Titan: An Epic Novel of Urban Fantasy and Greek Mythology (The Gods War Book 1)

by Daniel Mignault

  The problem is, I've never been very good at talking to my parents, so I don't know how to find out which it is, or if it's something I haven't even thought of. What if they're being nice because things are getting so messed up they might never get another chance? Didn't I already see some cracks in their armor earlier today? That weird look that passed between them when I asked if humans could be magic… They said no. But Hannah is half-human, half-God. So what does that make me?

  After dinner, I excuse myself and go to my room. All that small talk with my parents has made me tired. I put my rock collection back in order, then hide the crystal daggers under my pillow. Just in case.

  I drift into a deep but troubled sleep. I'm climbing Mount Olympus again― climbing up, out of the earth. Lightning crashes. Thunder booms. Cold wind burns my face.

  I am the mountain.

  I am one with it.

  I am one with the earth.

  My fingers dig into stone. I climb, and with each passing second, the mountain becomes more me, and I, it. I can feel the stone in me. It's mine. Stone like flesh, stone like blood. Above me, Zeus is waiting. Below me, Darkness―the darkness of the ages, endless centuries spent locked in tragic Nothing.

  This mountain is mine. This world is mine!

  Below me, red light flares. A giant eye is opening.

  My eyes are opening…

  I wake in a blinding sweat. Hot. Baking. I sit up, throwing off the sheet, letting cool night air bathe me. I swing my legs over the bed and sit there a moment, trying to hold onto the dream, to the sense of power I felt.

  It's gone.

  I switch on the lamp and that's when I notice the blood.

  Part II

  THE RIVER OF HATE AND PROMISES

  22

  THE UNBLINKING EYE

  Red stain. White sheets.

  I stare at the bloody smear in disbelief. It starts under my pillow, then stretches down to where my right hand is. My hand is covered in blood, but it's dry, clotted, crusty. It has to be my new daggers; I must have cut myself on them while I was sleeping.

  I flip back the pillow.

  The daggers are gone.

  Which makes no sense. Neither does the fact that despite all the blood, I can't find a wound. Not a cut, not a slice. Not even a scrape. My hand throbs a little when I make a fist, but that's it.

  My window is shut and locked, so nothing could have come in from outside except maybe a ghost, and ghosts don't bleed.

  I tear my bed apart, searching under and around, but the daggers aren't there. I make another fist. I get a mental flash of the red eye, or maybe it's just fire. I tighten my fist, holding it with my other hand. The throbbing intensifies, then recedes. A moment later, it's gone. More than that, I feel great. Powerful. I'm almost manic with it. Like I want to break things.

  Smashing up my room in the middle of the night seems like a bad idea, but I have to do something to work off this nameless energy that's coursing through me. First, I hide my bloodstained sheets and pillow, then I throw on sweatpants and head downstairs to our home gym. I workout for an hour, and what's weird is, I'm lifting and benching way more than normal. I keep adding weight, but don't have a spotter, so I stop when I hit double my usual amount. It feels incredible, and I barely break a sweat.

  After that, I manage to get a few hours' sleep, then am woken by the two male slaves who attend me in the morning. They dress and groom me, and I put up with it as usual. I'd much rather do it myself, but the few times I've tried in the past never met with my parents' approval. Worse, I got the slaves in trouble. So I sigh, and let one oil and shape my hair while the other drapes my whitest tunic just so, then straps golden sandals to my feet. Today is Sunday, the day we go to Temple, so I'm expected to look my best. I wonder if Inquisitor Anton will be there, but already know the answer. Of course he will.

  “Master Andrus,” one of the slaves asks, “what happened to your sheets and pillow?”

  “Um, I spilled some wine on them and threw them out. I need you to tell the maids to bring new ones.”

  The two slaves look at each other, then me.

  I see the questions forming in their minds, but the words never reach their lips. Slaves can think whatever they want, but they can't say it. Not without consequences.

  “Don't get in trouble with James or my parents on my account,” I tell them. “If it's a problem, blame me.”

