by Dyrk Ashton
She jabs a finger at the fire. “Because that’s the man who raised me. He was my father and now he’s dead.” Her finger swings to Peter. “Where were you?”
She stomps off, already regretting her actions, her selfishness and cruel words, but too damned pissed off, ashamed and miserable to turn back.
Zeke watches her go, mouth agape. Peter presses finger and thumb to his eyes, rubs his face, then makes to follow. Zeke moves to go with him—
Freyja’s cane stops them both. “Leave her be.” They watch Fi stagger away. “Leave her be.”
* * *
Not lifting her eyes from the ground, barely able to see through the tears, Fi keeps walking until she stumbles and drops to her knees. Only now does she look up to find she’s gone the length of the valley, not far from the bathhouse but still inside the protective shield of The Buffalo Woman’s stone. Before her is a sheer drop to another, lower valley, dull and cast in gray, with a thin lake fed by a waterfall frothing over a distant cliff.
She can still hear the bagpipes moaning through the vale. Above, where the clouds are thinner, a veiled daytime moon stares down, waning and narrowed from its peak of fullness by several days. Fi scowls at it, up there judging her. “Fuck you,” she tells it, then collapses back to sit on the grass.
The real crying begins, erupting from her very soul, the fiercest since Edgar died. Died. I’ll never, ever, see him again. Taste his cooking. Hear his voice, or his laugh.
She cries so hard it feels like her ribs will crack, her lungs will seize, she’ll wring herself dry from lost tears, and her desiccated heart will never beat again. At this moment she absolutely believes she’ll never again be happy. Never know love. Be nothing but a worthless, rotten, miserable wretch. Forever.
“Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” ends, and after a brief pause, the bagpipes strike up another of Edgar’s favorite songs, the one he was singing in the baths before he was killed. Fi listens, hand over her eyes, blinking through tears that are nearly spent, trying to catch her breath. Then she hears another sound, right beside her.
The most beautiful voice she’s ever heard, singing “Amazing Grace.” Freyja, singing softly, gazing out over the lower valley. A second voice joins in, deeper but equally as clear and strong. Mrs. Mirskaya, off to the other side, also looking over the valley. Then Pratha is there, further away, and Sekhmet, on the other side, out past Freyja, and Akhu arrives as well. All singing in the most perfect chorus Fi could imagine.
Fi says, “Akhu is singing.”
“Singing is not the same as speaking,” Freyja replies. She offers Fi her hand. Fi takes it and allows herself to be pulled to her feet.
“Don’t hate him, Fiona,” Freyja says kindly. Fi knows she’s talking about Peter. “I’m sure he did what he thought was best. Right or wrong, he always does.” Fi swallows a lump in her throat. Still holding Fi’s hand, her eyes on the sweeping vale below, Freyja says, “Whatever trials we have suffered, or tribulations that lie ahead, we will endure.” Her eyes meet Fi’s. “It’s what we do. We endure.”
Yet another voice is heard. Further off, atop an outcropping of rock, is The Buffalo Woman. Fi says, “She came back.”
“Of course she did,” Freyja replies. “The grief of one sister is the grief of us all.”
Fi takes a ragged breath. “Will Mol die?”
“He will live.” Freyja shakes her head. “I have healed him from worse, believe it or not. I swear that old hund has more lives than a cat.”
Freyja takes up the song again, squeezing Fi’s hand in encouragement. Fi clears her throat and joins in. Weak and unsteady at first, then stronger as she realizes she doesn’t sound that bad. In fact, she can sing pretty damn well.
The music from the bagpipes grows louder and the sound of another choir rises in the distance behind them. Fi turns her head to see the men crest the top of a slope thirty yards back, where they stop. They’re singing too, in voices deeper than the deepest bass to the highest countertenor. Peter is there, hand on his heart, Zeke beside him, and all the others. All singing for Edgar.
Another hand takes hers, opposite Freyja. It’s Mrs. Mirskaya, and Fi sees all the women have come closer and are holding hands. The next chorus of the song begins and Freyja belts out with an operatic soprano that would be the envy of any human virtuoso. The others swell to meet her.
An unexpected warmth builds in Fi’s chest, the cold void created by Edgar’s death being filled, at least a little, and her wasted heart beats again.
Their voices rise high on the air. The clouds break. Sunlight sparkles on the lake below, now a crisp cobalt blue. Flowers on its shores burst with color. In the waterfall’s spray, a rainbow glistens.
And still they sing, and it occurs to Fi—if there is a Heaven, and if anyone would be welcomed there with open arms, it would be her Uncle Edgar.
She looks over the women, holding hands, singing their hearts out. Her sisters. Another lump rises in her throat, but she forces it down and sings with all her might. For the first time in a long time, maybe her entire life, she thinks maybe, just maybe, she’s going to be all right.
