“You think you are special?” the OverLord asked. “You were King Thad’s property above as surely as you are mine down here. Surrender your name and find yourself on the right side of the Titan Wars. Put it on.”
Van was reminded of the first time he’d seen the OverLord. The OverLord had told Van to follow him with such powerful conviction he nearly compelled Van to do it. Here he turned that same compulsion onto Donovan. The whole of the Nether seemed to bend around the two titans, one standing, one on his knees. Yet Donovan shook his head again.
Van muttered, “Stubborn, fucking half-orc,” earning a sideways look from Jack. “He’s going to kill you.” A sick feeling had burrowed into his chest. He absently rubbed at ash on his arm.
“Fine then,” the OverLord said, his voice echoing across the valley, “be that way.” He gestured to Bearhugger, who stepped up behind Donovan and drew a long knife from his overalls. The fat titan gripped Donovan’s head with one meaty hand, then reached around with the other and sliced Donovan’s throat.
Jack gasped and Van let out a low moan. As they watched, Donovan melted away into ash. Moments before there had been no wind, but his ashes nevertheless blew off to scatter across the valley. In seconds it was as though he’d never been there, just Bearhugger holding a bloodless knife over an empty space.
“Fuck,” Van muttered. He and Donovan had never once stood on the same side, they barely knew each other, yet Van had felt a sort of kinship with the titan. Donovan had endured his lot in life, his servitude to King Thad especially, with a dry humor and strength Van admired. Van wished he’d navigated his own way through the tournament’s gauntlet of titans with that same pride, rather than lurching about like a child. But now Donovan was gone, just like Billy Blades. Both had been destroyed and would soon be forgotten. Saint’s obnoxious singing continued in the background.
“That’s the Bearhugger,” Jack said. “Another traitor. List of titans needing an asskicking is getting long.” He gave a menacing flex to his muscles, then ruined the effect by looking down approvingly.
Van stared at Jack a moment. “Yeah,” he said patiently, “too long for just you or me. Like you said, we need to warn the others.” He looked out over the army. “So, how do we do this?” Jack just shrugged, so Van continued. “I guess we count them, right? The kind of thing a general or whatever would want to know, right?” He squinted. “How many do you think are down there?”
“I dunno,” Jack replied. He scratched his head. “I was never much for counting. You count ‘em, I’ll whack them with the board.”
Van sighed. “I guess I’m not really great at estimating armies’ sizes either. What if they were a crowd? They’d fill the Empire City Coliseum, right?”
“Oh, easily. I think we’re looking at maybe two or three coliseums, and a bunch of those titans. Not to mention several hundred of those jobbers.”
“Jobbers?” Van asked.
“Yeah, the stone men. Like titans but a little slower and smaller. We call ‘em jobbers up in Peakfall.”
“Like Golem Jones?” Van asked, remembering the titan who had injured Owen.
“Nah, he’s got titan blood. Those golems down there aren’t so tough, just stone or clay men as big as they can make them before they fall apart. A real titan could take five or six of them. But look how many are down there.” Jack stared for a while then cracked a smile. “Hey, did I ever tell you about the time Major Vindict and I took on the DragonFat Duo and a pair of jobbers? Started a riot that lasted days.”
Van gave him a long look, then turned back to the army. The Patriot Jack Hammer’s ability to focus on anything other than himself seemed to have reached its limit. “Go ahead,” Van said.
Jack launched into his story, and Van let the words wash over him. No more value to them than Saint’s singing in the background, but it gave him a chance to think. What else would a good scout gather and report back? He suspected he and Jack might be the worst possible choices for the role. He knew who would have done better, but Kyle had been carried away by the black winds. Probably thrown into some dark cell to wait for the OverLord.
Van was trying to count titans in the mass below and keep an eye on the OverLord, who was huddled with Jaygan and Bearhugger, when a scream split the air across the Nether. The world dimmed as a patch of blackness tore through the sky. Van turned and saw a cyclone of furious whirling black smoke descending in the distance behind him. It crashed to the ground, shaking the landscape. And there it stayed, a thin, black pillar of destruction, howling and shrieking like a living thing, linking ground to sky. Van stared and felt his heart pounding like a war drum. He’d seen it before.
