Heirs of Mana Omnibus

by Matt Larkin

  As she did so, a fire sprung up in a line before her, turning in complex, unnatural spirals that must have formed a spirit circle. The fires granted her a bare view of the cavern. The ceiling remained out of sight, but rocky cliffs ringed her on all sides. From high above something screeched like a bird. A very large bird.

  The same kind of bird she’d seen on Mount Halulu in Uluka‘a. A guardian of the Waters of Life? She knew them now, through Nyi Rara. Storm akua—harpies.

  She groaned, finally able to roll onto her stomach and push herself up. She immediately slipped back down. She’d been wrong before. The pain in her shoulders was definitely still there. Again, she lifted her head only to spot a shadowy figure moving between the lines of fire. She could make out nothing of his face as he drew ever nearer.

  Something too familiar … something dark, bubbling within her chest.

  “You are in my place.” His voice hissed like steam, barely audible over the ringing in her ears.

  The Storm akua screeched again and this time swooped down to land beside the shadowed figure. The harpy had talons—the knives that had pierced her—and wings, but a human torso and arms like a man. It tilted its head sideways, glaring at her with a decidedly inhuman eye. Its face was some blasphemous mix between man and bird, its nose ending in a beak. A long white stripe of feathers crested the back of its head.

  Had Kanaloa somehow conscripted the harpies to watch the Waters where his he‘e could not?

  The man pushed forward.

  She knew him, even before the fire lit his face. Knew him, felt it in her gut like a rising flood of dread choking her down.

  The impossibility of it.

  “Father …”

  Kū-Waha-Ilo spread his hands before himself. “I always wondered which of you would come first. I rather expected Pele. Especially after the Muians took you.”

  “You know.”

  He chuckled darkly, and the cavern seemed to rumble with it. “Poor, blind Namaka, flailing around in the dark, flopping like a fish out of water.”

  Kana had pulled up behind her and now stood in a fighting crouch. With one arm she forestalled his advance.

  “You came here, after leaving Uluka‘a all those years ago? I know that Kanaloa used the Chintamaniya to purify three springs of Eitr and created the Waters of Life to grant immortality to his … His servants.”

  “And?”

  Namaka shook her head. No. This was impossible. “And he chose, uh … some few among them for eternal youth … so they could work his will on land.”

  “Some mo‘o and some other bloodlines.”

  Oh, ‘aumākua. No. It wasn’t possible. “You …”

  “And Haumea,” he finished for her.

  “You ruled as god-king and god-queen over Uluka‘a for ages. Your children …” Namaka closed her eyes, wanting to pretend this was a nightmare. “You deliberately bred us as kupua. Me, Pele, Kapo, Hi‘iaka.”

  “Pu‘u-hele,” he added, and Namaka flinched. “There were others, before you, of course. Your generation was a later development, helping us prepare for the final conquest of the seas. I doubt he ever anticipated the mer taking hold of your body. It renders you contaminated, child. The best we can hope for now is to reabsorb your mana.”

  Her father extended a palm toward her, fingers splayed. Something pulled at the wounds in Namaka’s shoulders, yanking her to her knees. Blood—her blood!—streamed through the air, drifting toward the dark being before her. It ran like a river over the thirty feet between them. This fiend intended to drain her dry.

  “There is power in your blood,” the man said. “Succulent, spiritual. I had high hopes for you, once.”

  Namaka’s breath grew shallow. She was really going to die here. To die, and with her, her sister and her people would fall. All because she was too far from water. No ocean. No lake, no river, save the river of her own blood. Her precious blood. Blood was … leaving. Blood was … water. Partly water.

  Through bleary eyes she fed mana into the blood. Controlling it was infinitely harder than exercising her power over pure water. But she didn’t need finesse or great quantity, just a chance to catch her father off-guard. She sent one stream jetting forward like a spear. Kū-Waha-Ilo cried out, tumbling to the ground from her unexpected assault. Namaka pulled the other stream of blood back into her body. The effort—and pain of it—was extreme. It took almost all her concentration to stop her bleeding.

