War of Gods, page 44
part #3 of Paternus Series
“What are they?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think Baphomet put them in there?”
He repeats, “I don’t know.”
Peter pulls out the round device, then stares into Fi’s pack.
Gungnir is there, as promised, but there’s also a flat box of rough wood. It hums with power, and blue light gleams through the cracks of its ill-fitting lid.
39
Kumari Kandam 8
Union
Zeke forgave Pratha soon after their violent episode in the mountain pass, and even expressed his gratitude. The elements healed him, and he wasn’t physically exhausted from the change, just like she said would happen.
He gets better at growing big again, and not just big, but rock, water, fire, and air, even a bizarre combination of all four, whenever he likes. It takes serious concentration at first – opening a crack in the mental barrier between him and Bad Zeke, allowing just enough of his other’s madness and rage to leak through. It’s more of an effort to heal the breach, but it becomes less difficult with repetition.
He practices his abilities in the mountains, on the beach and in the sea. The Twins and Mac teach him the basics of hand-to-hand combat, having decided even an Elemental can benefit from knowledge of fighting technique. His training occurs only when he’s in human form. Not even Quon, Leshy or Naga will spar with him when he’s a monster of rock and flame. Azh volunteers, but all agree that probably isn’t a good idea.
Zeke enjoys the training, and his mind and body become more at ease with the idea of combat. He finds himself looking forward to it, to truly testing his abilities, then realizes it isn’t entirely him but his more aggressive other self coming through. When that happens, he shores up his mental wards, practices his calming mantras, and gets back to work.
He also gains a sense of purpose. He can be of help to the Deva now, and not only in the battle to come, but also here on Kumari Kandam. He felt useless before, but now he can be as strong as a Firstborn, and he’s particularly useful in the forges. He has no skill at metalsmithing and can’t wield the words of power to work Astra metals, but he can start fires and snuff them out, control their temperature, lift white-hot pieces of metal without harm, and even hold molten steel in the palm of his hand. All when in Elemental form, of course. He’s still a soft and fragile human when himself.
Myrddin, the habilis and Pratha labor long hours to prepare armor and weapons for the Deva who haven’t brought any with them. They have resources aplenty from Freyja’s and from other hoards Peter has shown them, but working Astra materials takes considerably more time than regular metals. Most of the armor must be refitted, repaired, and some just plain melted down to start again. They work to provide the human soldiers with Astra breastplates, backplates, knives and short swords as well. Myrddin and Pratha are tireless, but the habilis have to rest and eat on a regular basis, and in spite of his Elementalism, so does Zeke.
“Have you seen Zeke?” Fi asks Abel, who’s seated at a table trying to repair a football Azh stepped on and popped.
“He headed down toward the beach a while ago. He could still be there, unless he’s splashing around out in the deep playing water baby and making “rarr” sounds while smacking rocks together.” Fi snorts a laugh, then covers her mouth.
“Those slave drivers finally give you a break?”
“Finally, yeah.” She straddles the bench next to him. “Only because Pruor had to do something with the Aesir. God knows what.”
“So,” Abel asks, “how are you and our boy doing?”
The question catches her off guard, and the way Abel grins makes her blush. “Okay, I guess, considering… everything. We hardly get to spend any time together lately.”
“You two are good for each other. Everybody thinks so.”
“Really?”
“Even Mokosh, and she hates everybody.”
Fi laughs. Abel, of Abel and Cain. Zeke’s uncle and grandfather. A long way distant, but still, so crazy. “Did you ever have any kids, in all that time?”
It’s Abel’s turn to be caught off guard. “I… no.”
Fi feels like an ass. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s all right, seriously.”
“Okay.”
Abel is quiet, and Fi feels worse for what she’s said. Then Abel says, “Truth is, I’m not particularly attracted to women.”
Her face brightens with comprehension. “I know not everybody has met all the Firstborn, but did you know Billy—I mean, Samson?”
Abel’s eyes light up. “I did. Quite well, for a while.” His expression saddens. “It’s been a long time since I saw him last. I heard you two were friends. I’m sorry about what happened to him.”
