“You’re an observant young man, Nico,” Kazuaki pulled a hollow, clay device from his pack. It looked like a large acorn, a wick sticking out the end. The liquid inside sloshed as Kazuaki set it on the ground and removed his flint and steel.
Nicholai felt the sting of a bullet whiz past his cheek. His hand flew to his face, and he felt the warmth of blood beneath his fingertips. Though it was just a scratch, it bled. “Come on, come on,” he tried to prod Kazuaki to move faster as the men ran toward them down the corridor.
A spark ignited as the flint met the steel. The slow, satisfying burn trickled down the wick. Kazuaki stood to his feet, holding the little grenade in his palm as he stared at the approaching footmen.
“He’s got a bomb!” one yelled. They all came to an immediate halt.
Nico’s eyes met a familiar face. Jernal locked stares with him, recognizing his dark hooded shroud. “You,” he breathed, clenching his jaw.
“Best run quick, mate,” the captain said to Nicholai, not allowing another moment to pass before he rolled the makeshift device straight into the crowd of men. Nicholai followed the captain’s orders without hesitation. Both men did not have much time to run before a powerful blast ignited from behind them. The explosion’s force threw their bodies forward with great speed, causing Kazuaki and Nicholai to roll across the tunnel grounds like rag dolls.
The captain pushed himself up with a swiftness. His eye darted over to Nicholai to see if he survived. He was engaged in a coughing fit, but alive. A glistening object fell from the cut of his shirt, dangling back and forth around his neck as he tried to catch his breath. Kazuaki narrowed his eye, watching through the dust and debris as Nicholai shoved his Chronometer back into the confines of his clothing. The captain knew now why their guide showed so much interest in the political texts.
As if the uncertainty of whether the grenade killed all the soldiers wasn’t motivation enough to keep moving, the rattling of the fragile catacomb walls was. Nicholai and Kazuaki both pushed themselves to their feet, picking up the pace as the threat of a collapsing tunnel persuaded them to move. They heard Bermuda shout something from in front. The light of her lantern shimmered like a star in the sky, guiding them from the danger of the collapsing catacombs. Neither man looked back as they fled the disintegrating tunnel.
“Get on with it then,” Kazuaki ordered, throwing his satchel of collected books into the cockboat with a thud. They all piled into the small vessel and the captain took up two oars, paddling with the rest of the crew to create as much distance between their boat and the tunnel mouth as they could. Though the pain of multiple bullet holes shrieked at him with each stroke, he knew they were not fatal, and pushed through the bite of the misplaced metal.
They moved forward with surprising speed. The desire to live was an excellent motivator. Nicholai turned around, staring at the catacomb entrance he came to know well over the week. His eyes squinted as he saw several shadows emerge. The footmen who survived the blast. The cockboat was too far for their weapons to have much chance of hitting their target, but the soldiers still fired. One lucky shooter hit the back of the boat, but it did little to slow them down.
“This will get back to Darjal,” Nicholai said in between plunging his oars into the water. His voice was distant, lost, the magnitude of the situation sank into his mind.
“Yes,” Kazuaki looked over his shoulder to see how far the cockboat remained from the ship, “but we’ll be gone by then.” The captain knew this was not Nico’s primary concern. He would place money on it that the man’s apprehension stemmed more in the fact that he, himself, was a Time Father. A Time Father on the run, by the looks of things. But he said nothing. Not yet.
“Too right we will,” Brack laughed, the light of the moon above highlighting his infectious grin. “No military has captured the infamous Captain Kazuaki Hidataka yet, aye, Cap?” He let go of one oar long enough to punch the captain in the shoulder.
Kazuaki winced, as Brack’s impeccable accuracy punched one of his bullet wounds. “Just keep rowing, Rabbit,” he muttered.
Nicholai shot a glimpse the captain’s way. Perhaps the explosion deafened his ears, and he misheard. “Did ... did you say, Kazuaki Hidataka?”
The cockboat moved along, not far off from the ship with the force of five bodies propelling it. “Aye,” Brack nodded, “the one and only!”
