by Dyrk Ashton
Peter attempts to avert the pending sibling confrontation. “These attacks are meticulously coordinated,” he tells Pratha. “There has been no open, organized aggression of this kind since The Second Holocaust—which you almost missed entirely, come to think of it.” He watches her take a sheaf of leaves from her box. “I never got to say it then, though. Thank you for your help, in the end.”
Pratha shrugs. “I was bored.” She begins applying a sticky orange substance to the leaves. “Sounds like this is where the action is now,” she says lightly, then raises her voice for Baphomet to hear. “I must thank The Goat for inviting me to the party. I might have missed this as well.” Baphomet nods cordially as if that was his intention all along.
“Have you questioned him?” Peter asks. “He’s long been Kleron’s number one.”
“Only enough to find out where you might be located,” she answers. “I thought I’d leave the rest to you.”
“How did you journey here?”
“In grand style, I must say, by mtoto standards. One of those flying machines called a helicopter, then a private jet and a large automobile—a limousine, I believe. The Goat has quite the resources, you know.”
“No, I did not,” says Peter, questioning the wisdom of isolating himself from the Firstborn and the goings on of the world for so long. “There is more you should know.”
“And what might that be?”
Peter tells her about Mahisha and Tengu-Andrealphus coming back from the dead, and the locusts on other worlds.
For the first time since she arrived, Pratha’s expression becomes grave. “Even Lucifer has not the lore to accomplish these things,” she responds solemnly. “At least, he never had...”
Peter’s eyes meet Mrs. Mirskaya’s as they consider the grim possibilities.
Having finished treating Mol, Zeke and Edgar sit quietly, watching and listening, though Edgar still keeps an eye on Pratha’s three companions.
“Edgar, sir,” Zeke whispers, nodding at Pratha. “Who is she?”
Edgar replies in a conspiratorial tone. “Until today, I knew her only as the Lady Lyne. My boy, she was my mentor. She taught me how to be a knight. Truly taught me, like none other could, not even Launcelot, my father. The same as she trained Sirs Eglan, Reginus, and Ewain before me.”
“And she’s Firstborn?”
“Oh yes. I always suspected, but now I know it to be true. And if I am not mistaken, it was her presence that caused The Bat and Maskim Xul to beat such a hasty retreat.”
“They’re that afraid of her? Those two?”
“Oh yes.”
“But they confronted Peter like that. I mean, he’s the strongest, isn’t he?”
“He is, by far. But she has powers that Peter does not, that he cannot. She’s also—obviously—female, a daughter. Very rare. Very strong. And she’s old, lad.”
“Older than Kleron?”
“Aye.”
“Older than Max?”
“I don’t know what knowledge you have of geological history, but she was born when all the land mass of the earth was last together as one continent, what’s now referred to as Pangea.” He gazes at Pratha with reverence. “She is The First Daughter, perhaps the eldest surviving True Ancient, over 250 million years of age.”
“Jesus Christ...” Zeke exclaims.
Edgar gives him a look, but lets it pass. “True Ancients are those who lived through what they’ve come to call The Cataclysm. You might know it as the K-T Extinction Event that destroyed the dinosaurs, 65 million years ago.
“What I know of her was passed to me by Peter and the handful of Firstborn I have met,” Edgar continues. “She disappeared almost 20,000 years past, after the last of the Great Wars, The Second Holocaust, but stories of her were carried the world over by those who survived.
“It was she who inspired the Hebrew tales of Lilith, as well as the Babylonian’s Tiamat, the Great Mother Serpent, described as both creatrix and beast of chaos, neither of which are entirely true. But they are not entirely false, either. The Sumerians of the same region revered and feared the memory of her as Ama Kashshaptu, ‘Mother Witch.’
“To the tribes that became the Aztecs she was the fabled Coatlicue, Teteoinan, Cihuacoatl, and Toci, the last of which translates to ‘our grandmother.’ The earliest peoples of the Indus Valley knew of her as none other than Kali, The Dark Mother, but before that Saraswati, goddess of knowledge, and Satarupa, the one of ‘a hundred beautiful forms,’ in addition to Durga and Maha Nigurna Shakti—whom I mentioned as the benefactor and executioner of Mahisha. She was Naunet, Amaunet and Mother Snake Goddess to the Egyptians, and to the ancient Slavs, Baba Yaga, a magical crone of ambiguous nature—at once kind and dreadfully cruel.