“Me too. I miss him a lot.”
After a pause, Abel says. “We never know how long anything will last, Fi, good or bad, or when any of us might go.” Fi swallows, searching his eyes. “My advice to you is to make the best of the time you’ve got, while you’ve got it.”
His smile is so genuine and endearing it warms Fi’s heart. She can see where Zeke gets it from, even if they are separated by countless generations. “Thanks.” She kisses Abel on the cheek, then smacks him on the back of the head as she gets up from the bench. “Brother.”
Abel grins as she makes her way to the beach in her ratty training armor.
Sitting on a piece of driftwood, Zeke pokes at the touchscreen of a tablet computer. Fi approaches from behind and catches a glimpse of what he’s reading. Science stuff about atoms and subatomic particles. “Whatcha lookin’ at? Porn?”
He jumps. “Oh! Jesus…” then shuts down the tablet and lays it on his knee. “Hi.”
Fi steps over the log and sits next to him. “You get a Wi-Fi signal all the way down here?”
“Yeah, surprisingly. But the soldiers set up an even more powerful transmitter than Mac’s, so maybe not so surprising. How are you?”
“Good.” They’ve never been much for small talk, not even when they were first dating – or whatever it was they were doing. “I’m more interested in how you’re doing. With you-know-who.”
“Oh, yeah.” Zeke goes to comb his fingers through his hair, forgetting it’s super short and there’s nothing to comb. She still loves how he does it, though, even more because he doesn’t even notice. “A lot better. I think he’s starting to come around to my way of thinking, or doing things, or something.”
“That’s good.” There’s something bothering him, though, and she doesn’t need her clairvoyance to see it. “But…”
“While he’s becoming more like me, I’m worried I’m also becoming more like him.”
“What’s it like, having two of you in there? I mean, I saw in Edgar’s head, saw the other Galahads, but I still don’t know how it feels.”
Zeke presses his lips together in a thoughtful frown. “Like I’m schizophrenic, I guess. Weird as hell. Like, right now he’s yelling at me.”
“Yelling? For real?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s he saying?”
“Um. He’s telling me to kiss you.”
“Then do it.”
“Really?” She grabs him and kisses him, long and deep.
Their lips part. “Don’t worry about him, or you,” she says. “I have enough love for both of you.” She takes his hand, looks around, and leads him down the beach. He follows like an eager puppy.
They find a secluded space in the rocks, and after wrestling with Fi’s ridiculous armor and Zeke nearly stabbing himself with her sword, make love for the first time.
It’s pure magic, like they’re the entire universe, in all dimensions and all time. Galaxies pinwheel like atoms through their cosmic bodies. The ground vibrates, and the flat rock on which they lie glows.
From where he sits at the table, Abel throws the repaired and inflated football to his twin brother, who’s approaching from the bar. They both halt at feeling tremors in the ground, then see an expanding amber glow down the beach. More Deva stop what they’re doing to watch.
Mac tucks up his shoulders and makes a comical face at the sudden howls of ecstasy. There’s a blinding flash of amber light and the loud crack of breaking stone.
Ganesh grins, ear to elephant ear.
Hand in hand, flushed and grinning, the lovers come over the dunes and enter the plaza to find everyone watching them.
Fi knows exactly why they’re staring, but still says, “What?”
Abel, Cain and Myrddin cheer. Sekhmet and Anubis smile and hold each other close. Even Mrs. Mirskaya applauds.
A tear of joy trickles down Peter’s cheek. He tries to hang on to the feeling with all his nearly infinite will, because deep in his ancient soul he fears that once the war truly begins, none of them may ever know joy again.
Peter sits in silent meditation on a cliff above the sea. Silver light from the moon sparkles on the waves. The salty breeze ruffles his hair. Insects hover around him but do not light, creating a halo effect in the moon’s glow. Animals of the jungle watch him from the perimeter, predators and prey together, exhibiting no aggression nor fear in the presence of The Father. Munin dozes on a nearby rock.
