Into Eden: Pangaea - Book 1 (3 page)

“Make-way!” Jesse yelled. “The doctor’s here to see Father!”

With that the crowd parted just enough to permit Doc Paron and Jesse to squeeze through and make their way up the stairs to the right. Halfway up Jesse paused and took in the scene below. He was seeing, he thought, a testament to his father’s life crowded into the alcove below. Men and women—many of them separated by centuries in age—who were there to spend one last evening with the father that they loved. Even the room in which they gathered screamed of the life that their father had lived. Above the doors through which he and the doctor had entered was a mural of his father representing his days as a general with the Atlantan legion. It depicted a scene from the An-nef War. In it, his father was painted in full battle-gear, gray armor and winged helmet. He triumphantly held a bloody sword in his gauntleted hand held high above his head, and his foot rested on the body of a slain jackal-head: Nashon the warrior. Just beneath the stairway opposite him was another mural. In this one his father—now dressed in wool pants and cotton shirt—was shooting his longbow, its arrow piercing a large pterodactyl with long, dark green leathery wings. The creature’s nostrils still billowing smoke, and fire was flaring from its mouth as it fell to the earth: Nashon the dragon-slayer. Beneath him, below the stairway on which he was standing a third mural portrayed his father with spear in hand slaying a lion: Nashon the great hunter. There had been lions in the Foothills in those days—and pterodactyls too—but as more and more of the forest was claimed for farmland the creatures were killed off or fled. In time men in this part of Atlantis would only know of them from the stories that the old folks told, and the buildings that dotted the farms in the Foothills and along the Southern Highway reflected that new reality. Iron gated compounds were unnecessary where lions didn’t stalk at night; and heavy slate roofs had been replaced with lighter, cheaper thatch where pterodactyls no longer threatened to torch roofs with the flames that they breathed down on houses and barns.

The largest mural, however, was over the massive hearth between the two stairways, on which a large hourglass rested. This visitors faced as they entered the room. It depicted an older Nashon, clad in Foothills farmer’s attire, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Behind him were fields covered with golden sheaves of wheat. In his hand Nashon held a great scythe, and one foot rested on a wooden barrel turned on its side. Next to him a large, black dog sat contentedly. On Nashon’s face was not the stern look of a soldier or hunter, but a small grin creased the corners of his features: Nashon the farmer. This, thought Jesse, was the father that he knew—a happy, prosperous farmer and businessman whose fields of wheat and barley were turned into beer in the brewery that his father owned in Albion. The beer that was shipped north to Atlantis had made him a wealthy man, and the dogs that he raised in the kennels on his farm had made him wealthier still, for spirit-hosts were hard to come by, and the elite gi-nefs of Atlantis paid handsomely for them when their end was near. Tonight, however, Nashon had need of one from his own stock. For all his wealth even he could not escape the inevitability of time.

Jesse continued up the stairs with Doc Paron close behind. The door to his father’s room was locked, but one of the servant girls opened it when he knocked.

“Nice that you could make it,” Jesse’s brother Josiah said sarcastically. “Sorry that we had to drag you away from your drinking.”

Jesse ignored the barb. Josiah was quick-tempered and sharp of tongue, but he had to be nice to him. In just a few hours his father would be dead and Josiah had been named as his heir. Spirit-hosts had no rights under the Law of Atlantis. Josiah was his full brother, and Nashon had named him as heir to guarantee that their mother, Tamar, would be well cared for upon his death. She was, after all, Nashon’s favorite wife—and he had eight of them. At one-hundred and seventy, Josiah would take over the main estate, but when Jesse turned one-hundred Josiah was likely to give him some small piece of land to the south—hopefully with a house and barn on it. At least then he could provide for the girl that his mother had chosen as his bride.

Jesse looked around the room as Doc Paron stepped to the head of the bed. Four of Nashon’s wives sat on one side of the bed, four sat on the other. At the foot of the bed a large, black dog was chained to the bedpost with a heavy iron collar. By the door the servant-girl sat while his brother paced back and forth nervously. His father’s youngest wife, a girl by the name of Beka (who couldn’t have been more than eighty) cried on the lap of Jesse’s mother, Tamar. On the wall above the headboard was his father’s old shield, with two crossed spears over it. One of those, Jesse thought, his father had used to kill the lion in the painting downstairs.

“May I talk to him?” Jesse asked the doctor.

“Yes. But your father is very weak. If you have something to say to him you’d best say it quickly.”

The doctor stepped aside and Jesse took his place at the head of the bed. Leaning over, he could hear his father’s shallow breath in rasping wheezing.

“Dad, can you hear me?”

The old giant nodded slowly.

“Don’t be afraid, Dad,” Jesse began, unaware that tears were running down his cheeks, “you’ll be fine. By the gods, I know that you will.”

Nashon shook his head slowly, and motioned with a weak finger for Jesse to come closer. Jesse leaned in to hear Nashon’s whisper. “There are no, ‘gods’ Jesse. There is just one God. I know that now.”

“But Father,” Jesse began, but Nashon silenced him with a soft, “Sssssh.”

Jesse stood up. He didn’t know what to make of his father’s comment. Nashon had never been a religious man, and Jesse rarely heard him reference deities unless he had injured himself painfully or Josiah had really, really, gotten under his skin. Jesse said no more concluding that in his final hours Nashon’s reasoning ability had started to slip away. What a terrible shame, he thought. His father had been so powerful in life, both in his physical strength and with a mind as keen as a philosopher. Now, in the end, he lay on a bed immobile with even his mental capacities starting to slip away. The gods were not fair.

Suddenly the attention of those in the room was stolen by a commotion from downstairs. There were sounds of women screaming and men shouting. Josiah reached for the door.

