Paternus: Deluge, A Short Story

by Dyrk Ashton

  PATERNUS: DELUGE

  (A Short Story)

  “Truly a delight for mythology fans.” -Petrik Leo, Booknest.eu

  PATERNUS: RISE OF GODS

  (The Paternus Trilogy, Book 1)

  Best Mythology/Folklore Book of 2016

  Reality Bites Magazine

  Best Debut Novel Finalist

  Reddit Fantasy Best of 2016

  Top 10 Debut Novels of 2016

  Fantasy Book Critic

  Finalist

  Mark Lawrence’s #SPFBO 2016

  Amazon #1 Bestseller

  U.S., U.K. & Canada

  Described as American Gods meets the X-Men, True Blood meets The Talisman, and Supernatural meets The Lord of the Rings, Paternus combines myths from around the world in a modern story of action and intrigue that is “urban fantasy on the surface, but so much more at its core!”

  “An imaginative...exhilarating ride - highly recommended.” -Anthony Ryan, New York Times bestselling author of Blood Song and The Legion of Flame.

  Even myths have legends. And not all legends are myth.

  When a local hospital is attacked by strange and frightening men, Fiona Patterson and Zeke Prisco save a catatonic old man named Peter—and find themselves running for their lives with creatures beyond imagination hounding their every step.

  With nowhere else to turn, they seek out Fi’s enigmatic Uncle Edgar. But the more their questions are answered, the more they discover that nothing is what it seems—not Peter, not Edgar, perhaps not even themselves.

  The gods and monsters, heroes and villains of lore—they’re real. And now they’ve come out of hiding to hunt their own. In order to survive, Fi and Zeke must join up with powerful allies against an ancient evil that’s been known by many names and feared by all. The final battle of the world’s oldest war has begun.

  “Epic, innovative urban fantasy. A great read!” -Mark Lawrence, Gemmell Award winner and international bestselling author of Prince of Thorns and Red Sister.

  “A crucible in which myths are melted and remade to thrilling effect.” -M. R. (Mike) Carey, author of The Girl with All the Gifts and the Felix Castor series.

  “Terrific. Intelligent, intricate, suspenseful, and epic.” -Nicholas Eames, author of Kings of the Wyld and Bloody Rose.

  “A roller coaster ride... A really unique novel.” -Anna Stephens, author of Godblind.

  “Expansive, ambitious, and engrossing.” -Josiah Bancroft, author of Senlin Ascends.

  “A mighty debut.” -Jonathan French, author of The Grey Bastards.

  “Fast-paced, gloriously intricate.” -Kirkus Reviews

  PATERNUS: WRATH OF GODS

  (The Paternus Trilogy, Book 2)

  “What a sequel should be - bigger stakes, bloodier action, and even more mythological madness.” -Fantasy Book Critic

  On the run from an ancient evil and his army of terrors straight out of myths from around the world, Fi and Zeke aid Peter in his globe-trotting quest to seek out the remaining Firstborn, uncover the enemy’s plans, and gather the warriors of old for what may become the final battle in the world's oldest war. Along the way, Fi and Zeke discover they, too, have strengths of their own—though they come at a cost neither may wish to bear.

  “One of the greatest *bleep*ing stories I’ve ever read.” -Booknest.eu

  “Masterful and constantly entertaining.” -The Fantasy Hive

  “Five starred this one right out of the gate.” -Superstardrifter

  “A thrilling ride that you won't soon forget.” -Out of This World SFF Reviews

  “Even more action packed and entertaining than the first book.” -The Nerd Book Review

  “Pure, unabashed fun.” -The Fantasy Inn

  “Readers will be swept up in the relentless pace and finding a way to put it down is going to be a challenge.” -Grimmedian

  “Hits the ground running, and rarely stops for breath. I’ve not seen such an action heavy story told so well since Mad Max: Fury Road.” -Phil Charles R Blog

  ART OF WAR: ANTHOLOGY FOR CHARITY

  Includes “Valkyrie Rain,” another short backstory in the world of The Paternus Trilogy, this one taking place during the great battle of Ragnarok. Forty of your favorite fantasy authors contributed to this anthology. All proceeds go to Doctors without Borders.

  DELUGE

  A Short Story

  by

  Paternus Books Media

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  Paternus: Deluge is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  2017 Paternus Books Media eBook Edition

  Copyright © 2017 by Dyrk Ashton.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Paternus Books Media, DBA

  P.O. Box 1027

  Perrysburg, OH 43551

  www.paternusbooks.com

  Paternus: Deluge/ Dyrk Ashton. — 1st ed.

  Book Layout ©2013 BookDesignTemplates.com

  Cover Illustration: VimesArt

  “Paternus” Design: STK-Kreations

  Author’s Photograph: Lee Fearnside

  Introduction

  “Deluge” is a stand-alone backstory of two characters from The Paternus Trilogy. In this short story, myths, fables, and legends from around the world are combined to recount the adventures of Fintán mac Bóchra and Myrddin Wyllt in ancient Ireland, and tell the “true” tale of the global disaster known as the Great Flood.

