by Dyrk Ashton
Edgar lets out a low sharp whistle and Mol approaches. Edgar begins applying the medicinal goo to Mol’s deeper cuts. Mol sniffs the stuff, sneezes and shakes his head, but tolerates the procedure.
Zeke helps, searching through Mol’s hair to locate injuries, but continues to glance at Pratha, crouched over Fi, plying her magic, or practicing the most advanced medicine ever known. He gets the feeling it’s probably a little of both.
Pratha opens Fi’s mouth, sprinkles a mixture of herbs and powders on her tongue. “Pour,” she says to Peter. Peter lifts Fi’s head and tilts the water bottle to her lips. Pratha holds Fi’s mouth closed and rubs her throat, forcing her to swallow.
“Kleron was here,” says Peter.
“I have a sense of smell,” she retorts. “Your glorious ‘Morning Star.’ Up to something fiendish, no doubt. And The Lier in Wait serves him?”
“So it seems.”
“Maskim Xul has never followed another. He didn’t happen to tell you why he’s chosen to now?”
“I’m afraid not. Since the death of his wife there’s no one to temper his cruel predilections, and he has even less love of the watoto.”
“I received word of her demise.”
Mrs. Mirskaya interjects sadly, “A terrible loss for us all.” She speaks in the same language they do, with no trace of a Russian accent.
Peter momentarily gazes into the past, then continues. “Zadkiel, who is calling himself Kabir, was taken by Max, but he is with us now. He’ll meet us shortly.” He considers the explosions. “If he is able.” He looks at Pratha, who is intent on her treatment of Fi. “Kleron has gathered an army of wampyr and werewolves, from more worlds than this, from the looks of them.” Pratha shrugs as if they are inconsequential. “The Cerberi accompany him as well.”
“I heard they had a falling out.”
“Reconciled, or so it seemed. Cù Sìth appears to have come to our cause.”
Pratha looks up in wary surprise. “Now that is curious news. And you trust him?”
“His actions support his claim, but there has been no time to interrogate him. I cannot say.” He thinks back on what he remembered just before Cù Sìth attacked Kleron and his Cerberus brothers in order to save Kabir--Cù climbing down the drainpipe by the swimming pool, a broken security camera high in the corner above him. “Earlier today, Kleron assaulted the hospital where I was staying. I believe Cù may have been trying to help us even then, in his way.”
“Come to think of it,” says Mrs. Mirskaya, “it was he who distracted Surma and Wepwawet, making my escape from them possible. It could have been intentional. But this is Cù Sìth we’re talking about.” She grimaces and shakes her head. “Very hard to believe.”
Peter is pensive, but proceeds. “We have no knowledge of who else Kleron may have targeted. Edgar--Galahad, Mokosh and I have had little to no communication with the Deva for some time. We know where only a handful abide, and have no way to contact most of them. Edgar attempted to get in touch with The Twins today, with no luck. The same for Freyja.”
“I wouldn’t be overly concerned about Freyja,” Pratha replies, rubbing Fi’s temples. “She is feisty, that one.”
Mrs. Mirskaya grunts in agreement, then says to Peter, “Edgar tells me that Samson is dead.”
“Yes,” Peter says quietly. “An honorable passing.”
Mrs. Mirskaya glowers at Pratha. “Of course you would not know our brother Samson. He was born long after you ran off.”
“I heard tales of his deeds,” Pratha replies flatly. “I am sorry for your loss.”
By the dour look on Mrs. Mirskaya’s face, she doesn’t accept her condolences.
Pratha glances affectionately at Edgar. “I’m gladdened to see Galahad is with you.”
Peter replies with fondness and gratitude. “He’s been invaluable to me.”
Pratha studies Fi’s face like she’s some kind of scientific specimen. “And who is this one?”
“Her name is Fi,” says Peter. “Edgar’s ward.”
“Hmm,” she hums, in much the same way Peter did when he wanted to annoy Fi and Zeke.
“Pater!,” Mrs. Mirskaya chides. Her speech slips back into English with a Russian accent. “It is no secret to Pratha. She can see.” She addresses Pratha with glad pride. “This is Fiona Megan Patterson. Last of the Firstborn. Our new baby sister.”
“The last daughter,” says Pratha. “And she is a good one?”
Peter gazes at Fi’s wan features. “The best.”
“Starshaya sestra (big sister),” insists Mrs. Mirskaya, “you must do all within your power to save her.”
Pratha replies curtly, “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”
Mrs. Mirskaya scowls at her and Pratha returns the challenge with a sternly raised brow.
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.