  “Kill her!” the man called to his harpy.

  A flap of its wings sent the avian monster soaring into darkness again.

  Namaka glanced around, trying to spot it. She couldn’t see the damn thing. She gave over trying to stop her bleeding and forced herself to her feet, made a mad dash for Kana. “Run!”

  A shadow and a rush of wind alerted her to the diving harpy. Namaka hit the ground in a roll that carried her almost to the edge of the shaft. The bird’s talons swept through the air where she had stood, and it rose, readying another pass. Namaka groaned and crawled toward Kana. The man had slipped back over the shaft’s lip now and lunged forward, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her down.

  They both fell, tumbling down to the ledge below. Dizziness sent her world spinning. Some part of her knew if she gave in, if she lost consciousness, she would bleed to death.

  “Namaka!”

  What little energy she had she focused on keeping her blood in her body. Kana lifted her in his arms and jumped down from one ledge to another, grunting in pain with each drop. Most likely he tore gashes in his feet like that. A shadow passed over the cavern entrance, but the bird did not descend into the tunnel. Perhaps it did not want to face them where it couldn’t fly.

  But now, the only light came from that cavern far above. Kana stumbled down the tunnel the way they had come, occasionally colliding with the wall. She wanted to help, to do something. But it took all she had to keep her eyes open.

  Part III

  Third Age of the Worldsea

  33

  That kahuna on Vai‘i had called it dropsy. Which was pretty much what Kamapua‘a had figured the swelling in his legs was. Only, he’d never heard of a kupua getting it. He didn’t get sick.

  Except now, his legs seemed to disagree with his assessment.

  Walking hurt now, but he figured he deserved that.

  Most likely, Kama deserved whatever the akua and ‘aumākua did to him and worse.

  He’d let the Boar God out of the cave. On shitting purpose. And it had gone exactly how he should have known it would go.

  Once—seemed long ago now—seeing Niheu had stopped the Boar God’s rampage.

  Now, though, now nothing had held it in check save Poli‘ahu’s wall of ice impaling Kama. It was madness, and more than enough to send Kama scampering away from Moloka‘i in shame. He’d seen the look on Malie’s face—after they took her shitting arm off—and she was morbified by what Kama had done.

  Over and over, he’d kept thinking of jumping off the canoe and letting the Worldsea take him. Except, didn’t seem too likely the Boar God could actually die like that. No, Kama would’ve just vexed the thing and let it out in the process.

  Somewhere along the way, he’d fixed on the idea of throwing himself into Pele’s volcano and sealing himself in a bath of lava. That ought to hold the shitter.

  Except, he’d caught her scent, and she was heading up in the mountains, toward Vai‘i’s hidden heart. Uli had told him once—or she’d told Big Sis and Kama had listened in—that those wild places housed the last refuges of spirits. Dangerous beings. From the Boar God, Kama got this dim sense of recognition, this knowledge they were bad.

  So, he’d followed Pele, figured maybe he’d tell her to turn around. Oh, and bury him in lava. That ought to solve everyone’s problems.

  He caught his luscious steam goddess on the slopes of a greenery-covered peak, heading deeper inland than he knew of anyone going before. Being from foreign lands, maybe she didn’t know better. Maybe she didn’t know about th
e stories from before Manua and the menehune and that kind of shit.

  Of course, Kama was no expert on those mo‘olelo. Tales without lots of food and sex didn’t hold his interest long.

  Either way, he had to see her now.

  Hardly knowing what to say, Kamapua‘a just put himself in her path and stood hands on hips, figuring it best to let her decide how to handle the situation. After a spout of consideration, he decided it best to keep his malo on. Some women liked when you greeted them naked and with the biggest erection you could manage.

  Often, he figured that was a good way to wave ‘aloha.’ But—and these things were shitting hard to judge—Kama thought maybe this wasn’t one of those situations.