  Deluge

  It was 2348 B.C., by modern reckoning. Middle of the afternoon but dark as night, the sky a low ceiling of black clouds and lightning, the ocean a jagged, heaving floor beneath. Water was thick in the air, fog and icy rain whipped by the gale. The storms were more frequent and growing fiercer of late. Whatever was coming, it was coming soon.

  Three ships pitched and plunged, sails stowed, masts unpinned, pivoted back and made fast to the curved roofs of the cabins which stretched like halls along the top decks. All hatches were battened, the portholes locked tight. The only spaces for water to enter were the O-shaped rowlocks, and these were mostly blocked by oars that pulled in rhythm on either side of the ships.

  Visibility alternated between poor and practically nil, but standing firm on the shifting deck at the bow of the lead ship, Fintán mac Bóchra could see well enough. Only a half-mile ahead, backlit by bursts of distant lightning, a craggy landmass thrust from the frantic sea.

  In spite of the cold and driving wind, Fintán wore just a cape of reddish-brown over a white tunic plastered to his chest by the rain, V-cut at the neck with untied laces whipping in the wind. He was clad below in loose pantaloons, with golden leather leg wraps below the knee and matching boots folded down above the ankle. Fintán was well over six feet tall, with medium length, silver-white hair tipped golden-blond. He looked to be no more than thirty, with noble features and eyes the color
of citrine gems.

  Angry waves charged over the bow, salty, slippery, stinging cold, but Cessair, the young woman next to Fintán, refused to go below. A slicker of light-colored oilcloth hung drenched on her body over an equally wet white robe. She threw back her hood in an attempt to clear her sight. Her hair, curled and brown, flapped wet in the wind as her hazel eyes glared into the watery gloom. Soft and lovely on the outside, Cessair was hearty within. Sovereign. Spirited. Strong. And Fintán loved her. More than any other he’d ever known.

  With one hand Fintán gripped the bulwark, holding Cessair tight around the shoulders with the other. She didn’t cling to him, but braced herself with a hand on the horn, a bronze tube that rose from the deck and curved to a flared end.

  “Raise the signal fire!” she cried over her shoulder to the only crew member on deck, a young man tending the ship’s beacon. She spoke in Aramaic, the language of her father and grandfather. The beacon—a fortified oil lamp, its flame protected from the elements by framed sheets of crystal—topped a short pedestal on the forward roof of the cabin hall. The man sat behind it, securely tethered with cord, his legs locked around its base to keep him from being blown or rocked from his perch. He squeezed more oil into the lamp from a pouch and lengthened the wick with a turnkey.

  The lamps of the other two ships grew brighter in response. The vessels bobbed and pitched on either side and just back from the bow of the lead ship, close as they dared. They feared to spread out further for the likelihood of being dashed on the rocks or lost in the storm. Only Fintán could peer through this murk, and he knew these waters well.

  Lightning sizzled and snapped. Thunder shred the air. Wind roared and the ship began to pivot off course. Fintán spoke close to Cessair’s ear in Old Egyptian, from the land where they first met and where they’d married less than two years before. She pressed her face to the mouth of the horn.

  * * *

  Two decks down, below the berth deck where none were sleeping and no fire burned in the galley, stood Ladra, the ship’s pilot, near the stern on the row deck. He heard Cessair’s voice through the opposite end of the horn, then relayed her orders to the stroke, who in turn called out to the rowers.

  Men and women together, belted to the benches for safety, heaved on the oars with renewed fervor. These weren’t frightened slaves, but free people, determined passengers who knew exactly what they’d volunteered for on this journey. They were traveling to a new land, a “magical” island known to them only in myth, on the very edge of the world as they knew it. With any luck, they’d be safe there from the pending disaster.

  The passengers, rowers and crew alike, they all felt it, and in spite of the storm and their weariness, their spirits lifted. All three ships had made it. After seven months at sea, they were finally arriving at their new home.

  * * *

  The ship aimed back toward land. The efforts of the rowers had done the trick. Fintán nodded to Cessair, who almost smiled. He was much older than she, and far more experienced in all things having to do with navigating land, air, and sea, but Cessair was, without question, the leader of this expedition. Fintán respected her deeply and trusted her completely. So did her crews. Even her father, old Bith, who was below, gladly acceded to her authority. She was smart, fair and kind, firm, yet forgiving. The entire voyage they’d obeyed her commands without hesitation, reacting to her directives like extensions of her own body.

  Fintán held her close as another wave swept the bow. She shook the brine from her hair and face. He knew she could do this. And she knew he knew, and for that she loved him even more. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t human.

  Fintán looked out over the turbulent sea. Only five hundred yards to go. Still too deep in these waters, but a bit closer and they could drop anchor, then perhaps risk taking the ships’ boats to shore.

  Then a sound came to them. It began as a rumbling in the deep, then boomed so forcefully even Fintán was amazed. The sound continued, unbroken, growing in intensity. Quivering ripples appeared in the waves, droplets leapt on the surface, water beaded and danced on deck. The ship vibrated so harshly people fell, teeth rattling, vision blurred. Planks loosed at the seams. On the orlop deck and in the hold, crocks of water and wine shattered and livestock bleated in terror.