“Her names are countless and legends abound, some more veritable than others—but that woman there, Zeke, my lad, is quite literally The Mother of Dinosaurs.”
Zeke stares at the beautiful woman who is calmly applying leaves to Fi’s wounds like bandages. His mind would be blown—if there was anything left to blow. “I guess I can see why Kleron and Max are afraid of her, then.”
Edgar leans nearer, keeping his voice down. “There is more.” Zeke listens closely. “Peter has been known to show forgiveness and mercy, qualities that some consider weakness and have taken advantage of in the past. From what I understand, these are traits The Pratha does not share.
“We have nothing to fear from her, but be wary, lad. In my time with her she always appeared in the form we see now. I have never seen her Trueface, but that is not it.” Images of the scaly blue hand and the shadow of the toothy lizard head and forked tongue flash through Zeke’s mind. “It is also said she can take the form of your innermost desires, or your darkest fears.”
Both of them start as Peter raises his voice, speaking in English. “You know, you two, we can hear every word you’re saying.”
Edgar stammers, “Well, I just thought the lad—”
“You’ll give away all my secrets, Galahad,” purrs Pratha, speaking in English as well. Edgar is stymied.
“Fat chance,” Peter scoffs.
“I understand that a ‘fat chance’ is synonymous with ‘something that is not likely,’” she replies.
“That is correct. You haven’t been completely out of touch with modern culture.”
“I steal into the cities now and again.” Then she adds coyly, “A girl has needs an anaconda cannot always satisfy.”
Edgar sees the look on Zeke’s face. He pats him on the knee and rises to his feet. Zeke stands as well, brushing dust from his pants. Then they both turn quickly away at the sight of Pratha yanking Fi’s pants off.
“Humans, so bashful,” Pratha derides.
Peter fishes a pair of sweatpants out of the pink backpack and Mrs. Mirskaya puts them on Fi. Zeke peeks to see that Fi’s decent again, taps Edgar on the arm to let him know. Peter hands Pratha a thin thermal blanket from the pack.
“What about this?” he asks, pointing to his mouth, the gunk he’s been chewing for her now a salty, bitter mush.
“Oh, we don’t need that,” she says, wrapping Fi in the blanket.
“It’s not for the girl? To counteract the venom?”
“I needed it softened. It is very old.”
“What is it?”
“Nasal mucus of sloth, mostly.” Peter spits the glob onto the floor. “No need to waste it,” she admonishes, scooping the glob with another leaf. She wraps it and places it in her bag while Peter wipes his tongue with the palm of his hand. “And don’t be such an mtoto. You’ve had much worse in that mouth.”
Mrs. Mirskaya nods in confirmation. “This is true.”
Zeke is astounded. Fi is possibly dying, people are being killed by ancient devils, worlds are being destroyed by demon locusts, there are monsters in the room not fifteen feet away, Peter and his eldest daughter have just been reunited after a stupid-ridiculous amount of time—and they’re clowning around, tricking each other into eating boogers.
“Can she be moved?” Peter asks.
Pratha sets her palms on Fi’s chest, thumbs and index fingers touching, closes her eyes and expresses one perfect word.
“Ommmm...”
The air resonates at its flawless tone. The chamber itself seems to expand. Sparkles of light appear before her, suspended like golden glitter. She inhales them, then leans down and breathes them into Fi’s nostrils and open mouth. Some of the pink returns to Fi’s gaunt waxen cheeks.
Mrs. Mirskaya looks on with profound esteem.
Baphomet is spellbound. With one simple word, The Prathamaja Nandana has accomplished something the great and powerful Mokosh cannot, that Baphomet and even Master Kleron could never do, a feat beyond Father himself—summon healing power from the cosmos and bestow it upon another.
“She can travel,” Pratha says in a weary voice, as if this brief deed has nearly drained her.
“Then we must leave here,” Peter responds.
Pratha places her forehead between her hands on Fi’s chest and mutters more “magic” words.
Peter rises, gazes down at Fi and Pratha, then approaches Edgar and Zeke.