  I know they won't, of course. And maybe thats part of the problem. It's their job to make me look perfect, but it's an unwinnable task. A whole legion of slaves couldn't even pull that off. And yet the charade goes on.

  I leave the slaves to join my parents downstairs for breakfast. There's the usual small talk, asking if I slept all right, what lovely weather we're having, that sort of thing, but no one says what we're really thinking: that we wish we didn't have to go to Temple today. It's going to be awkward, but I don't need my parents to explain how much more awkward it will get if we don't go. The Inquisition would love to use that against us in their investigation.

  Sometimes, you have to do the thing you hate because not doing it is worse.

  The Temple of the Unblinking Eye is a huge white building in downtown Othrys. The heart of our city. It rises up in the ancient Greek style, supported by ornate columns. But it's not just a place of worship. The Temple is a sprawling administrative complex, home to the high priest, Archieréas Vola, and his officials, the Great Library, and the training college for priests. The Inquisition is based here, as is the Night Patrol. Some say the Titans themselves live behind these walls, and maybe they do from time to time, but there is also a portal to their world and to Tartarus.

  We file up the broad stone steps with the rest of the worshippers. The wealthy and elite stride through the golden front, the Losers and less fortunate are funneled to the less impressive side entrance. Normally, the classes have as little to do with each other as possible, but today, as every Sunday, all must bow before the might of the Titans.

  My parents and I make our way to our seats near the dais where the High Priest speaks from his golden bema, which is Greek for pulpit. In ancient Greece, as now, the bema is not just a place for giving religious sermons, but also for passing judgment.

  Dad once told me that before the NGT, the authority of church and state were separate. Growing up in a theocracy, that concept is confusing. I guess it must have worked something like how the Day Patrol and Night Patrol are different, but the same.

  I never much cared for history, and that's just as well because taking an interest in the past is discouraged. Only that's not entirely true, since the priests talk about the past all the time, but only about the glorious birth of the Titans, their original rule, and return. Everything else is painted in negative terms if it is discussed at all. So it's not that all interest in history is discouraged, only the wrong interest.

  I crane my neck up to look at the balcony above and behind us where the Losers are forced to sit. I've heard these seats referred to as the “nosebleed section” since they are so high up. I strain my eyes, hoping to pick Mark and Lucy out of the crowd, but it's impossible.

  “Looking for someone?”Anton asks. The inquisitor is standing in the aisle next to me. One hand rests on the hilt of his gold mace.

  “No,” I answer quickly. “Just people watching.”

  Anton smirks. “An admirable skill, but one best reserved for an inquisitor―at least I get paid for it.” His thin attempt at humor can't cover the menace behind his words.

  The skin of my right hand itches. I scratch it, shifting uncomfortably in my seat. In the most respectful tone I can muster, I say, “That's great. What do you want?”

  “Oh, I want many things,” Anton replies, “those wants that can be met by religion shall be met here today, by the grace of our great and terrible lord! As for my other wants… well, I hope to meet them soon, Andrus. Very soon.” The inquisitor gives my parents a mocking bow. “Mr. Eaves, Mrs. Eaves, please enjoy the sermon. I’m sure you wi
ll find it… inspiring.” Anton moves away, giving us one long, last look before disappearing behind a rich blue curtain to the left of the bema.

  My parents look like they want to say something, but they know better than to do it in Temple, where the wrong word can go in the right ear faster than anywhere in Othrys.

  It isn't long before the Archieréas appears; his name is Enoch Vola, and he is the high priest of the Temple. He is also Cronus's Chosen, chief theocrat and administrator of the New Greece Theocracy. Unless directly contradicted by a Titan, his word is law. And the Titans don't trouble themselves with the day to day administration of their earthly realm. They leave that to the priests, and I imagine that's the way they like it. Archieréas Vola most of all.

  A hush falls over the assembled worshippers as the Archieréas takes the bema. Enoch Vola is an elderly, craggy-faced man with a long white beard, two sides split in braids, the center shot through with a long strip of black. His bushy eyebrows are waxed to points, as is his mustache. He wears regal robes of azure blue trimmed with gold, and a twelve-horned crown with a central ruby eye. The twelve horns represent the original twelve Titans. The ruby represents the Unblinking Eye of Cronus.

