The Piledriver of Fate (Titan Wars Book 2)

by Samuel Gately

  “What?” Van furrowed his brow. “It’s only been a couple months. You said I’d be there through the school year.”

  “Well, the Fromes…” Mr. Miles trailed off and pursed his lips. “Van, sometimes people make a commitment and then don’t really… well, no, that’s not right. Sometimes people find an excuse, and… well, no, that’s not the right word. Listen, Van, the point is, you’ll be staying with a new family starting tomorrow. Best not to spend too much time dwelling on the past.”

  Worry ate at Van’s gut. “What family?”

  For the first time, anger crept into Mr. Miles’s voice. “Well, that’s my job, isn’t it? Certainly no one else’s.” He eased back out of the harsh lantern light and sighed. “Plenty of time to figure that out in the morning. Right now, it’s late and we old men get tired, Van. So let’s find a room for you to sleep in. I’d let you stay with my family, of course, but space is tight, so the municipal building will have to do for you.” He picked up the lantern. “Oh, bother, I forgot a candle. Van, why don’t you wait here a moment? I’ll get a bedroll from my wagon, and a candle, and we’ll set you up in one of these other rooms. I’m sure you’d prefer one with fewer spiders. Maybe a little more space to stretch out. Yes?”

  “Yes,” Van murmured quietly. When Mr. Miles cocked his head expectantly, Van added, “And thank you, sir.”

  “Very good.” He left the door open and turned away. The bright orange light receded with Mr. Miles’s footsteps, and the closet seemed to grow colder. When Mr. Miles’s lamp had rounded the hallway corner, Van’s small prison was plunged back into shadow. He folded his legs again and wrapped them protectively in his arms.

  The Fromes didn’t want to take care of him anymore. Van hadn’t read much into the dirty looks on Mr. Frome’s face or Mrs. Frome’s scowl when she had given him a few coins for the festival… or the sideways comments about how he ate like a stable full of horses. Maybe he should have. He did all the chores they asked him to do, and there were a lot. Why didn’t they want him in their home?

  Van sat alone in the darkness, replaying each conversation in his mind. The feeling that he was stumbling towards the edge of a cliff grew in him. He gave his head a small shake to loosen the grip of unhappy thoughts. Mr. Miles would come back soon. Maybe he would bring some food with him. Van hadn’t eaten since lunch. He considered how to ask without angering the old man. Maybe he could force his stomach to growl. It had certainly been doing enough of that as he waited, bored.

  He was looking down at his hands when he realized he could see the outlines of them again. But there was no burnt orange glow coming from the hall. The light was coming from behind him, but there was nothing there but a solid wall and a few cobwebs. Van turned slowly… and saw that the wall behind him was gone. He rubbed his eyes fiercely to see if that would make it come back. It didn’t. The walls of the closet ran deep back into what suddenly seemed to be a long corridor. Van shuddered.

  A monster stood several paces down the corridor, staring at Van. A titan, stoic and terrifying, dressed in black with a farmer’s hat shadowing his face. His bulk filled the hall; his tilted head touched the ceiling. He held a lantern in one hand. With the other, he slowly gestured to an open coffin on the floor beside him.

  Van opened his mouth to scream and it filled with water.

  Chapter 2.

  Van choked and flailed and splashed his way through black, racing waters. He was hurtling down a dark tunnel, clinging to his floating barrel as the chill waters tried to pull him down. He had no idea what had pulled him back to the old memory of Mr. Miles or why the OverLord was in it. Now was probably not the time to figure it out, however. He had never been a strong swimmer, and his wet clothes and heavy boots weren’t helping. In the darkness the sensation of swimming, or really flailing about trying not to drown, felt new and unfamiliar. Van clung tight to the floating barrel, cold and miserable, and let the current carry him along.

  Glimmering pinpricks of light soon appeared across the surface of the water. A distant glow came into view. It grew brighter and soon the light had illuminated the tunnel walls that housed this underground river. Van could make out the shape of an opening to some larger chamber at the end. He fought himself into a more stable position, both arms slung over the barrel, holding it tight to his chest as he tried to ignore the idea of something clutching at his dangling feet.

