Okay. I get it. Just be careful.”

  “Pratha will be with me.”

  “That’s what I mean.” Zeke blanches. Fi frowns, considering something else. “So, what am I going to do?”

  “Fiona Megan Patterson,” comes Freyja’s voice from behind them, startling them both. They spin to see Freyja approaching, accompanied by Sekhmet, Akhu, and Mrs. Mirskaya. There’s an uncharacteristic smirk on her old babysitter’s face that makes Fi nervous. “You are going to learn what it means to be Paterna,” Freyja says. “A Devi sister. A daughter of The Father.” She moves closer, looking Fi up and down, until she’s right in front of her, head cocked to look up with a gleam in her eye. Fi doesn’t get the feeling Freyja’s expression displays the kindest of intentions. Freyja pokes her on the chest with a thin knobby finger of her black hand. “And we’re going to see if you have what it takes.” She turns and walks away, cane tapping on the floor.

  “Wait,” Fi says. “Have what it takes for what?”

  “What do you think, child? To be a Valkyrie, of course.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  NORWAY

  CRICKETS & BATHS

  A small group of Deva sit in a circle playing music, while others gather arou
nd to listen. The song is foreign to Fi, exotic, ethereal and sweet, but sad at the same time. Thoth has a violin, Ochosi a didgeridoo, Ganesh plays a sitar, and there are instruments Fi doesn’t recognize.

  At one of the tables, Mac, The Rooster, is engaged in a drinking game with Léon and some of the other Firstborn who came with Anubis and Sekhmet. They roll dice, curse, do shots, and laugh boisterously.

  Kabir and Cù Sìth sit away from the rest, conversing quietly, while others mingle about. The remainder of the Deva are out wandering the grounds.

  Zeke has gone to lie down. Fi was tempted to join him, but this doesn’t seem the right place or time, and there’s much of Freyja’s castle and valley she hasn’t seen.

  * * *

  After getting lost in the maze of halls, Fi wanders by accident into a sunny courtyard with trimmed shrubs, benches, flowers, buzzing bees, and a fountain. The door to one of the buildings is open, so she peeks in.

  The room is much larger than she expected, with a frosted glass ceiling, so it’s bright and evenly lit. It appears to be a laboratory, with all manner of equipment, old and new. Bent over one of the tables, Myrddin Wyllt examines the locust head. Pratha dissects the full body specimen at another. Myrddin looks up, a thick lens strapped over one eye, making it ridiculously huge. “Would you like to have a look?”

  Pratha grips the chest plates where she has made cuts on her locust and pulls it open with a sickening crack.

  “Thank you,” Fi replies, feeling a bit green, “but that’s okay,” and she continues on her way.

  Leading from one corner of the courtyard is an open corridor. Peering through, Fi sees doors lining either side, and it connects to another courtyard maybe twenty yards away. Peter comes around the far corner carrying a small clay pot, and enters one of the rooms. Curious, Fi slinks along the wall to investigate. She feels guilty about sneaking, but not enough to stop.

  The door where Peter entered is ajar and Fi hears him say, “I’ve brought you something.”

  “You did not,” comes Freyja’s voice. “Those are from Sekhmet. You’re not supposed to lie, Pater.”

  “I’m not. I brought them to you from the great hall.”

  “Semantics. Sit down and hand it over.”

  Fi sneaks closer in the shadows. Through the crack of the door she sees Freyja sitting on a pillow on the floor of a small room, a study of some sort, leaning against the wall. She puts away the needle-point she’s been working, takes the pot and shakes it. The muffled buzzing chirp of crickets comes from inside. “My one weakness, these.”

  “One?”

  “Hush.” She opens the lid and the chirruping stops. She grabs one out and goes to pop it in her mouth, but it kicks off her lip to the floor, making a bid for life. “Oh!” she exclaims, and bats at it like a cat, then snatches it up and tosses it in her mouth.

  Sitting next to her, Peter reaches in and takes one as well. The sound of them crunching almost makes Fi retch.

  “Tastes like almonds,” says Peter.

  “I’ve always thought almonds tasted like crickets.” Freyja leans on him, continuing to eat the insects like popcorn. “I quite like the little Fi girl. Though don’t you tell her I said that.” Peter chuckles.

  Fi presses against the wall and edges closer. She feels even more guilty for spying now that they’re talking about her, but can’t help smiling.

  “There are so few of us left,” Freyja continues. “You should have more children, Pater. The world could use more heroes.”

  “But could it withstand more devils? I swore an oath.”

  “Oath schmoath. You’ve sworn that before.”

  “This time I mean it.”

  “Of course you do. But it’s more a feeble guideline than an oath, from what I’ve seen.”

  “Whatever you say, Mother Freyja.” She slaps his hand as he reaches for another cricket. Peter wraps his arms around her.

  “I have been old too long, Father,” Freyja says softly. “So very old for so very long.”

  “You handled yourself quite well with Léon and Cù Sìth.”

  “I’m tired.”

  “Sleep.”

  “I never sleep.”

  “How about a good old Norse lullaby?”

  “Yes please,” Freyja answers, then warns, “but only if you do it right.”

  “I’m sure you’ll let me know if I don’t.” He eases her down to lie with her head in his lap. Freyja relaxes, revealing her Trueface. Her tufted ears wiggle and whiskers twitch while she listens.

  Peter speaks in Norwegian, but Fi now recognizes the words without effort.

