Paternus: Wrath of Gods (The Paternus Trilogy Book 2)

by Dyrk Ashton

  “Nothing,” Fi awkwardly replies.

  “Everything,” Pratha croons.

  Mrs. Mirskaya harrumphs. “Tea is ready.” She hands the mug to Pratha. “Exactly to your specifications.”

  Pratha takes the mug, which bubbles as if still boiling. To Fi it smells like lemon, garlic and menthol. Pratha sniffs it, stirs it with a finger, which she then tastes. “This will do, Mokosh.”

  “So happy The Pratha approves.”

  Pratha reaches behind Zeke and lifts him to a sitting position, then holds the mug under his nostrils and blows steam so it wafts to his nose.

  Zeke jerks awake as if treated with smelling salts. His eyes dart about and he starts to speak, but Pratha says, “Drink.” He does, and once he starts, he takes the cup in both hands and chugs it all.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Good, thank you.” Pratha removes her arm so he sits on his own. His eyes go to Mrs. Mirskaya, then Fi. “What happened?”

  “You got sick,” Fi says, “and passed out.”

  “That’s a nice way to say I fainted, right?”

  “Do you use narcotics?” Pratha asks him.

  “Me?” Zeke says. “Never.”

  Her eyes judge him. “No medications?”

  “No.”

  “You’re exhibiting symptoms of withdrawal,” Pratha states. “Specifically, from long-term consumption of opiates, benzodiazepines, barbituates, and alcohol.”

  “Not me,” Zeke defends himself. “I swear.” The memory of dreams of drug and alcohol abuse comes back strong, but passes swiftly.

  “What you say is true. I could tell by your scent and taste.” Zeke looks to Fi, wondering what exactly happened while he was unconscious. “Curious, and interesting.”

  Zeke gets to his feet. “I feel fine now.”

  Fi stands with him. “You sure?”

  “Yeah.” The more he thinks about it, the more he realizes how true it is. He’s not even tired. “I feel great, actually. Really great. I could use something to eat, though.”

  “I will take care of that,” says Mrs. Mirskaya. “Mokosh does not like people being hungry. Fiona, you will eat too.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “I bring something anyway.”

  Fi knows better than to have this argument with her old babysitter. “Okay.”

  Mrs. Mirskaya returns to the area near one of the walls where two camp stoves sit on a flat rock, kettle on one, military MREs heating on another. Pratha looks Fi and Zeke over then joins Mrs. Mirskaya and proceeds to put her tea items back in one of her bags.

  “Pratha kinda freaks me out,” says Zeke.

  “You’re not the only one,” Fi replies, taking a seat on one of several stones against the back wall. “You sure you feel okay?”

  “Yeah.” He joins her. “What was in that stuff she gave me?”

  “I was afraid to ask.”

  “Probably a good idea.”

  * * *

  Pratha crouches next to Mrs. Mirskaya, studying Zeke while he speaks to Fi. “There is something special about that boy.”

  Mrs. Mirskaya glances at Zeke and shrugs. “I am told he can slip.”

  Pratha looks at her in surprise. “I can’t slip. And he’s human.”

  Mrs. Mirskaya enjoys the reaction. She lifts the trays of food, says, “And Fiona is clairvoyant,” then saunters away with a wry smile on her plump cheeks.

  Pratha opens her mouth to speak, but closes it with a frown.

  * * *

  Mrs. Mirskaya hands Fi and Zeke the trays and stainless steel eating utensils from a military mess kit. “Is disgusting, but will keep you living.”

  Zeke takes it eagerly, hungry enough to eat rocks if he has to. “Thank you.” She leaves, but to Fi and Zeke’s surprise, Fintán takes a seat on a nearby stone.

  “You are Firstborn,” he says to Fi. “Father swore centuries ago he would have no more, yet here you are.”

  “I guess so,” Fi replies. “Though I don’t know what it all means.”

  “You will.”

  “That’s... not very helpful.”

  “It’s not something easily described or explained. You’ve seen what some of us can do, but you won’t know what it’s like until you experience it yourself.”

  “And when’s that going to happen?”

  “Any day now, I would imagine.”

  “Great. Anything else?”

  “Not really.”

  As he speaks, Fintán’s attention continues to be drawn to Baphomet.

  Zeke notices and says, “There’s been some trouble between you two, I take it.”