  Finally, Pele came stumbling through the underbrush, talking to herself, mumbling about spirits and shit. Then she saw him and paused. Gaped at him. If she was this impressed with his clothes on, clearly he should have—

  Pele flung a glowing orb of fire at Kama’s head.

  A blanket of spruce and fir trees covered the valley, save around the lagoon. This place was as secluded as it got, but he didn’t make the mistake of thinking it meant they were safe. They’d seen a hunting party out of Falias this very afternoon, and if they found the valley, if they interrupted the ritual …

  No. Best not to think that way. To even imagine it invited disaster.

  Overhead, a super moon dominated the night sky, reflecting brilliantly off the waters. This was the only night they could try this, and still, no one had any idea if it would work.

  Some said opening the door like this risked letting the whole world get overrun. Maybe it would start with Kêr-Ys, but who knew where it would end.

  Or maybe, maybe the effect would be more personal. Just the end of him.

  Or, well, of all of them.

  He had heard it said the world of animals was another stage in a cycle, a wheel of life, and thus that sometimes, the souls of the dead came back as those animals. That they dwelt there, in the dark, watching over their descendants. But watching wasn’t enough anymore.

  So, they wanted the wheel to turn the other way.

  Each of the twelve so-called volunteers sat on a stone altar, their chosen animal bound or caged nearby. His was the boar. Strong, feral—Moccus would be a fighter, they claimed. A progenitor of a line of fighters that could help defend mankind against the cities of Dark Faerie.

  Oh, they filled his heads with visions of glory, of tearing down the stones of Gorias, of breaking those powers once and for all and leaving the world to men.

  Still, he had to wonder, chancing such a thing, did it really make them any better? Any different?

  Idly, he stroked the boar’s bristles and wondered if he would even be himself after this. Maybe it would kill him. Maybe that would be mercy.

  A twinge of pity filled him for some of the others. What of the poor bastard who had the snake? Takshaka, Moccus thought was his name. Or how useless would it be for the woman with the damn spider? The monkey from Kumari Kandam actually looked almost like a tiny, hairy person, and he couldn’t see the use of it, either.

  Still, the druids insisted these animals, chosen from across the four continents, would prove the means of undoing the might of Dark Faerie. They’d make a world for men … by handing it over to animals.

  That crocodile seemed particularly irate at being bound, its maw tied shut. He could have sworn it stared at him with open hatred. Sobek would have his hands full. And the tiger! Apparently, Moccus should have asked for a panther instead of a boar.

  Ah, well, far too late for misgivings now. Too late for second thoughts. Too late for anything save desperation and the fragile hope they might actually become the guardians the druids prayed for.

  The lands of men were faltering.

  Maybe they’d always been faltering, Moccus didn’t know.

  Just that they said this was the last chance. If this failed, mankind would fall to Dark Faerie. So, maybe it didn’t matter what they unleashed tonight.

  They said the world of animals, their true home, was up on the moon. And now, a bit of the moon would be in him.

  They came to him, clad in green robes this time, hoods up so he couldn’t see their faces, though he fancied he knew some few of them. They came, and they bound him to the altar, wrist and ankle and even head. “So you won’t hurt yourself,” one of them said.

  Moccus almost laughed.

  Hurt himself.

  It was hard to believe anything that required him being tied down was for his own protection.

  The chanting started as the moon turned red, completely filling his vision, and he found himself unable to look away, unable to even blink. No, not even when they took the boar and placed it on his chest, still he couldn’t tear his gaze from that brilliant crimson orb in the sky.

  He wanted to cry out, to object, to refuse. A primal fear bubbled up from his gut and demanded he reject any attempt to bring about something so unnatural. Men were men and animals were animals.

  They sought to combine them, create a were-beast, they called it, and while they claimed it the ultimate revering of nature, he couldn’t help but hear blasphemy in their chants.

  The dead belonged dead.