But first, she has to survive this war.
EPILOGUE
A pair of shadows materialize on the forest floor, needles of Norway spruce pressing down beneath unseen weight, and two strange creatures appear. One half-man, half-goat, the other bearing a striking resemblance to a species of canine native only to Japan that looks a lot like a raccoon.
Tethered by a short rope tied around their waists, they gaze at the dagger with runes engraved in its three-sided blade that Tanuki holds in his hand.
“It is truly astounding, the Athamé,” says Baphomet. After he used his flute to persuade Fintán to give Pratha’s Athamé to Tanuki, they escaped Freyja’s dungeon and have since been running through forests and vales and climbing mountains, as only Firstborn can. Under the spell of the Athamé they were undetectable, leaving no trace in earth or snow, no twig broken or leaf out of place. The scent and sound of their passing was masked, and they cast no shadow. This is the true wonder of the Athamé, when invoked with the proper pattern of ancient words. Invisibility, utter and complete.
Tanuki aims the dagger at Baphomet’s heart. “I have kept my side of the bargain, now you will swear to honor yours.” Baphomet narrows his pink eyes, but holds out his single remaining hand. Tanuki takes it and runs the tip of the blade across Baphomet’s palm. As the blood pools, it soaks into the dagger’s blade and the symbols flare red. Tanuki then cuts his own hand and lays it palm down on The Goat’s.
In the ancient tongue that gave birth to the language of Sumer, Baphomet says, “To slay Lucifer, and if it is within our means, put an end to the life of Satan as well.” They clasp their bleeding hands together. “This I swear on the life of The Father, as well as my own.”
“If you break this oath,” says Tanuki, “that cut will never heal.” He watches the glow of the symbols fade. “The Athamé remembers.” He lets go of Baphomet’s hand, shakes the blood to spatter on pine needles at his feet. Meeting Baphomet’s gaze, he touches the shoulder bag that hangs at his hip and contains the disk called Sudarshana. “Though I wouldn’t worry about that. If you betray me, I will end your life myself.” He threatens once more with the Athamé. “Don’t doubt me, Goat. This time, I’ll do it.”
“And you would have every right to do so.”
Tanuki sheathes the dagger and retrieves bandages brought for just this occasion from his bag. Baphomet unties the rope that binds them together and stows it in a pack of his own—not an easy task with one hand. When Tanuki has wrapped their wounds, they don their human cloaks and wind their way through the trees, down toward the foot of the mountain where the city of Oslo thrives on the banks of the Skagerrak Strait, above the cold North Sea.
To be continued in Paternus: War of Gods, the third and final novel in The Paternus Trilogy, with more mythic adventures, epic battles, shocking revelations—and a surprise return...
Co
ming Summer, 2019.
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FURTHER READING IN THE WORLD OF PATERNUS
“BERSERKER”
A stand-alone short story framed as a “missing chapter” from Paternus: Rise of Gods. It tells of the time when Bödvar Bjarki finally met his father, many centuries ago. Kindle eBook available for 99 cents through the title link above, or free by subscribing to the Paternus Books Media Newsletter.
LOST LORE
This free fantasy anthology contains “Deluge,” a short backstory in the world of The Paternus Trilogy concerning the adventures of Myrddin Wyllt and Fintán mac Bóchra in ancient Ireland at the time of the Great Flood.
ART OF WAR: ANTHOLOGY FOR CHARITY
Includes “Valkyrie Rain,” a short backstory in the world of The Paternus Trilogy that takes place during the great battle of Ragnarok. Forty of your favorite fantasy authors contributed to this anthology. All proceeds go to Doctors without Borders.
“Amazing Grace”
Amazing grace, how sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found;
Was blind, but now I see.
’Twas grace that taught my heart to fear,
And grace my fears relieved;
How precious did that grace appear,
The hour I first believed.
Through many dangers, toils and snares,
I have already come;
’Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far,
And grace will lead me home.
The Lord has promised good to me,
His Word my hope secures;
He will my Shield and Portion be,
As long as life endures.
Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail,
And mortal life shall cease,
I shall possess, within the veil,
A life of joy and peace.
The earth shall soon dissolve like snow,
The sun forbear to shine;
But God, who called me here below,
Will be forever mine.
When we’ve been there ten thousand years,
Bright shining as the sun,
We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise,
Than when we’d first begun.
Lyrics by John Newton, 1779
“Swing Low, Sweet Chariot”
(Chorus)
Swing low, sweet chariot,
Coming for to carry me home.
Swing low, sweet chariot,
Coming for to carry me home.
I looked over Jordan, and what did I see?
(Coming for to carry me home)
A band of angels coming after me.
(Coming for to carry me home)
(Chorus)
If you get there before I do,
(Coming for to carry me home)
Tell all of my friends, that I'm coming there too.
