Van trudged on. After several more hours of numbing sameness, he came across the first coffin.
It lay open across the path. Under ordinary circumstances, Van would have described it as being pretty nice, a well-constructed box of dark wood, polished until its contours gleamed. The lid was torn from its hinges, and on closer examination, the white quilted liner inside was ripped in several places. A titan had fought his way out, but Van saw no tracks to indicate which way he had gone, no signs of who it was.
As far as Van knew, the OverLord had dragged only three titans away in coffins. First the Bearhugger, then the Patriot Jack Hammer, then Billy Blades. After that, he’d made a deal with King Thad that included Creature and Jaygan the Dragon Reynolds as well as Donovan, King Thad’s own servant. But Van had no idea if those titans had been brought down here in that same awful conveyance.
“Coffin’s empty,” he said to the barrel.
He felt Saint stirring inside. “What coffin, idiot?”
“One of the OverLord’s. One he used to drag a titan down here. Did he do that for all of them or just the ones from the tournament?” When Saint didn’t answer, Van continued. “It’s just sitting open in the middle of the trail.”
“Maybe you should climb in,” the demon replied.
“Some guide you’re turning out to be. I want my money back.”
Van waited until Saint started to retort, then he shook the barrel as vigorously as he could for thirty seconds. With that fun done, he continued along the trail. The lines in the dirt did not stop at this coffin. There were more ahead of him. And he’d still seen no sign of Kyle.
…
Van carried on, gaze locked on the gouged trail before him. Soon his feet ached from the rock-strewn ground. His boots were scraped. His hands were cut up from navigating huge volcanic boulders and rows of bushes with thorns like filet knives. The light had dimmed, the dry heat quieted, and Van needed rest. When he stumbled upon a reasonably level stretch of ground, he found a rock to set his back against and sat. He parked the barrel next to him and let out a long sigh.
“A fire might be nice,” Van said.
“So start one,” Saint replied, “if you know how. Frankly I’m amazed you even know what fire is.”
“I haven’t seen much wood lying around. Grass would burn too quick.” He looked at the barrel and scratched his beard. “Of course, I could just use the barrel.”
“Good idea. Let me out of here. It stinks like beer. I hate beer.”
“Hmm… I could just burn the barrel with you in it.” For a time there was no sound other than Van’s breathing. “You’ve been surprisingly uncomplaining, if I’m honest.”
Saint replied, “Well, I’ve traversed the darkest corners of the Nether. Compared to what else we have down here, this is a vacation for me. Not that I won’t torture and kill you when I get out of here. Especially if you burn me. I hate that.”
“You know,” Van said, “the OverLord actually recruited me. He told me to follow him. And here I am. You guys don’t put together much of a welcome party. Even King Thad gave me a beer.”
“Oh, trust me. If the Master wanted you by his side right now, that’s where you’d be.”
“He knows I’m here?”
“Arrivals and departures from the Nether are few and far between. A titan showing up and besting the gatekeepers will certainly have his attention.”
“But, does he know everything? Everyone who comes and goes?” Van was thinking of Kyle. How had she gotten in? What did she know that had led her here?
“He knows plenty.” Van heard several sharp breaths from inside the barrel and realized Saint was sniffing the air. “A storm is coming,” the demon said. “I trust you’ve found shelter.”
“Not yet,” Van replied. He settled back and folded his arms across his chest. With no one to see him, he allowed his face to slacken, letting soft lines of worry take shape. Everything felt too heavy, including the air. Right now, he doubted everything except what the demon had said. A storm was coming.
Van eased off into sleep, trying to ignore the scratching sounds of Saint searching for a weakness in his prison.
Chapter 5.