As the carriage and the horses from Albion rode out of sight Anubis urged his horses forward. Whoever they were, he thought, they are gone. Time to get moving. He leaned over toward the man in the hood, “From here on in you’re leading the way.”

“Yessir,” he replied. “Just turn left on the road that the carriage and horses took. It’ll take you right there.”

“And one more thing,” Anubis continued, “when you see the lights of the house let me know.”

The procession moved on through the night with the chariot leading the way. When they had ridden about three miles they turned a bend and the hooded man leaned over to Anubis, “That’s it!” he said to Anubis excitedly. “Straight up ahead!” Beyond them, only a hundred paces or so lay Nashon’s estate. Anubis brought his chariot to a halt.

“Prepare for battle!” Anubis ordered. Behind him there was the clucking sound of crossbows being ratcheted, and metallic “clicks” of helmet visors being pulled down. Anubis lowered his visor slowly—only unlike the others—he never readied his crossbow. He wanted to keep his killing personal. With a flip of the reins they were on the move again.

Jesse, Abijah, and the doctor had been in the house about ten minutes now, and Asa was starting to wonder whether he should wait at the gate a little longer, or turn in for the evening. How long would the doctor be staying? Would Nashon be receiving other guests at this late hour? Josiah had given him no instructions and he was just supposed to figure it out on his own. He was nothing like his father, he thought. Nashon would have left clear, step by step instructions of what he expected, and then had him repeat them back to him. No, Josiah was no Nashon. He sat down on an old beer keg that he had brought outside to rest his legs and reached into his pocket for a small paper, then into his pouch for some tobacco. Well, Jesse and Abijah had their vices, and he had his own. It was an expensive habit, too, for tobacco—like silk—had to be smuggled in from Eden. At least, he thought—unlike alcohol—tobacco was a harmless vice. As he sat there rolling the cigarette he looked down the road toward town. In the moonlight he could see an approaching chariot followed by several horsemen, just rounding the bend. The only one around that still drove a chariot was Hezron—it had to be him. But who was following after? He sat the cigarette aside and his old eyes squinted to identify the forms. Yes, that was Hezron, all right, and followed by legionnaires. He could tell by the winged helmets that they were wearing.

Asa walked over and removed the bolt from its place to let Hezron and his men through. But why would Hezron be coming with a detachment of soldiers? Surely the mighty Hezron wasn’t afraid of lions on the road at night? He looked again, his old eyes squinting to see the riders in the moonlight, and what he saw this time alarmed him. The riders were nearly upon him. Those were not the winged helmets of Atlantis that he saw now, but the ears of an-nef sticking up through helmets of soldiers from Eden. He had seen such armor before, nearly five-hundred years it had been, during the An-nef War. In haste he grabbed the large bolt and slammed it back in place. Now the riders were at the gate.

The jackal-head in the chariot loomed over Asa. “Let us in!” he growled.

“Who are you?” Asa demanded. “And why are you here?”

“Friends,” the driver replied in a low, but not too friendly tone. “We’re here to see Nashon.”

Asa stared at the jackal-head for moment. Friend or foe, that singular, glowing yellow eye creeped him out.

“I’m sorry, but Master Nashon is not feeling well, but I’ll let his son know that you are requesting entrance. What name should I give him?”

“Anubis. An old acquaintance of his father.”

“Very well,” Asa replied. “I’ll announce your arrival.” That was not all that Asa intended to announce. All of the jackal-heads had broadswords strapped to their backs and the riders behind the chariot were carrying what appeared to be mechanical bows, arrows at the ready. Asa tried to look casual as he slowly walked across the courtyard to the mansion, but both his heart and his mind were racing.

When the gatekeeper’s back was turned, Anubis motioned with his head for one of the lead horsemen to get down. The jackal-head leaped from the horse, tossing his reins to Zerah, then sprinted the few paces between the horses and the wrought-iron gate. Raising the crossbow with the tip of the bolt protruding through to the other side he fired, hitting Asa in the back between the shoulder blades. The old man was knocked off his feet and lay in the dirt, clutching the tip of the bolt that stuck out through his chest. Unable to even cry out, he lay there for only a few seconds before his body stopped moving.

“Open it!” Anubis demanded, raising his voice for the first time all evening.

The jackal-head that had just killed Asa now scaled the gate with ease and dropped himself over the other side. Releasing the bolt, he swung the gate wide and the riders rushed through, Anubis’ chariot leading the way.

The first thing that Anubis noticed was that the courtyard was crowded. Anubis looked around at all the horses, buckboards and carriages and thought that half the town must have shown up on this the night of his triumph. Things were not going as he had hoped. The plan was to swoop down on the unsuspecting estate in the dead of the night, seal off all entrances to the mansion and then search the place quietly room by room until they found the giant’s lair. But now Anubis was learning an important lesson that all murderers in their time learn: murder never goes according to plan.

Anubis brought his chariot to a halt by the mansion’s main entrance and leaned over to his hooded passenger, “Stick as close to me as flies to a corpse.” He then hopped down and drew his sword. As he did, the riders behind him dismounted and raised their crossbows, ready to fire. The cavalryman that had opened the gate ran up and took the rider’s reins. He and another of the jackal-heads would guard the horses, while the remaining seven followed Anubis as he bounded up the porch stairs and into the house. Instead of a darkened entry, he found himself in a well-lit room surrounded by a couple of dozen humans—both men and women—who looked up at him in shock, disbelief, and amazement. Suddenly the quiet gathering came alive. One woman screamed. Another ran out one of the two side doors. Several men jumped to their feet and started to shout. The confusion and commotion were both upsetting his plan. And there was another problem: the room in which they found themselves had exits on either side, and two stairways leading to separate rooms on the second floor. Anubis didn’t know what to do, but first he had to restore order and take command.