  When Archieréas Vola speaks, his voice is tinged with power. “Brothers! Sisters! We come together this day under the banner of our most holy king and savior, Cronus!”

  The crowd stands, echoing the name, then kneels on the hard stone floor, where we must remain for the duration of the sermon. Anyone who fails to kneel to the end will be declared a blasphemer and dragged away by armed guards that prowl through the crowd.

  “We all know the story of the Titans, firstborn children of Earth and Sky, who once ruled and now rule again! But did you know their story is the story of man? And not just mankind, but each and every one of us? In the years before the Gods, man was happy under the rule of the Titans. Then the Gods came, imprisoned the Titans, and enslaved mankind, robbing us of our true potential, our true destiny as the servants of Cronus! And the world wept tears of blood, and the stars looked down with sadness, until the combined weight of their despair released the Titans from Tartarus and swept the cruel Gods away. And more than that, they swept the old world away! Now there are no more countries at each other's throats, no threat of guns or nuclear weapons. We have peace,” Vola says reverently. “We have order.”

  The crowd murmurs in assent.

  Vola raises his hands over his head. “The NGT is all there is! The NGT is all we need! In it, we are bonded together, bonded by one common heritage, one common language. We are lifted up from doubt and made certain of our lives. There is no other way to think, to be, and we need do nothing but that which we were created for: to serve the Titans with honor and glory. All praise Cronus! All praise His Watchful Eye!”

  The crowd repeats Vola's last two lines: “ALL PRAISE CRONUS! ALL PRAISE HIS WATCHFUL EYE!”

  Vola smiles beneath his beard, his piercing blue eyes bright with faith. “Yes, we are truly blessed! Death is gone! Doubt is gone! We are people without fear! There are no hostile foreign powers, no more Gods in the sky. Our borders are secure because our enemies are defeated. So shall it be, now and forever!”

  In a throaty yell, the crowd repeats, “NOW AND FOREVER!”

  There's a scream of protest from the balcony as two warriors grab an old man who must have come out of the kneeling position. The old Loser is frail, matchstick thin, but in his panic he manages to get away from the warriors, only to be grabbed up by the crowd and pitched over the railing to the aisle below. He falls with a shrill, hopeless cry, and the sound of his legs breaking against the marble floor echo through the Temple. But of course he doesn't die. He can't.

  Another pair of warriors approach and grab the Loser by his broken legs. They drag him down the aisle toward one of the side doors, but the Archieréas has a better idea. “Wait!” Vola calls to the warriors, and they immediately stop and turn to face the high priest. “Bring the vile blasphemer to me!”

  They drag the old man toward the bema.

  “Lift him up!” Vola commands. “Lift him high, so the faithful may look upon this loathsome wretch, this baseborn scum that dares to stand against our lord's truth!”

  The warriors hold the man up by his arms as he screams and babbles for mercy. Sensing a spectacle, the mood of the crowd changes, becoming louder, wilder. They know what's coming and they love it.

  “Humans,” Vola addresses the crowd, “were meant to worship on our knees! So said Cronus, when he chose to spare us after the Gods War. Even after millennia serving false Gods, false prophets, and our own pitiful egos, Cronus saw fit to show us mercy! And all he asks in return is one day a week in his Temple, a few moments on our knees, so that we might honor him and remember our place. Is that too much to ask?”

  “NO!” the crowd roars.

  Vola nods. “It is not our place to question the will of Cronus. To show mercy is to show weakness. Perhaps this scum is a true blasphemer with hate in his heart, or perhaps his body betrayed him. But I say to you, it does not matter! For is not the body the temple of the soul? If a soul is pious and true to the Titans, it will prevent the body from moving in disobedience. But if a soul is poisoned by thoughts of blasphemy, it will cause the body to move, to act out and against our great and terrible lord! So I say unto you, whether this man knew it or not, he was corrupt! It is only by the grace of Cronus that he revealed his lack of faith before us today. And what about you?” he asks us all. “Are your souls pure in their devotion? Do you believe in the power of Cronus?”