A stink hung in the air, a foulness made worse by the heat. Most of the brewery warehouses were bright and fresh, the air comfortably cooled through the hot months by sorcerers who charged enormous prices for the service, with clean rows of stacked barrels emitting a faint scent of toasted oak. Not warehouse seven, the one often referred to as the Dumping Grounds. This was where barrels went to die, or at least lie fallow and wait for management to grudgingly acknowledge they had no value beyond their containers. Then they would be dumped on a day when the strong wind carried the reek of stale beer away. The barrels would be scrubbed by strong-armed men until the taint of whatever failed experiment or mistake had filled them was erased. That was the usual order of business. But a massive order had unexpectedly come in from the orc tribes out west. They liked their beer old and rotten, the worse the better, and suddenly the contents of warehouse seven were worth saving.
Management had assigned seven men to the reorganization and salvage operation. Seven men who had already put in long years at the brewery plus one titan, green as could be. They were all hot, tired, smelly, and pissed off.
Van had only been at the brewery two months when the assignment came down. He’d had a hard time adjusting to shift work. During his first week, he’d learned the painful lesson that working with beer was a lot different than drinking it. It was hard work. Van was called to all corners of the warehouse to fetch heavy barrels. It seemed like everyone was his boss, or at least thought they were. No matter how fast he worked, someone was always yelling at him that he’d done the wrong thing and done it too slow.
When the brewery had finally put Van on, he’d imagined an easy comradery. And he’d seen it among the other workers. Slaps on the back, inside jokes, promises of cracking open barrels, both with the thumbs-up from management and without. But no one had extended those invitations to Van, and he trudged through his days, slowly building up callouses on his hands as he hoisted barrel after barrel on and off of the stacks.
The salvage of warehouse seven was even harder than regular brewery grunt work. The men grumbled when the assignment came down, grumbled through the vague description of their duties, and shot dark looks at the foreman when he left the warehouse to breathe sighs of relief as he passed out into the sunshine. This was punishment work, performed by the dregs of several different crews, and right at the start, it became clear it would be a mess. Orders from management were to pull whichever barrels were most likely to satisfy the revolting tastes of orcs. But there was no real agreement about which barrels would do so. The brewmasters had never tried this before, and each had a different idea. The foreman, after his bosses had changed their minds a dozen times, knew his real objective was to survive their waffling idiocy. He needed his crew of deadbeats to organize like with like, so when the front office assholes finally settled on what was shipping out, it could be pulled with a scrap of efficiency. Of course, that objective was made impossible by the fact that warehouse seven was a dumping ground, and had been for some time. Barrels were carted in and dropped as quickly as possible in the closest available spot. The chaotic mess was packed in tight, leaving no space for sorting out a puzzle far beyond the minds of the grumbling workers.
So the unfortunate lot fought and argued, seeming to agree only on the fact that Van was an easy scapegoat. They would ask him to move a row of barrels, come back after a cigarette shouting that he’d done it wrong. They would tell him to put the barrels back, then change their minds again after lunch. It was hot, miserable work. The few times the warehouse foreman had checked on them in the first few days, he’d been impatient and had glared at Van, no doubt hearing the blame the others laid on him.
They were about one exhausting week into the project when the stacks collapsed. Van had shimmied far back between two tall rows of barrels, should
ering his way through spiderwebs and dust clouds. Once he’d made it about two-thirds back, he climbed up to the top row. He was perched up there, face pinched as he tried to see the chalk labels on the barrels, when the rotted wooden structure gave way.
Van yelped as he fell down to the hard dirt floor. The edge of a wooden pallet slammed into his side and his head bounced hard off the ground. He’d bitten his tongue and lay wedged between barrels tasting a bitter trickle of his own blood. Worse than that, he heard the unmistakable sound of more barrels following him down. He could do nothing more than moan as one crashed in the narrow aisle just past his feet, spilling foamy foulness on him.
The sounds of crashing barrels went on a long time. From the startled yells and curses of the other men, it hadn’t gone unnoticed. A large section in front of Van had completely collapsed, piling heavy barrels, broken and whole, across the aisle, trapping him where he lay. Through the darkness, Van saw only barrels in all directions. Stacks of warped wood locked into place by bands of iron, many broken and bleeding amber liquid. He heard calls for the foreman.