  “You could say that.” Still keeping an eye on The Goat, he says, “Do not be fooled by Baphomet’s false sincerity and charm. He’s not to be trusted under any circumstances. In my opinion, we should execute him now. Any information he might give us during questioning would be suspect, and perhaps cause more harm than good.”

  After a long uncomfortable silence while Fintán continues to side-eye The Goat, and Fi and Zeke eat their meals, Zeke’s curiosity swells. “Mr. ... Mac Bóchra, sir, what is the history between you... Horus... and Baphomet? I study mythology, and I’ve never come across a connection between the two of you.”

  Fintán answers as if it’s a simple and honest question, the kind asked while having afternoon tea. “Any stories written have been lost, I suppose, as so many have, but we’ve crossed paths many times, The Goat and I. He hasn’t always been Asura, though he served them in both Great Wars, and he is wicked through and through. Conniving and self-serving to the core, responsible for many evils done to Firstborn and humankind alike.

  “My personal animosity toward him comes from a time and place you would today call ancient Egypt. It was millennia after the last Holocaust, and he had wormed his way into the good graces of Osiris, a wise but altogether too-trusting soul, who was made the first non-Firstborn leader of those lands by the ruling Firstborn of the time. Baphomet became one of his most trusted counselors, but behind his back, The Goat, who was there called the Ram of Benebjedett, turned Set against him. Set was not the evil demon he is believed to have been. He was one of the greatest of Deva, a celebrated hero of both Holocausts, loyal to Pater and a champion of humankind. But Baphomet poisoned his mind with vile words, music and wine.

  “Together they plotted the murder of Osiris. And not just a murder, but a painful death brought about through a cruel game of deception and false pretense.”

  Zeke recalls what he’s read of the death of Osiris. “Was he tricked into lying in a sarcophagus to measure it, then sealed in, and molten metal was poured through holes?”

  Fintán prickles at hearing it. “Yes.”

  “Why would they do that?” Fi asks.

  “You mean, ‘why would The Goat do that?’ Because without his manipulation, Set would not. To see Egypt in chaos. Hysteria, pain and strife suffered at his own hand. To bring about anarchy. Any of these results would suit Baphomet. But mostly, I believe, to see if he could. Manipulating others, even world events, is what he lives for. It’s all a game to him. A most insidious game, for his amusement alone, and he excels at it. Remember what I said. Never believe a word he says. Better yet, don’t allow him to speak to you at all. And if by some chance he ever comes into possession of his flute, I want you to promise me you will run.” Zeke’s about to ask him to explain, but Fintán continues his story.

  “When I heard what happened to Osiris we traced the crime to Set, and I went into a rage at his betrayal. Set and I did battle, and though he was older than me, I was the victor. Only with Set’s dying words did I learn Baphomet was behind it all. The Goat fled before my wrath, and that of the Firstborn pantheon of Egypt.

  “I did not see him again until he led the Fir Bolg to invade my home, the land of my birth, what you know as Ireland. There is a long history of wars there, which I will not recount, but it includes the conquest of the isle by Kleron and the Tuatha Dé Danann, and eventually their being driven out b
y an army of humans and a handful of Deva Firstborn. Two of whom are here now.” He indicates Myrddin Wyllt and Mrs. Mirskaya.

  Zeke tries to process what he’s hearing. More myths, more legends come alive.

  “The Goat will pay for his many heinous deeds,” says Fintán. “If Pater or Pratha do not collect this debt, I will see it done.”

  * * *

  Baphomet remains still, causing no trouble, but he hears all. Everything Fintán has said is true, and more. And Fintán and Myrddin Wyllt’s presence here do not bode well for Baphomet’s health and well-being, regardless of his true intentions. And the truth... What is truth? He could speak only truth, and they still wouldn’t believe him. He must consider his moves carefully, and initiate them with more subtlety and care than ever before.

  * * *

  Peter, Myrddin and Pratha approach the area of the gorge where Fi, Zeke and Fintán are seated. Peter sets a backpack on another rock close by and pulls off his tattered shirt, shredded by machine gun fire from the plane. “Horus, would you employ your knowledge of this region to aid Myrddin and Pratha? They need proper attire if we’re traveling over land.”

  “I will help in any way I can,” Fintán says, standing up.