“Is she going to be alright?” Zeke asks.
“It’s too soon to tell.” He peers at the floor as if trying to read something in the stone. “I’m deeply sorry for your trials this day, and for those to come. I can only blame myself. I have been lax in my vigil. In fact, I’ve paid very little heed these last centuries.
“And today, I now understand that Kleron foresaw the possibility I had emerged from the mentia. His intention was to take advantage of the murkiness of thought that accompanies my recovery, to raise my ire and cloud my judgment further. Perhaps I should have sent you into these tunnels before he arrived, but he obviously knew of them and planned on us retreating here in hopes of trapping me—in fact, he wanted us to know he was coming, perhaps hoping we would flee. When we did not, he was prepared to drive us here with his minions. He expected we might attempt to slip as well and covered our escape to other worlds with the swarms. What these locusts could be, from where they hail, or through what manner of infernal corruption Firstborn are being summoned from death, I cannot yet comprehend.”
“You did what you thought best, milord,” Edgar consoles. “That’s all anyone could do.”
“I am not anyone.” Peter places a hand on Edgar’s shoulder. “I may be limited in this form, but I am not diminished. Be assured, I will not underestimate Kleron again.”
After a moment of silence, Zeke asks, “So, what’s the plan?” Though he expects an answer, he’s taken aback by Peter’s brightly determined gaze.
“The Deva must be found,” Peter pronounces firmly, his eyes burning with staunch intent. “It is time to gather the Warriors of Old.”
Edgar bows his head in honor and humility.
The intensity in Peter’s eyes diminishes and he speaks in solemn trepidation. “If any still live.”
Baphomet observes attentively. The parvulus boy, the thirdborn cavalier and The Hound of War pose no threat. The wounded girl is Firstborn but young, an unknown commodity, and she may not survive. Mokosh and The Prathamaja Nandana, however—two Devi, female Firstborn who stand with Father—and The Pater himself... Formidable, very formidable. The odds may be rising against him, but as obstacles become clearer, so do possibilities to counter them. He strokes his goatish beard with the finger-hooves of one hand, recalling one of the most important lessons he taught his young apprentice, Niccolò Machiavelli: ‘Whosoever desires constant success, must change his conduct with the times.’ Baphomet will come up with something. He always does. He is, after all, Baphomet.
He notices Ao Guang staring vacantly into the well and gets the feeling The Gharial is about to do something very, very foolish.
Ao Guang’s gaze, his whole being, is drawn to the water, his natural element. His reptilian-Firstborn brain squirms with his own plan. I must escape and find Master Kleron. I will tell him what I have seen—and of the failure of The Goat. Baphomet will fall from the Master’s grace, and I, Ao Guang, will be made Asura Khan in his stead!
He launches himself and dives into the well.
Mol barks an alert; Edgar shouts, “Hoy!”, but Pratha has already sprung into an acrobatic backflip and plunges after The Gharial. Peter rushes to the edge, followed closely by Zeke and Mol. Edgar moves more cautiously, keeping an eye on Baphomet and Idimmu Mulla, brandishing his sword, while Mrs. Mirskaya remains with Fi.
Dimmi whimpers, looking to Baphomet with wide terrified eyes.
Baphomet shakes his goat head coolly. Very foolish indeed.
A sudden violent thrashing sends water splashing up into the chamber. Zeke leaps back, but Peter stays where he is. Dimmi ducks behind The Goat. The pool becomes still. Tense moments pass before the surface is broken.
Pratha is only a fraction of Ao Guang’s size but she treads easily up the steps, dragging him by the snout with one hand. She reaches the floor and flips him. His tail smashes a section of walkway above. The Goat and Hyaena duck their heads against falling debris. The chamber trembles with the impact of Ao Guang’s long wet body slapping the floor.
That monster must weigh a ton, Zeke thinks, but she handles him like he’s just a stuffed animal!
Pratha straddles The Gharial’s back, trapping him between her legs. The crown of Ao’s head is partially crushed and thick blood pumps from a ragged wound in his neck. Pratha glares at Baphomet and Dimmi and begins to speak an unspeakable speech. Not as diabolic as what was uttered by Kleron, but of greater portent. They shrink from her gaze.