When he was able to clear the film of dust and blood from his tongue, he shouted out hoarsely, “Help, I’m stuck back here.” There was no response. “Help,” he yelled again, “I’m stu—”
“We heard ya’, titan,” a surly voice said. “What a fucking mess you’ve made.” The voice barely reached Van. “Where’s the foreman?”
Someone else shouted, something Van couldn’t hear.
Finally the first man shouted again, “We’ll get you out. Keep your pants on.”
After a few futile attempts to get himself out, Van lay quiet among the ruins in the dark rows. He heard men gathering, including the foreman, on the other side of the wreckage. He couldn’t hear them well, but he did catch some grumbling about how the giant asshole hadn’t been stacking the rows right, followed by discussion of how to save what product they could. Getting Van out seemed to be a very low priority.
His breath had a hard, quavering edge to it that he hoped the men couldn’t hear from the other side of the mess. It hadn’t been his fault. No more than anyone else’s. But here he was, waiting on the mercy of others, seemingly forgotten as they tried to salvage barrels of rotten beer.
The day was shaping up to be a disaster. And worse, there was no indication the heap of following days would be any better. A pile of misery pressed on Van, stacked up like the barrels that had him trapped here. Friendless in the shadows, unable to move of his own volition, soon to be greeted with glares of anger and disappointment. Was it all because he was a titan? No one else seemed to be stuck back here in the dark.
Just as his self-pity began to feel as oppressive as the stink of stale beer, a sudden breeze swept in and carried it away. Van took a shaky breath and loosened his hands at his sides. A moment later they tightened back into fists. A darker scent replaced the beer. The smell of dying crops, of abandoned cemeteries, coming from behind him, where moments ago there had been nothing but the back wall of warehouse seven.
Van knew what he would see if he looked back over his shoulder. He leaned forward and spat on the ground between his legs, trying to rid himself of the cloying stink that washed over him. He was no longer the titan who put in his early days at the brewery. His awareness of the present, of all that had happened between this memory and his plunging into the Nether, slid smoothly into his head. He could feel the gaze of the OverLord on him.
In a heavy voice, Van asked, “Is this game playing out to your liking?” The words felt unnatural coming from the younger Van’s mouth, far more confident than anything young Van had ever uttered. He, this young Van, had not won the Headlock of Destiny. He had not learned his strength by breaking the chains of Judge Cage. He had not stood against the strongest titans in the Open Nations and more than held his own.
There was a long silence. The OverLord said nothing. But the dream world drifted away, and Van found himself back in the Nether, resting with his back against a sharp rock, his demon guide still scratching noisily at the insides of the barrel beside him. Maybe that was response enough.
…
“Knock it off,” Van said. “I’m awake again.”
The barrel fell silent a moment, then the demon asked, “And where did you go this time? Someplace pleasant, I’m sure.”
“It was fine.” It had been a memory, nothing more, but still the stale, sour smell lingered in his nostrils. “They had beer. How long was I out?”
“Decades. The Second Titan Wars have long ended and been written into the history books. The Open Nations are no more and everyone you’ve ever known and loved is dead.”
“I’m guessing it was closer to half an hour.” Van stood and stretched his stiff muscles. The sky had darkened, but Van didn’t think it had to do with the passage of time. The demon was right. A storm was coming. “Let’s get moving,” he said. “I’m beginning to like this hellhole.”
After another hour or so on the trail, picking his way across the treacherous stones, Van came upon another coffin. This one was still closed and the trail continued on past it. He stared at the coffin a long time before approaching. The first step was to determine if anyone was still in it. If so, then he could decide what to do about it.
The question was quickly answered. As he drew closer, something inside the coffin rattled fiercely, apparently struggling to get out. A muffled roar of fury followed.
“What is it?” Saint asked.
“Another coffin. This one is closed.” Van tugged at his beard, thinking. “Maybe one of your Master’s passengers is still inside.” But if it was in fact a titan, had he been turned to the OverLord’s cause or not? Either way, whatever was in there was strong and angry.