He tore his eyes from the cyclone to look at the army again. The OverLord was on his knees. He seemed just as shocked and confused as Van. Van looked back towards the cyclone and saw the horizon had changed. The cyclone had planted itself in a flat, high plain, maybe a mile off, between two mountains, near a solitary farmhouse. “We need to move,” he said to Jack, beginning to rise.
“Stay down.” Jack pulled him back behind the ridge stone. “Look.”
Van’s head swiveled to the OverLord’s army. The OverLord, still on his knees, was pointing directly at Van and Jack. Or rather, at the cyclone beyond them, still filling the air with the furious clatter of whirling wind and trapped energy. The OverLord’s army, howling as one, began to run towards it, directly at Van and Jack.
“Let’s go, now!” Van said. “We have a head start.” He stood and began to run.
Jack was slow to rise. “You want to run towards that thing?” he asked.
“It’s why I’m here,” Van called back over his shoulder. “This time she’s not getting away.” He stooped and picked up the barrel as he passed it and headed for the cyclone, long strides crossing the rocky land, determined to outpace the army at his heels.
Chapter 12.
Van charged across the flat plain. The midnight-black cyclone sputtered and hissed violently, a long dark arm that began in the sky and buried its fist into the small farmhouse a ways ahead of him. An army howled and thundered behind him. The Patriot Jack Hammer ran alongside Van, his breathing rough and ragged. Saint ignored everything else and gleefully sang away in his barrel, which Van was pretty close to chucking. Surely any use for the little demon wouldn’t outweigh the pain of another chorus of his song, which seemed to be about two titans who got stuck in a well.
A storm spilled out from where the cyclone met the sky, grey clouds spreading, wind wailing. As Van raced towards the front door of the farmhouse, lightning arced out. The oak tree behind the house burst into flames.
Van crashed through the front door with his shoulder, ducking as he entered the home. The parlor was off to the right, a main room just ahead past the stairs. The black tornado swirled in its center, sucking the air towards it and crackling with furious energy. Furniture flew around the maelstrom. Van stopped so quickly that Jack crashed into his back.
“They’re right behind us, Beer Man,” Jack said, bent over panting. “What now?”
Van took a calming breath and stared at the cyclone. Amidst the swirls of black, he saw a flash of something like white feathers. Then it was gone. “She’s still in there,” he said.
“Nothing’s in there,” Jack shouted. “Why are we even here! We’ve got to keep moving. The OverLord sure as shit saw us. Maybe we can hide in the mountains.”
“She’s in there,” Van said again. “She’s trapped.” He set down the barrel, folded his hands together, and cracked his knuckles. He stood before the cyclone, feeling a giant’s strength course through him, and looked over at a mirror that hung rattling against the hallway wall. His face looked grey in the sallow light, but his eyes seemed to throw back an almost golden shine. He nodded at himself, then took off running towards the cyclone.
Just before he was on it, Van laid out and dove in, aiming to pass entirely through before the winds could take hold. Jack gasped behind him. Saint even stopped singing for a moment.<
br />
As Van hit the edge, his eyes snapped shut. The roar of the winds burst in his ears and swung him around. For a moment, he floated helpless and senseless, hoping his momentum would carry him to the other side. He bounced into something soft that folded into his arms, then plunged through the other side of the cyclone, slamming hard into the back wall of the room and crashing down on the wooden floor. Kyle lay beneath him.
Her eyes were closed, and for a moment he feared he was too late. Then she moaned and folded her wings around her chest. He stared. She was every inch the vision he’d been chasing for what felt like an eternity… though few of his daydreams had included a pair of feathery wings.
He gently poked her side and spoke softly. “Kyle?” She didn’t stir, but he could hear her breathing. He touched her soft golden hair.
“Who’s the babe?” Jack asked from just beside Van. “I hope she’s who you were expecting?”