In his trance, thoughts from the beginning of time passing through his mind, Peter half-consciously listens to the hushed rhythm of the surf, smells the scents of the sea. Brine and floating kelp, touched with the scent of decaying sea life. A comforting odor – though beneath it, there is something else. The surf grows louder, ebbing and flowing, in and out. But it’s not the surf. It’s someone breathing.
Peter’s head snaps up and the jungle creatures scatter. Munin squawks and nearly falls off the rock, his eyes wide in his head at the sight of the creature that approaches from the shadows of an outcropping of stone.
Its movement, scent and sound were masked completely by magic older than even The Prathamaja Nandana’s, hidden from all, including The Father himself, until the creature allowed its presence to be known.
Its body and tail are like those of a lobster, gray, brown and green, and crusted with barnacles. Where the face of a lobster would be, however, is the torso of a man, plated with rough shell. One of his arms is crab-like and has a pincer for a hand; the other is humanoid. The prongs of a crudely wrought trident jut over one powerful shoulder from where the weapon is strapped to his back. His hair and beard are long, wet and wild, green like the fibrous seaweed that sways in the shallows of the sea. His head, which rises twelve feet above the ground, is that of a man as well, the face ancient but timeless, with eyes bright as green stars. A chitinous ridge where his forehead meets his hairline forms a natural crown.
Peter stares in disbelief. “Aegir…”
Aegir’s voice is deep and gurgling. “Father.” The mysterious resident of Asgard, brewer of ales, known as neither Aesir nor Vanir, but The Old Man of the Sea, steps closer. “Yggdrasil called, and I have come.”
40
Kumari Kandam 9
Valkyrie
The sun peeks over the ocean to the east, blushing pink on azure waves. Above the ancient city, the light of sunrise sets mists aglow on the green jungled mountains, limning them paper white that gradually shades to blue.
A horn lows a call to rise. Other horns pick up the song around the city and in the hills.
In the shallow valley behind the city, ogres, habilis and human soldiers pack their weapons, munitions, and belongings necessary for setting up camp and engaging in battle, all under the calm oversight of Chiron and his centaurs. Sleipnir and his herd drink from the stream, indifferent to the activity. They have nothing to pack. Naga lies coiled with his brood, waiting with the patience of the ancient reptile he is.
Human soldiers hustle about the city plaza, loading wagons and trucks with supplies, armor, weapons, and ammunition. Fi and Zeke come out of the building where they slept. The air is damp and warm. Mac, Léon, Brygun, Trejgun and The Twins have the breakfast line ready. Few of the Firstborn have an appetite, but soldiers are already eating.
Another horn blasts more loudly in the plaza. Soldiers wince. Freyja aims the instrument at a particular building and blows a stentorian note. Peter comes out with shirt unbuttoned, fastening up his pants. Behind him come Skadi and Idun, both smirking, several of the women soldiers, then a few men, all in various states of getting dressed. They shade their eyes and cover their ears.
Freyja lowers the horn. “No time to lollygag, you lot. There is still much to be done. By this time tomorrow, we will be at war!”
The day goes by in a blur for Fi and Zeke while final preparations are made. Armor is distributed and fitted to the last of the human troops, and Pratha rations out the small quantity of Astra bullets she’s had time to make – though with Zeke’s help, it’s more than she had hoped for.
Fi is brought to the center of the plaza and, in a simple ceremony, is given the tattoo of a true warrior in the elite order of the Valkyrie. Freyja applies it herself. It takes very little time and hurts far less than Fi would have imagined. By the time the blood is wiped away and two mirrors are held for her to see the patch on the back of her shoulder, only a slight redness lingers at the edges of the ink. To Fi, it looks like an old-fashioned double-tined hair pin with wings at the top. It has all happened so fast, she doesn’t even know how to feel.
The Aesir cheer. “You have achieved it,” says Freyja. Pride swells in Fi’s chest, but deflates with uncertainty when Freyja pokes her with her cane and adds, “Now you must earn it.”