  Without hesitation, the crowd shouts, “WE BELIEVE!”

  Vola points at the broken man. “And what happens to blasphemers?”

  “PUNISHMENT!”

  “That's right,” Vola says. “Punishment! And what is the punishment for those who refuse to kneel before our lord?”

  “THE WORM!”

  An unseen operator lowers a long chain with a meathook from the Temple ceiling. It is one of twelve such chains, each ending in a hook, each operated by a pulley system.

  Almost as if on cue, Anton appears from behind the curtain he exited through earlier. The inquisitor bows to Vola, but he's looking at me. Smiling. He produces a gold-plated hacksaw from beneath his robe and holds it up to the crowd.

  “Behold!” Vola shouts. “The Worm-Maker! A blade blessed by Cronus himself.”

  Anton walks from one end of the bema to the other, letting the crowd get a good look at the gleaming tool.

  The prisoner screams and struggles, but is held fast in the warrior's grip. Anton approaches the front row, showing the hacksaw, inviting them to touch it. He stops in front of me.

  Waiting.

  I reach out and touch it, expecting that will be enough. But it's not. “Your lips or your legs,” he sneers.

  I hesitate, looking from Anton to my parents. My parents plead with me to kiss it, so I do. Anton grins in triumph. “Another day, then.” He steps back and holds up the Worm-Maker to the crowd once more.

  They yell, “WORM! WORM! WORM!” I mouth the words as I've mouthed so many others, and wish for this day to be over.

  Vola announces, “Let the punishment begin!”

  One of the warriors grabs the meathook on the chain and jams it into the prisoner's back. The chain is raised, hauling the thrashing man off the floor. When his knees are level with the warrior's chests, the chain stops. The warriors each grab hold of one of the man's legs, preventing him from swaying or fighting back.

  Anton looks to Vola, who nods grimly. The inquisitor saws off the man's left leg, just under the knee. Blood sprays everywhere. Anton holds up the severed leg, then tosses it into the crowd. He saws off the other leg.

  I can hear the flesh tear, the bones snap, and smell the sharp tang of copper as the blood flows.

  Anton holds up the second severed leg, then throws it directly at me. Hoping I'll move. Hoping I'll come off my knees and be revealed as a blasphemer so he can make a worm of me too.

  Th
e bloody limb bounces off my chest. I flinch, but don't dare move my body out of position. The leg hits the floor, still gushing blood. Soaking me.

  Anton laughs, then motions to the warriors to let the prisoner down.

  Arms lifted high, Vola sways back and forth in some kind of trance, a look of ecstasy on his bearded face.

  Anton kicks the prisoner, forcing him onto his belly. The hook is still in his back, but now he has the slack to move.

  The crowd is relentless: “WORM! WORM! WORM!”

  “Crawl, worm!” Anton tells the prisoner. “Crawl before your betters! If you can make one complete pass around the Temple and get back to me in twelve minutes, you will be spared the rest.”

  The dismembered man crawls, trailing blood from his stumps. He has twelve minutes, one for each of the twelve Titans he has blasphemed against. The warriors follow him, one kicking him to motivate him to go in the right direction, the other ensuring the chain doesn't get stuck or tangled in the crowd.

  “WORM! WORM! WORM!”

  In all my years, I've only seen one man succeed. He was a big man, a well-muscled athlete. His reward was getting his brains bashed in and forced to crawl forever as a zombie. As for those who didn't make it…

  “Time's up!” Anton says.

  Vola snaps out of his trance. “You've all seen it! The blasphemer fails to repent! He is not even fit to be a worm; there is no place left for him in our world, so we must show him into another.”

  Two things happen: The hook is hoisted up, dragging the legless man over the crowd. Blood falls like rain as he is relentlessly maneuvered toward the bema. At the same time, the bema begins to slide back into the wall, revealing a giant circular pit. It's slow enough that Vola, Anton, and the warriors have plenty of time to ceremoniously step off and away from the bema, taking up positions in the aisle next to us.