The Time Father stopped rowing out of the unadulterated feeling of disbelief that overtook him. He thought he kept his thoughts contained to his mind, but he said them out loud. “That’s impossible,” Nicholai breathed, eyes jumping back and forth between Brack and the captain. “Kazuaki Hidataka is, is a fairy tale. A myth. He’s just a story you tell children to keep them from staying out too late at night—”
“Oi, yeah, did you hear the chant about him the wee kids sing when they’re playin’ around the streets?” Brack laughed as the boat bumped into the hull of Kazuaki’s ship. He stood to his feet, grabbing the satchel of books as he tried to remember it. “I think it goes something like:
‘Captain Hidataka,
at your door he’ll knock-a,
though you may beg,
he’ll chop off your leg,
and you’ll no longer walk-a.’”
Nicholai stared at Brack, as he sang the children’s rhyme in a sing-songy tune. His jaw fell open, and he struggled to find words. “That’s ... that’s—”
“Hold it, there’s more,” Brack interrupted, continuing with the song:
‘On the captain’s deck,
a rope tied ‘round your neck,
if you try to run,
he’ll fire his gun,
and sink you like a shipwreck.’”
The Time Father remained slack-jawed. “I ... I don’t believe it,” he breathed, running a hand through his hair as if it would help contain the throbbing of disbelief in his skull.
“I know, right? Children’s rhymes are feckin’ twisted as all shit,” Brack tied the satchel to the rope dangling off the ship’s side. He pulled on it twice, indicating to Revi, above, to hoist the cargo.
As the crew moved the stolen books to the main deck and everyone exited the cockboat, Nicholai returned to the bench they placed him on earlier. He sat, mentally and physically exhausted as he tried to make sense of the new world he found himself in. The organized chaos of the crew running around him seemed like blurs in his line of vision, their voices distorted sounds his brain did not register as discernable language. He leaned back, soaking in the overwhelming amount of things he endured in the last several weeks as they readied the ship to sail. They were quick; they needed to exit before the military stood a chance at following.
He was in the presence of a legend. Nicholai struggled prior with the morality of staying in the company of these men and women. They batted no eyes at taking a man’s life. But now he knew he remained stuck with one of the most ruthless bandits known across time. Kazuaki Hidataka, the man mothers and fathers warned their children about to twist their behavior. ‘Don’t wander far from home’, he remembered his grandmother saying when he was a boy. ‘Or Kazuaki Hidataka will carry you aboard his ship and cut out your eyes.’
Nicholai Addihein was nothing if not a law-abiding man. At least, he tried to be. He bent the rules to suit Lilac and Malcolm, but his efforts were always for the citizens' betterment. His entire world was one good deed after another, nothing but scrupulous, forthright action. He went from furthering the world’s industrious efforts and helping old men start their steam cars, to accompanying murderers and thieves and thieving himself. Though Nicholai considered himself adaptable, this new environment he lived in seemed staggering even to him. His eyes shifted over to the captain. Out of everything he encountered, being in the presence of, and at the mercy of, Captain Kazuaki Hidataka was the strangest of all.
The crew readied the sails. They raised the anchors. They secured the cargo and cockboat back in their places. Kazuaki climbed to the foremast, peering out at the horizon l
ine. It was still dark; he couldn't have asked for better accommodations to slip off into the night unseen. He felt a favorable breeze come, and shouted, “Carry on!” to the crew below. They hoisted every piece of canvas the yard could carry, and the ship nudged forward, beginning its slow crawl back into the depths of the sea.
Kazuaki observed his crew, each exchanging stories of what occurred. He watched Brack imitate the explosion with his hands, then break out into riotous laughter. Everything seemed as it should. His eye drifted over to Nicholai as he sat on the bench, sequestered from the rest of the crew. He made himself useful, both with Rennington and Iani and now with the library. But Time Fathers were men of law. They weren't found outside their division, especially for this length of time. Kazuaki was well-versed in the knowledge of Nico’s kind. It meant one thing. If Nico was here, he wasn't around to secure the goings-on of time in his division. If he wasn't around to maintain the time, it stopped ticking. Kazuaki knew within an inch of certainty the man before him was the Southeastern Time Father, Nicholai Addihein. Once he knew he was a Time Father, it didn't take long for the captain’s intelligence to put the pieces of the puzzle together. The only question at the forefront of his thoughts was: why? What was his story? Kazuaki intended to find out.
