Before Van could rise, Pau and Hester jumped in, kicking him in his exposed ribs. Van hollered in pain as the hard toes of their boots slammed into him. He flailed and thrashed at them, at last creating a sliver of space. Then he scrambled to his feet. Lentz was there just before him, a smile on his red face.
The bully leapt forward and tried to grab Van’s arm. Van twisted away, but Pau and Hester had circled behind him. Van had lost any chance of escape. Lentz lunged forward with a wild haymaker. Van stumbled back and it caught him in the jaw. Lentz was in close, so Van shoved him back with both hands, but the moment he did, he felt a fist drive into his gut. Three against one was just not fair.
Hester gripped Van’s shirt from behind. He heard a rip. Then Lentz came thundering back, his shoulder lowered. Van landed a well-timed, albeit somewhat accidental, punch on Lentz’s temple, and the bully fell back. Van pushed Hester off and felt his shirt tear up his back. He gritted his teeth in anger. His foster father would kill him for the ripped shirt when he got home. As Pau and Hester fell away, Van found courage in his anger, and jumped on Lentz. He swung a pair of wide punches into his sides, marching steadily forward as Lentz retreated.
In his rage, though, he’d taken his eyes off Pau and Hester. They seized Van’s legs and pulled with everything they had. Van’s chin crashed onto the path and his breath whooshed out. Eyes watering, he looked up through a cloud of dust at a laughing Lentz. The bully drew his foot back to kick Van in the face.
Time seemed to slow as Van stared at the hard, black, and scuffed toe of Lentz’s boot. A desperate moan escaped his lips. He was about to be badly hurt, leave some teeth on the dirty ground, maybe even an eye. Lentz and the others might get in trouble, or they might not, but they’d get the glory of having taken him down, and hard. Hester and Pau had released his legs, but one was just behind Van and the other had circled him on the high side of the trail. Lentz’s boot started its swing towards Van’s unprotected face. With no time to rise and every other escape route cut off, Van rolled off the path as the boot sailed past his face.
Van tumbled down the hillside like a stone. Thick weeds pulled at his clothes, sharp rocks wracked his body as he plummeted down the side of the mountain. A stubborn bush almost slowed him but he rolled over it, ripping it out by its thin roots. It clung to him, its branches scratching at his face as he kept falling, sky turning to stone and back again. He felt no pain and oddly free for a few seconds until the pummeling he was taking caught up to him in the form of a hard tree trunk to the side of the head. His teeth cracked together and he coughed to a stop.
He opened his eyes too quickly and had to slam them shut again and blink the dust out. He could feel blood dripping on his legs. His chin was scraped, his face gashed. The birds had stopped chirping, the insects fled. The only sound was the settling stones around him and the harsh puffing of his frightened breath.
Then a rock crashed down right next to his head, followed by a feral war cry from above. “You fucking dick! You’re not getting away that easily!”
Van looked up. Through the dust and brush, he could see Lentz, leaning out over the path. Next to the red-faced bully, Hester and Pau stared wide-eyed. Lentz leaned forward to pick up another rock. “I’ll crack your fucking skull, you two-man wimp!” There was murder in his voice.
Van climbed to his feet, dust falling off his tattered clothes. His left leg ached, but at least bore his weight. Hester and Pau were now gathering rocks as well. Van had seen enough. They had rocks and the high ground. But there was no way they could get down here as quickly as he had without risking an equally near-suicidal fall. He had a head start. He turned and limped away as quickly as he could.
As Van entered the shadows of the trees, Lentz called out. “Next time we see you, we’ll kill you!” The laughter of the other boys chased Van into the thick of the forest.
Tears blurred Van’s vision as he picked his way through the trees. He’d never been off the path in this part of the woods, but the only direction he needed was away from the fading laughter behind him. He dragged his left leg over dirt and pine needles as he put distance between himself and the boys, jumping at every snapping twig and rustling rock on the uneven terrain. He picked up his pace, ignoring the pain in his leg, certain they’d come looking for him. He knew they would. They’d talk about it, decide that they couldn’t leave him alive to tell an adult, and hunt him down like a wounded deer.