That night, Fi and Zeke lie together, anxious and worrying over what tomorrow might bring, but determined to enjoy what could be their last night together. There are still a few things they haven’t tried, and would like to in case they never get another chance.
Part III
41
Erset La Tari 5
Here We Go
The blood-red sun of Erset La Tari makes its early morning ascent into the noxious yellow sky. On the plateau that Peter, Fi and Munin scouted during their brief trip here, The Snapping Turtle, Truename Taesan, tromps up to a newly lit campfire. In his beefy clawed hand is a flail, its handle, chain and spiked ball head as black as his thick rough hide and ridged shell. Crouched over the fire, three goblins clad in crude armor prepare breakfast. They’re corded in lean muscle and narrow tusks jut from their cheekbones and chins.
Taesan surveys his surroundings with beady black eyes. Across the plain, black smoke rises from power plants and factories. Even at a distance of a mile and a half, the noise of chugging machinery can be heard, crawling across the wide and desolate landscape and road of ivory bone. To his right, human sentries – barbarous men in furs carrying rifles and with broad bladed weapons like meat cleavers strapped to their thighs – stand upon the ridge of stone that rises from the edge of the plateau and separates the tableland from the swampy bayou that spreads as far as the eye can see. The night creatures of the misty swamp are growing silent, but the raucous grunts and screeches of those waking with the sun replace them.
More humans and goblins are spaced out along the edge of the plateau on sentry duty. None are being particularly vigilant. Some sit. Others have left their positions to chat. To The Snapper’s left, beyond where the plateau slopes down and stretches to the beach, a storm brews on the horizon of the dusky ocean. Behind him, a dozen more sit around a ring of stone while one of them tries to get another fire burning. Beyond them he cannot see the lowland behind the plateau that meets the curving coastline, but additional sentries are keeping an eye on that. Or at least they’re supposed to be.
Taesan grunts in relative satisfaction and turns back toward the mountain complex, which is no longer hidden by Khagan’s sorcery. He retrieves a poorly wrapped black cigar from a pouch at his hip and shoves it between the sharp ridges of his turtle beak. He clacks open a rusty Zippo lighter, runs his thumb over the burled wheel and sparks it to life.
Wind gusts from behind him and extinguishes his flame. He turns slowly. The cigar drops from his mouth at the sight of his father and the Deva standing between him and the other firepit.
Peter glares, clad in a two-piece cuirass of Astra bronze, the breastplate embossed with an emblem of The World Tree, a minimal fauld over waist and hips, and a kilt of mail. It’s not that he needs the protection, but the coming battle will surely destroy his regular clothes. As unabashed as he is, he’s rarely waged war while naked. His arms, legs and feet, however, remain bare.
Munin perches on his arm like a hunting falcon, wearing a long-sleeved shirt of silver mail and a shining silver helmet. Cain and Abel, Léon, Mac Gallus, and Pruor are also armored and outfitted for war. Fi and Zeke are there as well, brought to prove their mettle in a skirmish before the real fighting begins, as are a dozen Templar soldiers. Only Zeke wears no solid armor, but his hooded robe is made of black mail, as are the sabaton slippers that cover his feet.
The goblins by the fire rise with fear in their eyes, as do the others behind the Deva and Templars. There’s a stillness in the air as the Deva draw their weapons.
Mac swaggers past Peter, spinning a long curved dagger in each hand. His armor is fitted to his unique Firstborn physique, and the tops of his wings are protected down over the bend. “There you are, ya manky turtle,” he says to Taesan. “Let’s see ya run away this time.”
The Snapper hisses, but before he can move or speak, Munin draws a six-inch needle-sharp blade from a slim scabbard at his hip, vanishes, and appears with his tiny sword driven to the hilt in the eye of the goblin beside Taesan. Black feathers and silver armor flash twice more, and Munin perches on Peter’s arm once again. All three goblins gurgle and groan, the first holding his face, the second with her throat slit, and the third with a bead of blood swelling at his temple. They collapse to the ground.