  Van was rushed forward towards the opening. The pale yellow glow looked for a moment like Mr. Miles carrying his lantern down the long corridor of Van’s childhood. Van shook his head, spraying water from his beard. Best not to spend too much time dwelling on the past. He fought the urge to turn and look behind him to ensure the OverLord wasn’t following him, perhaps using a coffin as a canoe.

  Van finally floated through the mouth of the tunnel. The enormous basin beyond was lit by some unknown source. Stone walls sloped away far beyond what Van could see. A sky, grey and flat, hung low and heavy above. The river lulled to a halt at a rocky shore. Van navigated the jagged, teeth-like rocks of the approach, more thanks to the luck of the current than any action on his part. Water streamed off of his blue uniform as he stepped onto the rocky shore.

  He picked up the empty barrel gently floating on the shallow waves and walked across the beach. The beach funneled upwards towards a path cut into the grim rockscape. Long, thick grooves were scraped in the gravel along the path. The trail of the OverLord’s coffins, the one Van had followed to the cemetery. The OverLord had dragged his prisoners this way. Kyle had come here to find him. She would have followed the trail. So would Van.

  Van reached the top of a ridge, where the sky darkened to a starless night fading into the distance. Across a short plateau of jagged stone, a single lit torch burned next to an enormous door in a grey stone wall. The path of the coffins led directly to it. Van followed the path, dripping cold water on the warm stones at his feet.

  The door stood nearly twice Van’s height and was wide enough to drive two wagons through at the same time. It appeared to be made of solid metal and had a giant handle in the shape of a snake. The path of the coffins ran right under the center of the door. Van gave the handle a tug and found the door was firmly locked. He stepped back to study the door and something moving drew his eyes.

  Some sort of creature, an oily, scaly thing, had its back to him. It was just below another torch, this one unlit. It looked something like a lizard or a bug, but with a manlike efficiency about its motion. It stood on hind legs and was about half the size of a halfling, not much taller than Van’s boot. This was the first inhabitant of the Nether Van encountered, and it appeared appropriately repulsive. Van watched the creature as it worked a mechanism on the wall.

  The creature looked over its shoulder at Van and said, “One moment,” in a surprisingly human voice. Then it stepped back from the wall. The torch above its head abruptly sparked to life, burning a bright green in contrast to its more ordinary yellow neighbor. The flickering light spread across the plateau of stones, producing sharp glints of green like stars dancing on motionless waves. “That will bring them.”

  It turned to look at Van with wide, black eyes, like a frog, an unsettling intelligence to them. Its face most resembled a lizard’s, a round nose and mouth pressed together. A barbed tail coiled in the air over its shoulder. It had scales of dark blue, coated in a black, oily substance. It wore a crude loincloth and smelled like fish that had been left out in the sun too long. Van decided it must be some sort of demon.

  “Bring who?” Van asked.

  “The gatekeepers, of course. You didn’t come all this way to talk with me, I presume.” It flashed Van a smile full of sharp teeth. “You seek entry.”

  “Who are you?”

  The creature gave a short bow. “They call me Saint.”

  Van looked at the strange creature. “How about opening that door, Saint?”

  Saint shook his head. “I have no key. The gatekeepers do. You are unexpected, so you must wait. They’ll see the
sign soon enough.” He gestured towards the torch with a small, scaly arm. “And then,” he smiled wickedly again, “you can ask them to open the door.”

  “Something tells me they won’t open it up easily.”

  “You must be smarter than you look, beard boy.” The demon stared at him, considering. “What news of the tournament?”

  “You follow the tournament?” Van replied. He stepped to the door and pulled as hard as he could on one of the giant snake handles. The door still didn’t budge.

  Saint hissed softly—laughter, Van supposed. “Who does not? And what else would one discuss with a titan? Tanning oils? Philosophy?”

  Van tried the door again, grunting with effort, straining with all his might, which was apparently not enough. “Bearhugger won it,” he said, giving up on the door again. “Northwoods fans are flooding the streets of Empire City as we speak.”