  A primal fear gripped the people on those ships. The Beast of the Sea was well known by their forefathers, and though it had not been seen nor heard from in many generations, they suspected. Fintán knew. Cetus had awakened.

  Fintán’s first thought was to snatch up Cessair and carry her away, but he knew he didn’t dare. She’d never forgive him. She wouldn’t abandon her people. Not even to escape The Leviathan.

  The ship was jarred from beneath, rose as if on a swell. A harsh scraping sound shivered through the vessel from the hull. Fintán crouched against the bulwark, dragging Cessair with him. He threw his cape over her and clung fast. The ship lurched and fell. Water poured over the side as it tipped. The ship righted itself, but lurched and tipped again as Cetus continued to pass below.

  * * *

  On the row deck, the rowers cleaved to oars, benches and beams. Ladra shouted into the horn seeking orders from above, but his only answer was a cold splash from the tube. The ship bucked again, and Ladra made a decision. He ordered the men to catch up their pikes and harpoons and make haste to the top deck, the women to seal the rowlocks, secure the oars, and themselves. The men struggled against the rocking of the ship, but gathered their helmets and weapons and made their way up the ladders.

  Ladra waited at the foot of the ladder closest to stern, strapping on his bronze helmet. Cessair’s father, old Bith, stood in line with the men, also armored and armed. He was far older than the others, but more than willing to fight. Ladra commanded him to stay below and help secure the rowing deck. Bith swallowed his pride, and complied. Placing a scarred and calloused hand on Bith’s shoulder, Ladra nodded grimly, then handed up his pike and climbed.

  When Ladra pulled himself into the long cabin hall on the top deck, the men were already in groups, stem to stern, port and starboard, at the half-dozen outer doors.

  * * *

  In spite of the harsh pounding of waves, Cessair pleaded through coughing fits to reach the horn and communicate with her crew. Fintán refused, clinging to her and the bulwark.

  A cry of battle came as Ladra and his men burst open the cabin doors and rushed out onto the deck. Cessair screamed at them to retreat back below, but her voice couldn’t be heard over their shouts and the roar of sea and gale.

  Fintán was about to reprimand them himself, but the deafening bellow of The Leviathan came again, drowning all other sound.

  The sea bulged between their ship and the one to port. A humped form broke the surface. Twice the width of their ship, plated in overlapping scales that looked like rough stone, barnacled and slimed with algae. The men hung on to anything they could, porthole, rigging, and rope, as the ship canted and slid sideways in the creature’s wake.

  The monster submerged and the men held their breath. Fintán rose with Cessair, shouting, catching the attention of Ladra, but there came a terrible crunch from the ship to port.

  A claw, like that of a scorpion but of incredible size, gripped the port vessel amidships. Lightning burst and the claw snapped shut, crushing the ship in two.

  The screams on the wind didn’t last. Multiple bony arachnid limbs emerged from the depths, some with pincers, others crusty clawed hands. They clutched the wreckage, every piece, and tugged it beneath the waves. Where a moment before there’d been a ship with a hundred souls, now there was nothing but restless sea.

  The lead ship was jarred as the creature passed below once more, moving swiftly in the opposite direction, and sounds of splintering wood came from starboard.

  The second ship was skewered from below by jagged spines that rose higher than its masts ever had. Again came screams of helpless crew and passengers. A gust sprayed water into the faces of Fintán and Cessair. When it
cleared, the second ship was gone.

  The scraping on their ship’s hull returned. Fintán roared to the men on deck, “Below! Get below!” All heard him, but it was too late.

  The ship rose as if on a wave a hundred feet high. But not a wave. The back of The Beast itself. The monster bucked and the ship fell, bow downward, raced down, down, then plunged into the sea, bobbed, and capsized.

  Fintán held Cessair tight between him and the bulwark. A testament to the fine design of the ship, it rolled and righted itself. Cessair gasped, sucking in air, safe in Fintán’s arms. But the men were gone. The lamp on the cabin roof was smashed, shredded rope whipping in the wind. They’d all been washed away. All but one.

  * * *

  Ladra, clutching a cabin door for support, was knocked into the hall and pitched head first down the hatch. He crashed into the edge of the hatch opening on the berth deck, then tumbled through to the row deck below. There he landed, gored by both halves of his broken pike.

  * * *

  Cries rose from the sea. Cessair implored Fintán to rescue them. He refused. Again he thought of taking her away, but he still could not do it, not against her will. But he wouldn’t leave her, either, even for a moment. If it came to it, he’d follow her into the mouth of The Leviathan itself, though it would surely mean his own death.

  Several hundred yards behind the ship, a monstrous form emerged from the depths, bellowing as it came. Five hundred feet The Leviathan rose, less than half its full length. Heat lightning lit the sky above it, ghastly yellow and green. Eyes bulged red, lit by hatred and wrath, from sockets in what vaguely resembled a human skull, dark and moldy, with vicious mandible pincers for a mouth. It spread its spines and hundreds of legs, roared anew, then lunged.