He grasped the thin trunks of the tall trees and he pulled himself along through another gap in the ravine. Then he stopped, suddenly unable to breathe. He stood before a small clearing with a copse of trees at its center. Pushing through the trees was a massive titan in black clothes and a farmer’s hat casting his face in shadow. With a cold stare, the titan pointed to an open coffin resting on the ground between the trees.
…
Van woke with a start. He was still seated atop his barrel, leaning back against the wall next to the giant metal door. Saint was looking at him curiously. Van had not meant to fall asleep, but that didn’t seem to be what was happening to him. More like some of his most painful memories were grabbing hold of him and not letting go until they ended with the arrival of the OverLord.
He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep, but the gatekeepers’ lights were just beyond the green-lit plateau of jutting stones. Watching the torches bobbing up and down as they marched towards him dredged up that same feeling of terror he’d just relived, the feeling of being outnumbered in a fight he hadn’t started. And they would be here soon. Van glanced over at the demon. “What are the gatekeepers like?”
Saint smiled again, the low light of the torch gleaming in his flat, black eyes. “Powerful. Cruel. Enthusiastic when it comes to their work.” He slithered a little closer to Van. “What did you see? When you went away?” He blinked, again with that same wet sound.
“I saw an ugly demon staring at me.”
“No. You saw something else.”
“I had a vision of a huge sign that said, Mind Your Own Fucking Business.”
“Everyone experiences the Nether in their own way. Especially titans. Tell me, what is yours? I know as much of this place as anyone.”
Van hesitated. “I saw memories. Bad memories. But they were so vivid it was like I was reliving them.” He rubbed at his jaw, spat on the ground by the barrel, and glanced at the approaching torches.
Saint nodded. “Part of your story. Part of what brought you here. What you have lived can be relived. I wouldn’t worry, though. There won’t be time for many more. The gatekeepers arrive, and still no word from the Master. If he wanted you spared, he would have sent word. Now they will destroy you, as they destroy everything.”
“Maybe shut up for a while, Saint,” Van said. He ignored the hissing laugh that followed.
The torches soon topped the ridge before them, and Van got his first good look at the gatekeepers. Three massive titans, wearing matching uniforms of black leather and spikes that hugged their muscular frames. Their faces were masked in black with silver studs that sparkled in the light of the flames they carried. The one on the left was perhaps a bit taller than the other two. The one on the right a bit wider. The one in the center wore a silver chain around his neck from which dangled a large, gold key.
If this was to be three-on-one, Van was in trouble. He was probably in trouble even if it wasn’t. He spat again on the ground and rubbed his sweaty palms on his uniform.
Saint leaned towards Van’s ear and spoke in a hushed tone. “Obliteration. Allow me to introduce Pound and Break, and the one with the key is Hack. They will be your last memory, Van the Beer Man.”
Chapter 3.
The three titans approached, heavy footfalls like thunder. They seemed to grow larger as they drew close. Van stayed perched on his barrel, leaning back against the stone wall and trying to look calmer than he felt. At last, the gatekeepers stepped into the shadow of the wall. The lights of the torches merged. They danced in oranges and greens off the myriad m
etal studs on the gatekeepers’ leathers. Saint gleefully rubbed his claws together.
The one with the key raised his torch, which looked more like a matchstick in his enormous hand. His eyes glinted in the eyeholes of his black mask. “Saint,” he snarled as he drew near. His words were muffled by the leather. “You summon us?” He turned his fiery eyes at Van, looked him up and down. “Does this titan seek entry to the Nether?”
“He does! He does!” Saint replied gleefully. “And no word from the Master.” His barbed tail trembled with excitement.
Hack tilted his head, his leather mask creaking. Van suspected he was smiling under it. “What is your name, titan?” He fingered the gold key hanging on his chest.
“I’m Van. Love the masks. Can I borrow that key for a second?”
Saint jumped in. “His name’s Van the Beer Man. And, get this, he just fought in the Headlock of Destiny. He was one of the last standing. He’s famous up there.” Pound and Break had taken positions on either side of Hack, and now they exchanged glances, or at least appeared to. It was hard to tell with the masks. Saint prodded them. “Did you ghouls ever fight in the tournament? I mean, before you became faceless minions.”