Van stepped close and set the barrel down. The thrashing inside the coffin stopped. Van waited to hear if whatever was in there would speak. It didn’t and the silence drew out. If it was a titan, he would come out spoiling for a fight. Van should leave it. He should move on, leaving it trapped behind him.
“Fuck it,” Van finally said. He grasped the sliding lock that pinned the lid in place, pulled it open, and took a step back.
Then the lid of the coffin flew open, crashing off its hinges. “Hey-yo!” came a powerful yell as a titan leapt out. He wore wrestling gear—tight shorts, bright blue boots, and no shirt over his thick torso and massive arms. He had pale skin, a mop of unruly light brown hair, and a bushy beard. His blue eyes scanned his surroundings and quickly settled on Van. He roared again and attacked.
“Wait a minute,” Van protested as the powerful titan began throwing furious haymakers at him. Van ducked and retreated, stumbled back and tripped over his barrel. Saint spouted a stream of profanities.
Instead of pouncing on Van, the titan ran back to the coffin and picked it up, straining under the heavy load. Van scrambled backwards across the stony ground, certain the titan was about to throw it at him. Instead, the titan hollered and smashed it on the rocks at his feet. It splintered into pieces. Then he rummaged furiously through the wreckage, a look of grim purpose on his face. At last he grasped a long board and jerked it loose from the pile with a sharp crack. He spun it in his hands with a practiced ease, then propped it up on his shoulder. Freshly armed, he turned back to Van, smirking confidently, prepared to whip some serious ass.
“You’re the Patriot Jack Hammer,” Van said, unable to keep a tone of awe from his voice. He’d never seen the Patriot in person, but the titan was a legend. He was the only titan ever to bodyslam the Landshaker. Legend had it he had singlehandedly cleansed the Peakfall countryside of a legion of orcs. And he was well known for carrying a long wooden board into his fights—half prop, half weapon.
The Patriot stopped moving towards Van, his face wrinkling in confusion. “Who are you?” He looked around. “And where are we? This isn’t like the other times.”
Van raised his hands, his eyes glued to the board. The Patriot didn’t seem to be in the same state the Bearhugger had been. He didn’t reek
of death or speak in the voice of the OverLord. His eyes weren’t that flat, dead white. “I’m Van. We’re in the Nether. And I don’t know what you mean by ‘other times.’”
The Patriot spun around, studying the landscape. “The Nether?” He turned back to Van, raising the board again. “You’re not with him? The OverLord guy?”
“Nope.” Van shook his head firmly. “I’m here looking for him. Gonna give him a piece of my mind.”
Saint chose that moment to weigh in. “I thought you were a recruit, buddy.”
The Patriot screamed, startled at the voice from nowhere. He swung his board over his head and hammered it down into the barrel.
“Whoa, whoa!” Van called. He bent over the barrel, checking to see if everything was still intact.
“Did that barrel just talk?” The Patriot stared wild-eyed at Van. “You better start making sense, whoever you are.”
…
After Van managed to calm the Patriot down a bit, they found a dirt patch free of sharp rocks just off the trail and took a seat. The Patriot stared warily at Van. Van was about to launch into his story when he glanced at the barrel next to him. “Can’t have it overhearing everything,” he said with a shrug. He stood, picked it up, and carried it out of earshot.
The Patriot shook his head when Van came back. “You are a crazy son of a bitch. You must fit in perfect here.” He gripped one end of the board on the ground next to him. “Now start talking.”
Van sat down again. “Fine. You drew the OverLord in the tournament, right? And he defeated you, put you in the coffin, dragged you away, right? Same as he did to Bearhugger.”
The Patriot grunted in grudging acknowledgement.
“Well, he kept going. He took Billy Blades after you. And then he was supposed to fight King Thad, but that asshole bribed him with more titans to take to the Neth—, well, here, so he can build an army. By my count, he’s also got Jaygan the Dragon, Venerate Holland’s lackey Creature, and King Thad’s Donovan down here somewhere too. No idea if they’ve turned or not.”
The Piledriver of Fate (Titan Wars Book 2) Page 4