  The demon shook his head. “Liar. Bearhugger is down here. As you know. I myself have seen him pass, both with the Master and without. He is one of ours now. I last heard there were three still standing—King Thad, Scott Flawless, and a lesser titan called Van the Beer Man. A titan who carries a barrel with him into his fights.” The demon looked pointedly at Van’s barrel. “You are the lesser, the Beer Man.”

  “I’m Richard the Living Portrait.”

  “Your name, such as it is, is Van the Beer Man. To which titan did you fall? And who holds the belt? We have time before the gatekeepers arrive.” He looked off towards a distant ridge as though searching for some sign of them.

  Van ignored the question and glanced back at the door. “Maybe I could just skip the chat with the gatekeepers. Maybe if I shake you hard enough, a key will fall out.”

  “You can do whatever you want. The door will remain closed unless and until the gatekeepers decide to let you pass. And they will not, Van the Beer Man. As far back as I recall, they never have.”

  “I told you, my name is Evan the Crusher.” Van set his barrel on the ground next to the door and cracked his knuckles. Then he took a seat on the barrel. He could try another way to get in, but what the demon was telling him felt right. A fight was coming. The gatekeepers would arrive, and Van would see what the Nether had to offer.

  Van watched the green lights twinkle on the jutting stone shards for a few moments, then began tapping his fingers on his knee. At last, he glared over at Saint. “So what’s your deal?”

  Saint smiled. “I serve the Master, as we all do. Right now that means watching the gate and summoning the gatekeepers when ugly, lost titans wander in unwelcome. Not the worst job I’ve had down here. You should see the laundry.”

  “And the Master is the OverLord?”

  “Perhaps you are a wise scholar in your homeland.” Saint hissed another laugh. “When the Master opened the gate to Empire City, he set the gatekeepers at this door. And set me to keep an eye on the vile creatures.”

  “You seem pretty vile yourself.”

  Again the hissing laugh. “Simply wait, titan. Simply wait.”

  “You said they were sent to this door. Where were they before? Does that mean there’s another way in and out of the Nether?”

  “There are several. None unguarded or reachable by the likes of you.”

  Van could ask the creature whether Kyle had passed through here, but there was always a chance she’d slipped by undetected. “Say I wanted to offer to work for the Master… how would I find him?”

  “Don’t worry. He’ll find you.”

  “He asked me to follow him. And I am. This is how he treats new recruits?”

  Saint narrowed his bulbous eyes. “You lie and attempt to cheat your way past the first obstacle the Nether throws at you. You do not understand the rules.”

  “Never been my strong suit.”

  Saint stared at Van, ignoring a bug crawling slowly across his face. “You do not speak like a titan fresh from defeat. Could it be that the lesser titan, Van the Beer Man, won the Headlock of Destiny? If so, why does he not parade through Empire City, drunk on his fleeting fame?” Saint flicked his tongue out, captured the bug, and pulled it into his mouth. “It is all no matter,” he said between crunching chews. “If the Master wished to greet you at the gates, you would see him here now. You do not, and so you wait for the gatekeepers.”

  “What’s this lesser titan stuff?” Van grumbled.

  Saint ignored him and straightened, his eyes bright. “Behold, titan who is not Van the Beer Man, the gatekeepers approach.” He gestured to the distant horizon.

  Three torches floated in the distance, like far off ships across a sea of night. They were making their way slowly along one of the trails. Though they were a long way off, it was clear they were coming towards the door.

  “Are they titans?” Van asked, somehow knowing the answer.

  “They were once,” Saint replied, the three sparks in the distance reflecting in his black eyes. “Now they’re just the gatekeepers. They call themselves Obliteration. They are among the first of the Master’s great army.”

  As he watched the lights approach, Van shifted on the barrel until his back rested against the wall. After a time, he leaned his head back against the stone, trying not to let his worry show, and gently closed his eyes.

  …

  Bright sunlight filtered through the trees. Birds chirped, insects hummed, and Van kicked stones along the mountain trail. He enjoyed a minor thrill whenever he was able to properly skip them off the side of the trail, where they would be briefly airborne before crashing into the ravine below. He’d learned to pick out stones of just the right size. Too big and they’d hurt his foot. Too little and they’d sail over the lip and tumble down without the satisfying crackles of offended tree branches.