Hack ignored the demon. “I’m supposed to offer you the opportunity to turn around and leave this place, titan.” He shrugged, causing his leather clothes to creak. “But I suck at that part. Especially when a titan comes down here bragging of his prowess in the tournament.” He tossed his torch over his shoulder onto the rocks and sand behind him. “Instead, we’ll rip your guts out and bathe in your blood.”
“Like you’ve ever had a bath.” Van leaned forward, tipping the barrel off the wall. He stood and cracked his knuckles as the barrel wobbled to a standstill behind him. “The thing is, I just really want to borrow that key.”
Hack nodded and looked at the other gatekeepers before turning back to Van. “I was hoping you would say that.”
Saint squealed with glee as the titans surrounded Van on three sides. Given the order Saint had named them in, Van assumed Pound was the taller and Break the thicker. They looked enough alike that he could barely tell them apart. He suspected it wouldn’t matter. They all could probably hit pretty hard.
The air was charged with tension as though a storm approached. Van was alone, just as he had been in the mountains so many years ago, and the line between the present and the past suddenly seemed thin. He felt like a child again, trapped in a fight he didn’t want with no chance of escape. Obliteration tightened around Van. He felt a shimmer in the air, and he could have sworn he heard a distant bell as the gatekeepers surged towards him.
Van swung at the leader but missed. He took a punch in the gut, then one in the side. The titans were slow and telegraphed their punches, but their hits felt like sledgehammer blows. Van took several more shots and fell to his knees. A boot to the jaw sent him to the ground.
Hack leaned in over him. “Mighty titan,” he scoffed, the key dangling by Van’s face. “When we finish here, we will drag you to the Master, and he will erase your soul. Your name will be buried so deeply even you won’t remember it. As I’ve forgotten mine. As we’ve forgotten ours. You’ll become one of us.”
Break lifted a boot to stomp Van’s outstretched hand, but Van pulled it back just in time. He rolled into Pound’s legs and dragged him down. Van stumbled to a knee, but Hack slammed a shin into his chest, knocking him backwards onto one of the torches that lay on the ground. It crackled and sparked as Van rolled off it.
Hack pressed forward, but Van turned away his grip and swung around him. He grabbed the back of Hack’s hood, pulled him off balance and slammed him to the ground, landing on top of him. Pound and Break positioned themselves over Van and pummeled his back. He twisted over, knocked their arms away, and grasped them by the neck, one in each hand. He tightened his grip, bunching up the leather at their throats, and used it as leverage to pull himself up, at the same time causing them to stumble and fall.
Van looked over at Saint as the gatekeepers scrambled to their feet. The demon gave him the finger. Van started to return the gesture then decided it wasn’t worth the effort. His back and sides ached and he was breathing heavily. His three opponents appeared unhurt as they ranged out around him.
“You’ll have to do better than that,” Hack spat through his mask. “You are alone. We fight as one.”
“You definitely dress as one,” Van replied. “And you all smell equally bad.”
They charged. Hack punched at Van’s face. Van turned aside and caught Break’s boot on his cheek. As he spun away, reeling, Pound slammed him with a double axe handle. Break slid behind Van and tried to force him into a full nelson as Hack swung at his face again. Van dodged, and Hack punched Break in what was hopefully his nose. Van kicked Hack’s legs out from under him, whirled to the side, and pushed Pound back.
Obliteration circled Van. Hack tried to draw his attention, clapping his hands and spitting out insults. Some memory of the mountaintop fight filtered through to Van. In that fight, he’d lost track of Hester and Pau, focused on the biggest threat, and they had taken advantage. Not this time. He pretended to ignore Break and Pound as they circled behind him, ready to pull his legs out from under him. When they ducked in, Van spun. He seized Break’s lowered head in one strong hand, gripped his black leather hood, and swung Break’s head directly into Pound’s. The smack of their skulls reverberated across the Nether.