  “We two, me and you

  Went to sea in a shoe

  The shoe sank and we swam to England

  Where we met a fiddler

  The fiddler played and the fiddle sang...”

  Lying in her father’s arms, Freyja ceases to fidget and closes her eyes. Peter pets her soft coat of white and gray, and she begins to purr. Fi’s struck by the thought that, as old as Freyja is, strange and powerful as she might be, she’s still his little girl. Then Fi has an idea and quietly backs away.

  * * *

  Asterion sits with a groan on the edge of a grand four-poster bed. “I worry for the people of our Order. How they must be suffering from the deaths of so many, and the destruction of their homes.”

  Tanuki takes his staff and leans it against the nightstand. He squeezes his eyes shut, but he must stay strong for his brother, who has lost so much. “I feel for them as well.” He lifts The Bull’s massive legs onto the bed, helping him lie down. “But they’re hardy folk, as you know, and though wealth is no consolation for what they’ve lost, they are well taken care of financially. We’ll see them again one day. Soon, perhaps, and help them rebuild.”

  His eyes already closed, Asterion says, “I hope so.”

  “Can I bring you anything?”

  “No thank you, Tanuki,” Asterion replies, his voice fogged with fatigue. “I do believe the wine has done the trick. I will sleep well.” Tanuki watches him, his own eyes growing moist. As he turns to leave, Asterion says, “I am truly sorry about Arges, Little Brother. I know you grieve even more than I.”

  “You’re not to blame, Brother. It’s Ziz and Xeco, and more so those who sent them, who must be made to pay.”

  Asterion hasn’t opened his eyes. “Thank you again for bringing me here. It must have been no small feat.”

  “I would do anything for you, Aster.” Tanuki sniffs, gazing at The Bull. “Anything.” Asterion has dozed off, his breathing deep and peaceful. Tanuki says softly, “I love you, Brother.” He wipes his eyes and backs away. “Forgive me.”

  * * *

  Fi, The Nemean Lion, Kabir, and Cù Sìth approach quietly outside the door to the study where she last saw Peter and Freyja. She’s surprised how easy it was to get them to come, especially since she didn’t tell them why. Cù and Léon bristled when she made it clear she wanted them both to follow her, but she used a commanding voice and invited Kabir as well, so they agreed, if reluctantly.

  Fi presses a finger to her lips and they all lean to peer through the partially open door.

  Freyja lies in Peter’s lap while he sings.

  “Byssan lull my baby

  Baby in the pot

  Coca delicious baby

  To feed the evil rømmegrøt”

  Freyja smacks his arm. “That’s not how it goes. You always do that. A rømmegrøt is not a beast. It is the porridge. The baby eats the porridge, and there’s no cocoa in it, you fool.”

  Léon snorts a laugh. Fi elbows him, which brings a smile to his face, as well as Cù Sìth’s.

  Peter says, “Have you heard the ‘Norse Lullaby’?”

  “I’ve heard them all,” Freyja replies.

  “This is new, written by a man in the United States named Eugene Field in the last half of the nineteenth century.”

  “Let’s hear it, then.”

  Peter sings, his voice soft and sweet.

&n
bsp; “The sky is dark and the hills are white

  As the storm-king speeds from the north to-night;

  And this is the song the storm-king sings,

  As over the world his cloak he flings:

  ‘Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;’

  He rustles his wings and gruffly sings:

  ‘Sleep, little one, sleep...’”

  Freyja closes her eyes and again begins to purr.

  As Peter continues, resuming his gentle stroking of Freyja’s fur, Fi could swear she feels the testosterone levels of the three warriors with her drop, their shoulders relax, the aggression between them fade. Even their breathing slows while they watch and listen.

  “The king may sing in his bitter flight,

  The pine may croon to the vine to-night,

  But the little snowflake at my breast

  Liketh the song I sing the best,

  ‘Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;’

  Weary thou art, a’next my heart;

  ‘Sleep, little one, sleep.’”

  Peter’s eyes are closed as well as he finishes the lullaby, and the two sit in calm silence.

  Fi nudges back, indicating for them to leave quietly.

  * * *

  Fi leads them into the courtyard and Léon asks her, “What was your intention in bringing us here, Fiona Megan Patterson?”

  Her eyes wander over the flowers and bees at the foot of the fountain. Then she looks at Léon, shrugs and walks away.

  The three of them watch her leave. Léon says, “I think our littlest sister may be the wisest of us all.”

  “At least the wisest of us,” says Kabir.

  Cù Sìth says, “That wouldn’t take much.”

  Léon begins to scowl, but it turns into a grin. He chuckles, shaking his head, and the three of them make their way back to the great hall.

  * * *

  Fi strolls the castle grounds, which are extensive. Small herds of sheep, dairy cattle and goats graze freely. Fi wonders how Freyja keeps them out of the gardens and orchards. Maybe she just tells them, she thinks.

  There are barns of stone with thatched roofs, shade trees, orchards, and rock-lined paths, clusters of beehives, flower gardens and perfectly manicured hedges and lawns, but also reserves of tall wild grasses swaying in the breeze. It would be idyllic if it weren’t for the trampled patches of earth and the damage to trees and buildings. Even some of the beehives have been destroyed. It looks like there’s been some repair done, though, in the short time since the attack. Brygun and Trejgun, Fi imagines, possibly with help from some of the men and women who were loading the strays when she and the others arrived.