The atmosphere in the chamber becomes oppressively hot and humid. Pressure builds in Zeke’s ears as an ominous primal fog flows from the tunnels, oozes over the floor and fills the well. With it come thick rich scents of fetid water, rotting vegetation, musk, mud and blood. There’s the odor of ozone as well, and a crackling energy in the air. The room tilts, the walls spin around him, Pratha goes out of focus. Zeke presses his hands to his ringing ears and clenches his eyes shut.
* * *
When Zeke opens his eyes, the group is standing in the dark glade of a swamp that can only be described as prehistoric, ankle deep in black water that slithers with unseen horrors. In a circle around them, where the walls of the chamber had been, glistening black megaliths project from the ground, deeply engraved with elaborate runes. A fire burns brightly in a rock-ringed pit in the center.
Eyes of red and yellow peer ravenously from the surrounding vegetation. Gargantuan trees draped in hoary vines, ferns the size of houses. Zeke removes his hands from his ears. The ringing is gone, replaced by hoots, growls and sounds of branches snapping in the undergrowth beyond the glade.
The sky sparkles with more and brighter stars than Zeke has ever seen. A monstrous webbed-winged terror looses a bone-chilling wail as it flaps across an impossibly large moon.
Peter and Mrs. Mirskaya are unfazed by the new surroundings. Baphomet and Dimmi remain cowering. Mol creeps timidly to Edgar’s side, who’s every bit as astonished as Zeke.
Pratha still straddles the alligator-monster she called Ao Guang. But she’s changed. Completely nude, sheer gown and chaplet gone, her long dark hair flows freely over milky white shoulders. Zeke blinks and she has blue skin, a red bindi gem on her forehead—and four arms. She wears a tall headdress, a necklace of shrunken heads and a skirt of severed human limbs. In a flash she sports a square golden helmet, has shimmering blue feathers on her shoulders and along the outside of her arms, and a wicked, whipping tail. Another flash and she’s robed in gold and has the head of a cobra. Then she’s an old crone, then a coiled serpent. Other aspects flicker. Goddesses, demons and monsters from every age known to humankind, and many unknown. Then The Prathamaja Nandana appears in what Zeke realizes must be her Trueface.
She’s built much the same as in her human cloak, svelte and long-legged, but covered in sparkling blue scales, lighter colored and softer-looking on her belly, breasts and neck. The claws o
n her hands and feet gleam red, and she has a tail, long, slim and lashing. A ridge of dark scales runs from the crest of her skull down the center of her back to her waist. Her face is lizard-like, her nostrils flared holes, teeth curved white razors, and articulate tongue forked and flickering. In the center of her forehead is a dime-sized dot of bright red scales. And she still wears the red pendant at her neck, as she has through all her transformations.
Her eyes are vertical ellipses, wider and less alien-looking than the thin reptilian slits of Ao Guang, but still golden, intense, provocative.
“Whoa...” whispers Zeke, completely unaware he’s spoken aloud until Edgar whispers back,
“Aye.”
Pratha grips The Gharial’s snout as her incantation continues. His skin shrivels beneath her hands, blackens and splits. He struggles as the pestilence spreads over his head and down his neck, but cannot escape her grasp.
Peter only has time to say, “Pratha,” before the Firstborn known as Ao Guang, god and monster of legend, a being who has walked this earth for 53 million years and could snatch the life from even Cù Sìth with a snap of his jaws, has his head ripped from his body with a single wrenching twist, like he’s just a stuffed animal.
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
Mendip Hills 6
“Don’t let go.”
The White Watcher, Fintán mac Bóchra, The Falcon, stands near the base of the cliff, a long pack strapped to his back, Bödvar Bjarki’s giant sword, Kladenets, secured beside it.
On top of them both, Myrddin Wyllt clings tightly. “Sound advice,” he replies. “Obvious, but sound.” He now has a snug woolen cap, like his favorite one of old, tugged down over his ears. Another gift from Fintán.
Myrddin glances back at the cave—or, where the cave was. After Myrddin had eaten, rested, and Fintán attended to the bite of The Leech, he’d laid hands upon the stone, spoken words and collapsed the entire cavern. The cavern that was his involuntary home for more than 1,500 years.