  Van had no plans for the day. School was on summer recess, and the brewery for once had enough extra hands. Van’s latest foster mother had kicked the kids out of the house. His foster brothers and sisters had scampered over to the schoolyard to play games, leaving Van free to walk some of his favorite trails alone.

  He stared at the ground, restlessly assessing the rocks at his feet, so he missed the other boys coming down the trail until they were almost on him. He got off one last kick before he noticed them and slowed. He recognized two of the three approaching boys, and they were far from his favorite people.

  “Careful, Van! You almost hit me!” The stone had come nowhere near Pau, but the boy moaned as if his life was near a tragic end, then he swiped his long black hair out of his eyes and cut a grin at one of his friends. Van glowered at him. The lanky troublemaker was always looking for a reason to gripe at Van.

  “Yeah, Van. What the hell are you doing?” Hester was thicker than the others, nearly as thick as Van. His cheeks were red, as they always seemed to be, and his lips were parted in excitement.

  “Is this the dork you were telling me about?” the third boy shouted. “The little ten-man?” Van didn’t know him, but the sight of him did even more to wreck his mood than the other two. For one, he was older. Van never had much luck with the older boys. They used his size as an excuse to single him out and pick fights with him. But the real reason Van instantly disliked this boy was the nakedly curious way he stared at Van. Like Van was some sort of bizarre specimen they’d stumbled across along the trails, a giant slug or the recent molting of a fairy. Something to poke with a stick. The older boy moved to the front of the pack, arms swinging lightly by his sides.

  Van hated the feeling of his shoulders hunching in as the older boy approached, but he couldn’t really help it. He just wanted to be left alone. Now he’d have to put up with these guys making fun of him, or worse, trying to goad him into a fight. He had a sinking feeling it would be the latter.

  “Yep,” Hester said, “he’s a little bitch of a ten-man, though. That’s what my dad says. Says normally a ten-man would be pretty tough by now.”

  Van stared at Hester, shocked. The words hurt, but they were even more surprising than painful. He’d never considered that the
town’s adults would care enough to talk about him, judge him as a titan even though he was just thirteen. As Van struggled to keep a calm look on his face, the older boy crept closer, leaning in to inspect Van.

  “He’s not so big, yet, is he?” He continued to talk as if Van wasn’t there.

  “My dad says that’ll change soon. He’ll get real big. Maybe tougher too, but he ain’t shown much of it.” Hester nodded at the older boy and then towards Van. “My cousin Lentz from Preckle Valley.” The introduction was an unusual courtesy to offer Van as the boys clustered even closer around him.

  Lentz shot his cousin a look like he didn’t appreciate having his name used, then turned back to Van. “You don’t fight much, then? Don’t wrestle?”

  Van shook his head.

  “I wrestle, I fight. I could teach you a couple things.”

  “No, thanks,” Van said, trying to keep his voice from cracking. “I can’t get my clothes dirty.”

  “But I’ve never fought a titan,” Lentz protested. He shared a loaded look with Hester and Pau, then smiled. “And, I mean, you did nearly kill Pau with that rock.”

  “No I didn’t—”

  Lentz interrupted Van with a hard shove in the chest, sending Van stumbling towards the edge of the path, arms windmilling for balance. Van took a shaky step away from the lip. He was breathing heavily.

  “Yes, you did.” Lentz stepped back in Van’s face. Van could smell his sour breath as he leaned in. The other two boys crowded in behind him. Lentz seemed emboldened by Van’s refusal to retaliate. “Besides, I’ve never had a chance to kick a titan’s ass.”

  Van turned to run, but Lentz was ready for it. He snaked his foot out and sent Van crashing onto the stony path. Van cried out in pain. Lentz jumped on his back, driving Van harder into the rocky ground. He tried to slide an arm under Van’s neck and lock him in a chokehold, but Van rolled away, flinging a thick arm up to dislodge Lentz’s wrist.