  Peter drops his pants, right there in front of everyone. And he’s not wearing underwear.

  Fi squeaks and turns to face Zeke, who grins.

  Mrs. Mirskaya props her hands on her hips. “Papa!”

  “What?” he asks, rummaging through the pack for a new set of clothes. Then he sees her glaring at him, and Fi purposefully looking away. “Oh.”

  He tugs on a pair of chinos, though still not in much of a hurry.

  Pratha says, “All right Fintán, I’m ready.”

  Taking a drink from a water bottle, Zeke spits water and chokes at the sight of Pratha wearing nothing but the pendant around her neck and a smile.

  Fi peeks back and squeaks again.

  Not to be left out, Myrddin whips off his robe. “I’m ready too!”

  Mrs. Mirskaya is exasperated with the lot of them. “Sestra, Myrddin Wyllt!”

  Myrddin dances a jig, grinning impishly while his stretched old scrotum swings and shriveled uncircumcised penis bobs. He spins and wiggles his skinny saggy butt.

  “You naked,” says Mrs. Mirskaya, unimpressed, “is just funny.”

  Edgar shouts from where he’s working on the truck. “Hoy! You, enough of that.”

  Myrddin ignores him. “I’ll have you know, Mokosh, my age has not affected my ability to perform.”

  She waves him off. “Da, da, whatever you say, bezumets.”

  Fi says, “Come on you guys, can we stop it with all the naked? There are real people here.”

  Pratha raises an eyebrow. “Real people?”

  Fi tries not to look at Pratha’s perfect physique. “You know what I mean.”

  Pratha’s body shimmers and she’s wearing a bra and panties. “Better?” Fi scowls. Myrddin’s mid-section shimmers and he has a white cloth wrapped around his waist that looks a lot like a diaper.

  “Good enough,” Fi says. “I guess.” She notices a light circular scar over Myrddin’s heart, not knowing it was made by Lamia, and she doesn’t ask.

  Fi catches Zeke still staring at Pratha. She turns him to face away.

  “Sorry,” Zeke sputters, wiping water from his chin.

  “These people are so weird.”

  “Yeah. Not really what I would have imagined.”

  “Who would?”

  Myrddin nods toward Fi and says to Pratha, “She’s bossy.”

  “She is.”

  He grins. “I like it.”

  Edgar approaches, glaring at Myrddin. “Have you no shame, Madman?” Myrddin’s face falls as Edgar brushes past to where Peter has finished buttoning his shirt and is rolling up his sleeves.

  Zeke whispers to Fi, “Peter sure goes through a lot of clothes.”

  “I don’t think he’d wear any at all if he didn’t have to.”

  “I don’t think any of them would.”

  “Feeling better, lad?” Edgar asks Zeke.

  “Much better, thank you.”

  “Well enough to travel?”

  “Yeah, absolutely.”

  Peter puts a hand on Zeke’s shoulder. “I’m glad to hear it. I apologize for my lack of attention to your well-being. I’ll try to do better.” The warmth that emanates from Peter’s touch makes Zeke feel even more fit.

  Fi says, “Peter?”

  “Yes?”

  “Can’t you cloak, like the others?”

  “For short periods. It doesn’t come as naturally to me as it does my children.”

  Zeke asks, “Can Fi do it?”

  “She will be able to, with time. She’ll be capable of many things, if she allows it.” He heads back to the truck and Edgar follows.

  Fi says, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Who knows?” says Zeke. “Maybe you’ll be able to control the weather, make magic sparkly rainbows, leap tall buildings in a single bound.”

  “You are feeling better.”

  “It’s amazing, really.”

  She elbows him. “Then shut up.”

  Meanwhile, Fintán shifts through outdoor clothing options for Myrddin, and women’s versions for Pratha as well, which Fi and Zeke find amusing as hell in spite of themselves.

  Myrddin settles on a distinguished if somewhat silly-looking outfit of tweed jacket and hat, with a kilt, high stockings, and leather boots. Kind of classy, but not very sensible. Pratha chooses a more modern hiking wardrobe, but of course it hugs her in all the right places, flattering her figure.

  “She’d make a garbage sack look good,” says Fi. “I think I hate her.”

  “If not wanting to attract attention is what they’re after,” Zeke says, “I don’t think they’ve got it.”

  “Nope.”