The captain considered himself a man immune to most of the world’s surprises. But here he was: surprised. As the ship rolled out into the welcoming waves of the sea, he let the rare feeling wash over him. Out of everything he encountered, gods, curses, legends, immortality ... finding himself in the presence of a rouge Time Father was the strangest of all.
Chapter Eight
Darjal sat on the cushions of his elaborate throne. The furniture was exquisite, matching everything else in the grand room. Bronze legs belonging to the regal chair wrapped upward, looming high above the cushion. The sides flanked out, forging a masterful interpretation of religious iconography shaped by precious metals. It was an admirable piece commissioned by a monumental man. Though the church coffers paid for its construction, they replenished every day the constituents of Southern attended the daily services.
Twin fireplaces provided light and warmth to the room. The embers danced from the fuel of gas. Flames whipped back and forth in their metal prison. Its presence was superfluous; the room remained warm and well-lit without it, but it fit with the common theme of the space. Everything here was excessive.
The room had a strange beauty, though a thick aura of vexation tainted it. It emanated from Darjal as he stared at the formal parchment in his hands. Crumbles of red wax once used to seal the paper away from the wondering eyes of mail couriers, sat in Darjal’s lap. In any other circumstance, he would have swatted the wax chunks away, preferring not to let their appearance tarnish him. But his mind was too busy obsessing over the contents of the letter.
Nicholai Addihein froze time in the Southeastern division.
In all his years reigning over Southern, Darjal Wessex never encountered a Time Father who committed the ultimate taboo. He read tales of such things happening in the distant past but never saw this atrocity play out with his own eyes. Darjal knew the boy was too green to run a division. He thought it from the moment Edvard Addihein of Western suggested Nicholai take over Southeastern. He wagered the other Time Fathers wished they heeded his suggestion now.
The paper requested all Time Fathers to part with a fraction of their military. The borders of Southeastern required them, should Nicholai try to exit it. Or return, if he already left. Though the young Addihein boy’s betrayal was a shock, Darjal doubted he roamed far. With sections of seven different militaries bearing down on him, he had nowhere to run. Doomed to walk on foot with all the vehicles in his division frozen in time, Nicholai couldn't travel with speed. If he still lingered in the safety of his division, hunger would drive him to the border soon enough. Even if he already found his way out and entered a neighboring division, he wouldn't live long. He'd be captured or killed on sight.
Once they stripped Nicholai of his Chronometer, they could find a suitable replacement and carry on. Keeping this knowledge from the public would be an irritation, however. If word spread about Southeastern's state, the citizens would panic. To prevent chaos from exploding across the divisions, the Time Fathers would have to cut off all ties with Southeastern. No traded exports and imports, no exchange of civilian mail. Coming up with a convincing reason without revealing the truth would be annoying, but the public was easy to sway. As long as the time taken to subdue Nicholai and restore time in Southeastern didn’t turn into a long stretch, it could happen. The only concern that lingered in the back of Darjal’s mind was whether Nicholai’s father, Edvard Addihein, would put up a fuss at his son's assassination.
A knock at the room's iron door interrupted the Southern Time Father's thoughts. The sound of the knocker striking the unforgiving material of the entryway echoed through the cavernous room. He set the parchment down and looked up with frustration. “Come in,” his voice boomed, forceful for a man of his age.
With a slow grind, the door slid open. Moving the heavy entrance aside was a feat, achieved with a series of cranks operated by footmen posted outside the entryway. When the opening was big enough to accommodate a man, Jernal and several other officers entered with the structure and grace expected from an organized military. “We have a matter of importance to discuss, Lord Wessex, if you have the time. Though I must enhance the gravity of the matter,” Jernal said with calculation.
Darjal stood to his feet. His hands moved behind his back as he approached the men. They were all rigid, their posture respectful for a man of the Time Father’s rank. He looked upon each one, mentally noting the efficiency in which the men presented themselves. Satisfied each soldier conducted himself with an appropriate amount of dignity, he turned to Jernal. “I have a matter of importance I am already dealing with, Jernal.” He cast aside the formality of addressing the man by his rank.