Van smiled. “Well, I hadn’t been expecting the wings.” He gently brushed the hair from her brow. “But yes.” When he had a moment to think, he’d have to wrap his head around the fact that Kyle was a valkyrie. She was also naked, the winds must have torn her clothes away, and Van was surprised to find that even in this chaotic scene he could be embarrassed. His cheeks felt warm as he looked down at her soft pale skin. She held something metal tightly between her breasts, her feathered wings wrapped protectively around it. The urn. She’d refused to surrender it to the vortex.
Van heard something crunching through the remains of the front door and turned to look. A dragon poked its head through the splintered frame and roared into the house. Jack shouted a few choice expletives and ran around the cyclone, which still whirled and howled in the center of the room. “Van!” he yelled. “We’ve got to move. They’re coming.”
Van cradled Kyle and picked her up, keeping her covered, mostly, with her wings. Jack threw a chair down the hallway at the dragon, which promptly snapped it into kindling and roared again. “Van! Quit fucking around. Unless she can wake up and take on an army, she’s going to get us killed.”
“No,” Van replied quietly. “She might save us all.” He looked to the door. White-eyed soldiers of the Nether were forcing their way past the snarling dragon at the front. The sound of breaking glass came from the sides. “Out!” he hollered.
He ran to the back door and kicked it open. The fields behind the farmhouse were mercifully empty, though the storm raged across them. He stumbled outside. He and Jack made it about ten steps before they saw the army circling around both sides of the house. The Bearhugger loped heavily on one side, Creature running eagerly in his wake. Jaygan the Dragon came from the other direction, riding a new dragon that drooled and wagged its tongue as its heavy feet stamped the ground.
“There,” Van cried pointing at the flaming tree. “Head for the tree!” The fire whipped and danced in the wind. “Look for a pit!”
The army swarmed Van. A cluster of goblins attacked him. He fought and kicked them back. He hoisted Kyle over his shoulder to free up an arm and clotheslined a charging titan.
“What?” Jack shouted over the clamor of the closing army and the roar of the storm, which had darkened the sky alarmingly. He waved his board threateningly at approaching white-eyed titans, shambling men, and a pack of glaring wolves with scorpion tails.
“The pit!” Van yelled. “Right there!” He pointed to a black spot of ground by the blazing tree, a perfect circle of darkness. Was it a path back to Empire City? Or just another deeper world?
Most of the army was gathering just beyond the fringes of the light from the burning tree. They snarled and hissed as they encircled the titans. The voice of the OverLord tore through the storm: “Stop them!”
A golem flung itself at Van. Jack smacked it aside with the board, splintering its end, still holding Van’s barrel under his arm. Goblins leapt for their legs. Two orcs charged, stout bodies pressed together. Van and Jack fought and swore, barely able to keep them at bay. Then the attack stalled and parted before them. The OverLord approached, towering over his army, white eyes gleaming in the dark.
Jack’s face was tight with fear as he set down Van’s barrel and gripped his board with both hands. “We stand here.”
Van watched the OverLord stride closer. “Wrong answer, brother,” he said. He clutched Kyle tighter to his shoulder with his left hand. With his right, he grasped the lip of the barrel and tossed it into the pit. Then he threw his arm around Jack’s waist and pulled them both into the blackness. They heard the OverLord scream with rage as they fell and the world turned upside down, and Van could have sworn that for an instant a third mountain appeared on the horizon, watching him with white eyes.
…
Van and the others spun in a maelstrom where direction had no meaning. His fall into the Nether had been dark, stable, boring even. This fall, wherever it led, was anything but. Forces pulled him upwards, downwards, left and right, often, it seemed, at the same time. He was surrounded by blackness, but it flashed with images. Van saw spiderwebs hanging near his face, broken lines of light creeping around doors. He held Kyle tighter as rocks flew by his head and cracked into the walls. He tasted blood in the back of his mouth. The smell of stale beer, dust, and toasted oak. The sound of men laughing. Van started to wonder if he really wanted to return to the world above. He saw the embers of a funeral pyre reflected on flat, white eyes.