  They had painted sigils in blood, all around the valley. It must have taken two dozen slaughtered pigs for that much blood. Or … no … they probably hadn’t used pigs for this, had they? He’d heard sorcery was strongest with human blood as the sacrifice.

  Inexplicably, the moon grew yet larger, swooping toward them like a falling star, until it appeared to have become a capstone sealing them in the valley. Until he could make out craters on its surface, like a world itself.

  Closing in on him, as he fell into this world, into his new home in a lunar mansion.

  Perhaps the animals that dwelt there had souls, perhaps they had once even been men. But he suspected, now they differed in more than physical aspect.

  Someone slit the boar’s throat right over his face. “Bite it. Drink deep.”

  And Moccus did. Hot, coppery wetness poured down his throat in great rivers that ought to have choked him. Rather, he could not get enough. The warmth filled him up, spreading from his stomach to his limbs. It spiraled through his core with delicious power, more intoxicating than any beer, more vibrant, as though he sipped from a chalice of the cosmos.

  It suffused him with heat, with power.

  With fury, and he lurched against the bindings, straining until they snapped.

  Moccus gasped, tore free from the altar, and spilled over onto the ground, atop the boar’s corpse. It was in him. It was him, a primal, ineffable symbiosis. A fusion of souls now indivisible such that no man could even guess where one ended and the next began.

  His muscles tore apart in searing flame, doubling and tripling in size, even as they folded and snapped, transforming him. Bristles burst from his own back in splendid agony, forcing him to gaze once more at the moon and bellow in delicious pain at what he had become.

  Something between animal and man, yes, and more glorious than either. On two legs he rose and took in his brethren, all of whom had or were undergoing such changes.

  There, the wolf, Fenrir, was howling up above, and beside him Jambavana, the bear, who might be the strongest of them all. Ninkilim, the rat, stalked over to Moccus, panting, shaking his head, as if uncertain.

  Húshén had become her fox now, lithe and swift, and, to Moccus’s eyes, suddenly so profoundly lust-inducing he made no effort to hide his arousal.

  The crocodile, Sobek, shuddered as it settled in, then took off at a run, dashing for the lagoon, most to the consternation of the druids. Moccus chuckled, though he knew too well the urge to run and be free. His skin, bulging as it was, remained too small for him. It suffocated him.

  But then, with it came the irrepressible desire to fulfill his purpose. To crush those who stood before him. To run and kill and mate and forever change the world.

  It ripped through him, as he would rip through any w
ho stood in his way.

  And, oh yes, he would indeed father a new line like him.

  They had unleashed something they did not understand and could not control. And he would thank them for it.

  Kamapua‘a’s face hurt. He could almost feel the flesh knitting itself back together.

  Which shitting itched worse than having lice on his balls.

  He groaned, staring up at the moon in the sky. Actually, he was lucky he was the one staring at the moon, and not the Boar God. Those were its … his memories … from way back. Way back when he had a purpose.

  Back before a mountain of years had turned his head into a hollow gourd filled with coconuts banging around together.

  Inside his soul, something growled at him.

  Shit.

  But he got it now.

  Those first ones, they didn’t die. Couldn’t die. And if Kama died, the Boar God would just pass right on into somebody else, wouldn’t he? If Pele killed him, maybe that thing would wind up in her.

  Which sounded more awful than anything else he could imagine.

  Kama sat up to find Pele already sitting there, legs folded, staring at him like he was one of those weird animal things from the Boar God’s visions. The other man had known what they were, sure, but most of those things didn’t live on Sawaiki, so Kama hardly knew what to call them. Monsters, almost.

  “I don’t know what you’re doing here,” Pele said, a tiny flame swirling around her fingers. “I don’t know why you’ve followed me. And I’m more than half inclined to incinerate you no matter how much mana it winds up taking.”

  But she hadn’t. He’d been unconscious—probably on account of having his head exploded—and his wife hadn’t murdered him. Though not long ago he’d intended to ask her to do just that.

  “I uh … Shit.”

  “Yes, I know that part. Do you know any other words?”