  * * *

  Edgar sits behind the wheel of the truck, trying to get the engine to turn over. Peter adjusts something under the hood and prompts Edgar to try again. No luck.

  Dimmi leans over the engine, watching for telltale signs of its malfunction. As the others approach, his eyes flit to Fi. Only for a moment, so briefly no one could have noticed. Then he does it again, but this time his gaze lingers a split second longer, scanning her neck and chest. He swallows, squeezes his eyes shut. But he can’t help himself. He looks again.

  And Pratha stabs him in the eye.

  She moved so quickly no one saw her strike. Dimmi’s slammed with his back against the wall of the gorge, Pratha’s hand clamped around his throat, the other on his face, one claw still stuck in his eye. She’s still in her new human cloak, but her hands are scaly blue. She curls her finger, scraping the orbital bone, then plucks out his eye and flicks it to splat on the ground.

  Dimmi howls as he shifts to his true form, kicking, striking out, clawing at her face, but his efforts don’t mar her in the slightest.

  Shocked by the sudden outburst of violence, Fi clings to Zeke—or maybe it’s the other way around.

  Peter shouts, “Pratha!”

  But she tightens her grip on Dimmi’s throat, her nails drawing blood. Dimmi goes slack, purple tongue lolling over jagged yellow teeth. She leans close. “I see where the eye wanders, Ghoul.” She holds a claw poised before Dimmi’s other eye. “And where the fiend’s eye wanders, so does the mind.”

  “Enough!” Peter shouts again. Fi’s skin tingles from the energy in the air. Cracks form in the walls around them. A rumble in the earth fades, then silence but for pebbles falling over the lip of the gorge above and from gaps opened in the stone.

  Without facing him, Pratha hisses, “He has intentions on your youngest daughter.”

  Tremors of disgust run up Fi’s spine while Peter glares at Dimmi.

  “No,” Dimmi whines, pressing a hand to his bleeding eye socket. “I swear!”

  Peter says, “Leave him alive. Bind him if you must.” He opens a panel in the truck and throws a fir
st aid kit to Baphomet. “Tend to it, Goat.” To the group, he says, “We’re going. Leave the truck. Divide up the gear. We’ll carry it.”

  Pratha lets Dimmi fall, where he pants for breath. Baphomet crouches in front of him, opening the kit.

  Edgar tries starting the truck again. While it cranks, Mrs. Mirskaya glances at the engine. She reaches in and tightens a wire from the glow plug relay. The truck shudders, then rumbles to life.

  Peter looks to Edgar, “You fixed it.”

  Edgar is sheepish. “No.” He points to Dimmi. “He did.” Mrs. Mirskaya chuckles and glances at Fi, who witnessed what she did.

  They leave the truck running while they erect the frame over the bed and cover it, then gather the gear and stow it in the back.

  Baphomet finishes wrapping gauze around Dimmi’s head to hold a bandage over his eye. “That should do it,” he says softly. “You will regain your strength as you heal, but you are weakened by this wound.” Baphomet studies him closely. “Perhaps weakened enough.”

  Dimmi doesn’t understand, but Baphomet has talked circles around him for as long as he can remember.

  “We are on a razor’s edge, my friend. A razor’s edge.” He helps Dimmi to his feet. “One mistake and all is lost.” He takes a step back. “I cannot allow that.” Baphomet morphs to his Trueface and drives a horn into Dimmi’s heart.

  The thrust doesn’t pierce deep enough, however, so Baphomet shoves again. This time his horn stabs clear through Dimmi’s body and into the rock behind. Dimmi coughs, disbelief in his eyes. Baphomet braces his hands against Dimmi’s chest and pushes away, withdrawing his horn. Dimmi’s body shakes. He whimpers. Blood pours from his mouth, and he crumples.

  The canyon is silent. Baphomet watches Dimmi, expecting the blow from behind to come any moment. Wondering why it hasn’t come already.

  He turns around and Peter front kicks him in the chest. He slams into the wall, stone cracking at his back. Peter utters, “Gungnir,” and his golden spear springs to length in his hand. Energy crackles from his shoulder down to its tip. Fintán and Pratha stand to either side of Peter, both now in Trueface. Peter raises the spear until its point is inches from Baphomet’s neck.

  “Dimmi told me he would have the girl,” Baphomet says in his defense. “And there would be blood, and pain.”