Van clung to Kyle as they plummeted, or flew. He wished she’d move or wake up or something. The feathered tips of her fragile wings flapped in the breeze. He heard the Patriot hollering in the darkness; right beside him or a thousand miles away, falling with him or rocketing off to a different world, Van couldn’t tell. Through it all, Saint carried on singing about two titans stuck down a well.
Suddenly, the darkness seemed to settle and Van was falling again, down. Some light leaked in from above. The fetid smell of death rose below him. He shouted and flailed about with his free hand. It sank into soft, wet dirt, tangled on roots. Van grabbed at the roots, even as he was pulled down farther. The roots slid through his hand, squelching with slippery mud, but at least he stopped his descent. He was stuck, only one hand to hold him, one tentative grip to hold off the pull of the land of storms and nightmares. He heard the Patriot in a similar struggle across the other side of the tunnel or pit. Van slid down, losing his grip. He roared with frustration. He’d promised Kyle he’d help her through the darkness. She’d gotten her hands on the urn and he’d done nothing yet.
Then the light from above dimmed. Van felt a viselike grip on his wrist, and a strong hand hauled him and Kyle up and out of the darkness. Van blinked in the sudden light and he fell to the grass. The titan Harlan gave him a solemn nod, then he reached back into the pit and pulled out the Patriot Jack Hammer, holding a barrel, which had finally quieted.
The silence was heavy, broken only by the chirping of birds and the rustle of trees in a gentle breeze. Blanketed by the blessed quiet, Van carefully laid Kyle down on the grass, the urn still clutched to her chest. Then he lay down on his back beside her and felt the soft sun on his ashen face.
Chapter 13.
The cemetery grass tickled Van’s ears. The air moved with a comfortable vibrancy, miles away from the artificial stillness of the Nether. The sun traced the veins inside his eyelids, a bright red pattern that hugged Van like a blanket, warm and comforting. It dimmed as Harlan leaned over him.
“Van,” the titan said in his heavy accent. “Van, others will come.”
Van cracked an eye open. With a groan, he reached up and grasped Harlan’s extended hand. Leaving the soft grass behind and struggling to his feet was harder than he expected. Harlan gave Van a quick and somber hug with his free arm, then pointed back to the pit.
“A black storm. I don’t know the word in your language. A whirling black cloud reached to the sky. I saw it. I think everyone saw it. Even now they come.”
Van glanced across the cemetery. There was a growing clamor at the gates. Armored so
ldiers poked their heads nervously inside then withdrew. Closer by, the Patriot Jack Hammer sat on the ground, head in his hands. Van’s barrel was beside him. Kyle still lay at Van’s feet.
A sudden cramp seized Van’s stomach, and he began to feel deeply unwell. Foulness surged up inside of him. He raised a hand to forestall Harlan, then staggered off. As he stumbled between tombstones, pain and nausea wracked his body, bringing up flashes of the same horrid images that had chased him during his escape from the Nether. The town rejecting him. Bullies circling him. The spoiled smell of bad beer. The ash that still coated Van’s arms. He stopped and gripped a tombstone so tightly the stone cracked in his hands. Then he spewed the contents of his stomach onto the grass. He threw up harder than he ever had in his life, and this coming from a titan who began drinking beer when he was ten. He violently expelled the taint of the Nether. When he was finished, he stared down at a pool of black and red.
“Holy shit,” squealed a small voice.
Van looked up to see a boy’s face peeking over a tombstone at Van’s vomit. When he saw Van look at him, he squeaked and scampered away. Van watched him haul ass across the graveyard. He scratched his head a moment, then he started back towards the pit.
The sun warmed Van’s face as he walked a little steadier on his feet back towards his friends. Harlan was speaking quietly with the Patriot. When Van returned, the titan reached behind a tombstone and produced a quarter-barrel. He poured Van a golden beer in a glass mug, perhaps the most beautiful sight Van had ever seen. Van glanced down at Kyle. Maybe the beer was the second most beautiful thing. She was breathing shallowly, her wings wrapped around her in such a way as to provide at least some modesty. He shook his head softly as he stared at the magnificent, feathered wings. How had she managed to keep those hidden?
The Piledriver of Fate (Titan Wars Book 2) Page 9