If the lack of respect bothered Jernal, he did not let it show. “I understand, your Grace. But I suspect you’d be interested—”
“Your suspicions had best be accurate,” Darjal interrupted, tapping a bored finger against the side of his wrinkled cheek. “Much like a man’s life force, my time is irreplaceable.”
Jernal knew better than to allow formalities to slide, despite how much he wanted to blurt out the reason for his appearance. He allowed Darjal to finish his self-serving monologue before clearing his throat. “With your permission, my Lord, I would like to tell you.”
Darjal stared at the man as if he inspected the value of his words before he said them. After several torturous seconds, he lifted his hand. “Go on then.”
“Two soldiers were killed outside the Avadon church three nights ago.”
Darjal sighed and turned his back on Jernal. “My boy, you know a soldier accepts his fate as soon as he signs his life away. If you’re here to request the finances to hire additional recruits, I believe I should assess whether you can hire competent footmen before we proceed.” Darjal postured. He could not spare additional men. Not after sacrificing the amount he needed to send to Southeastern’s border.
Though Jernal’s expression did not betray his irritation, he clenched his jaw tighter. “They were killed by Rennington and Iani Platts, my Lord.”
Darjal’s dull eyes widened, and he turned around. “Those names ...” His voice shifted from diplomatic to heated, “ ... the deserters.”
“Precisely,” Jernal replied.
Darjal’s face twisted into one of annoyance. “Precisely, what?”
Jernal pursed his lips together. He didn’t pause long, as the repercussions for disobedience were high. Tempered with the fact he took his position in Southern’s military seriously, he responded, “Precisely, my Lord.”
Satisfied, Darjal nodded and looked away. “Bold is he who returns to the place of his biggest disgrace,” he muttered, rubbing his hands together. “And are they in your custody now?”
The soldier felt his nerves
choke him. “No, your Grace. We had them subdued. The elder brother, Rennington, was shot twice. Both were in shackles, but—”
“All I’m hearing is your failure, Jernal,” the Time Father’s tone shifted to a hiss. He craved vengeance on those two the minute word of their betrayal reached his ears. Rennington and Iani had the pleasure of living for far too many years. They needed to cleanse themselves of their sins. Panagea needed to cleanse itself of them.
“We were stopped by a strange man,” Jernal continued, knowing no way out of Darjal’s wrath other than to finish his duty and deliver the message in full. “He was caught thieving in town. We mistook him for a common rat, but he managed to secure the freedom of Rennington and Iani Platts.”
Darjal’s rage continued to grow. It consumed him. It did not surprise Jernal; he acquainted himself with the Southern Time Father’s temper. It made him a cold and unforgiving ruler, but Jernal could not deny the advances Darjal made for churches across the Southern division. As a religious man, himself, he respected the efforts the Time Father provided. It made it easier to bite his tongue.
After pacing back and forth in the large room, Darjal lifted his head. “Identify this man. He will suffer the same fate as the deserters upon capture. I don’t give a damn about the cost, Jernal,” the Time Father seethed, the veins in his forehead and throat throbbed with rage, “find them, and alert me immediately when they are in your custody. Now go, you've already wasted enough time traveling outside Avadon.”
Jernal cleared his throat again. It was a risk not immediately obeying Darjal’s commands, but he couldn’t leave without relaying the whole message. “There’s more, my Lord.”
The Time Father’s eyes twitched as little red veins split out from the sides of his corneas. He drew in a creeping, considerate breath. “Do tell.”
The soldier glanced over his shoulder at his men as if looking into the gaze of Darjal was physically painful. After a moment, he forced his attention back to his superior. “We caught some thieves in the Avadon church's basement the night following my men’s deaths,” he started, knowing full well the reign of Darjal’s disappointment awaited him when he discovered they failed to capture their subjects again. “Rennington and Iani were not present, but the man who freed them was there. He was under the command of Captain Kazuaki Hidataka.”
The Panagea Tales Box Set Page 12