(Coming for to carry me home)
(Chorus)
Traditional lyrics
Wallis Willis, circa 1865
“Battle Hymn of the Republic”
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord;
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword:
His truth is marching on.
(Chorus)
Glory, Glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
His truth is marching on.
I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps,
They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps;
I can read His righteous sentence in the dim and flaring lamps:
His day is marching on.
(Chorus)
I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of steel:
"As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal";
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel,
Since God is marching on.
(Chorus)
He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;
He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment-seat;
Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him! Be jubilant, my feet!
Our God is marching on.
(Chorus)
In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,
With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me.
As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,
While God is marching on.
Lyrics by Julia Ward Howe, 1861
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There are more than a few folks to whom I owe a deep debt of gratitude and must be named. I could never have written, promoted or published this book without each and every one of them.
First, my beta readers: Alec H., Angela B., Bill T., Dan P., Daphne A., Dianna A., Dillon A. Don B., Dorian H., Graham A-K., Irina A., Jacqui E., Joe S., John D., John H., Kristen M., Lee F., Maggie C., Mihir W., Mom & Dad, Richard M., Shawn W., Stephanie S.,Valerie E., Vince M., Zach P. Thank you for your masochistic tendencies in agreeing to do this, the invaluable notes, and your undying encouragement. I will be ever grateful. I must make special mention of another beta reader, a friend of my mother, Dottie, who wrote in an email, “He made me once again believe in gods and goddesses.” I can’t ask for more or better than that.
Very special thanks to my parents, Richard and Harriette Ashton, who read and proofed every draft of every version, and loved them all. Each was perfect and needed nothing more or less—though there were a few things... which I fixed! Such is the love and perfection of wonderful parents. Thank you for your limitless tolerance and unconditional support.
My copy-editors and proofers, who saved my ass, A. Dale Triplett and Laura M. Hughes (yup, full names for you two. I love you guys. You make me look good (and not so much like a complete idiot). And John D.— thanks for the proof, Pin! Any errors or bad writing that still exist are my own damn fault and no one else’s. A special shout out to Dorian H. as well, for going far above and beyond the call of duty of the usual beta read to provide both copious and extremely helpful notes.
For the absolutely incredible covers, without which I’d bet far fewer readers would pick the books up in the first place, John Anthony Di Giovanni (illustration) and Shawn King (design)—damn you guys knock it out of the park every time. And Lee Fearnside for the rather classy yet casual author photo—thanks Lee!
Consultants: Thank you Lt. Col. Joe H. for everything airplane, Michael E. for information regarding the British military, Mihir W. for the Hindu mythology expertise, Petros T. for the lessons in Greek, Irina A. for all things Russian, and James T. for his assistance with Goodreads listings—your help was indispensable, all! A tip of the hat and a bow to Hiu as well, for the fantastic animated cover he made and posted on r/F. And I can’t forget my Scottish authorities, Michael M., Dominick M., and Andrew M. Thanks guys! I wish I could put every Scottish swear word and phrase you gave me in the book, but there are so many...
Folks who may or may not have read the book, but helped me tremendously along the way whether they know it or not: My brother Drew, Simon, Sasha, Maggie, Donovan, Wyatt, Weston, Sven & Katti S., Dan and Lisby P., Steve A., Mark B., Ralph C., T
om L., Tom W., Chris L., another Ralph C., Jenny L., Edmund L., Risa C., Ben P., Cynthia B., Don C., Jonathan C., Clay L., Clay C., John S., Angus B., Jeff D., Ken S., Michael D., Kevin B., Hank T., Tom T., Josh R., Rafael R., Jorge A., Heidi H., Jim W., Matt. S., Darin K., and all my fellow student pals from BGSU grad school.
Everybody at the local coffee shops for letting me squat for years at a time.
All my wonderful friends on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram, and the incredibly supportive bunch on Reddit/Fantasy. A fun and amazing group of people.
All my author friends in The Terrible Ten, Sigil Independent, and The Fantasy Bridge. I can’t begin to list how many things you’ve helped me with along the way, including my sanity.
All my other author friends, who are too numerous to list, but you are all in my heart every day.
All my ARC readers, also too numerous to list, big hugs to each and every one of you.
All the folks who have read and reviewed book one—bloggers, authors, and readers alike—you are my lifeblood.
The incomparable Mark Lawrence and his terrific SPFBO, and all the wonderful judges who generously give their time to this project. I will ever be in your debt.
I must also acknowledge Gilles Deleuze and Henri Bergson and dozens of other brilliant philosopers, thinkers, and metaphysicists, as well as all the people from all races, cultures and times who have contributed to the myths and legends of the world. They inspired and enriched not only much of my writing, but also my life.
If I missed anybody it wasn’t on purpose, I swear. Let me know. I’ll make it up to you in the next book.