They both crumbled to the stony ground as Hack lunged forward. Van flung out an arm and clotheslined him. As Hack let out a shriek and crashed to the ground, Van bent down to grab Break. He hoisted the heavy ten-man over his head and hurled him down onto Hack. The two goons roared, but they were slow to rise. Pound was halfway to his feet when Van seized him by the belt and lifted him up. He held the struggling titan aloft for an extra beat so he could shoot a look at Saint, then slammed the titan down into both of the other gatekeepers.
It grew quiet as Van stared at the pile of masked goons. He leaned down to catch his breath, hands on knees. One of the three rolled off the pile, weakly cursing, then fell silent. The other two lolled on the ground, limbs splayed out, unconscious. Obliteration was done.
For a moment Van’s heavy breathing was the only sound in the rocky basin. Then Saint broke the silence, booing loudly from his perch atop Van’s empty barrel. Van gave him the finger. Keeping his eyes on the demon, Van strode heavily over to the inert body of Hack. He reached down and seized the silver chain around the gatekeeper’s neck. With a swift jerk, he broke it, and fished up a dangling golden key. He stuffed it into the chest pocket of his uniform. Then he walked towards Saint and the barrel, taking care to step on Break’s chest on the way.
“What?” Saint asked, looking around nervously. “I just summon them. I’m not going to stop you.” He gestured towards the door. “Go ahead. Unlock it. It’s all yours.”
“No,” Van replied. “You’re coming with me.”
Saint’s eyes widened and he made to bolt, but Van seized him by the neck and gave him a squeeze, smiling as the demon’s creepy eyes bugged out. Saint snarled, flashing his sharp teeth, but couldn’t shake free of Van’s grip. He scratched Van’s hand, but his claws were weak. This thing was no fighter. It was a watcher, a spy. And as such, it knew things.
“You, my little travel companion,” Van said, “are going to guide me to the OverLord.”
The demon bellowed out a litany of profanities and scratched even harder. Van reached down to the barrel and used his free hand to punch the wooden lid loose. It fell inside the barrel. Van reached in and pulled it out. He gave Saint a couple shakes to rattle the demon’s brain a bit, assuming he had one, then chucked him inside the barrel and slammed the top back on tight. He picked up the barrel and flipped it upside down. He could feel the light weight of the demon and hear his muffled grunt as he crashed to the bottom. Then he shook the whole barrel vigorously, using the demon’s body to force the lid back into place. When he was reasonably sure everything wa
s sealed tight, he set it down again.
“How’s it going in there?”
Saint gave an impotent snarl and scratched at the sides of the barrel. Van gave him a few moments to explore his new cage. Satisfied that he couldn’t escape, Van picked up the barrel again and headed for the door.
“Anything I need to know about the door?” he said to the barrel.
“Fuck you, titan!” Saint replied.
Van inserted the key into the lock and pulled the door open by its snake handle. The other side of the wall wasn’t too different. It still had the feel of an underground space, but the walls on either side sloped upwards into a darkness that looked like a night sky. The ground was all spiny ridges and sharp rocks, broken by trails, tufts of dark grass, and beds of silt. The air was thin, like mountaintop air, and scattered copses of sparse, skeletal trees dotted the landscape. An ambient light with no clear source cast a yellow pallor over the whole lonely scene.
There was only one way to go. And that followed the trail left by the OverLord. “So, forward, I guess?” Van loosely directed the question to the barrel, though its inhabitant seemed to have fallen to silent brooding. Van was unconcerned. He had a feeling he’d get the demon talking again sooner or later.
With a shrug he set off down the path.
Chapter 4.
The Nether seemed endless. Every time Van topped a ridge, he looked out on another landscape exactly the same as the one he’d just crossed. There appeared to be no life beyond the leafless trees and the grasses that rippled in the nonexistent wind.
Up above, the people of Empire City would be packed in the streets celebrating the end of the tournament. Van should be at the center of that delightful mayhem. Instead he was in this lonely place. Hardly anyone knew he was here aside from Rakesh, the gambler. He hadn’t told Harlan, who’d sort of taken on the role of his bodyguard, or Owen, who’d coached him through the Headlock of Destiny. He hadn’t even told Larvell, his mostly worthless manager. He wondered what they were doing right now. Were they celebrating Van’s victory? Or had he already been forgotten?
The Piledriver of Fate (Titan Wars Book 2) Page 3