Atlas

by Nicholas Gagnier

  “This man is no Nephalim. Just because one decrees another to be so, does not make it true! He has not taken the Oath—”

  “But he’s taken my Oath. That’s worth more to me than the lightshow I got. And seeing as I’m the highest-ranking person in Atlas left defending it from you degenerates, I’d like to get to the point of this visit. I’m here to speak with the prisoner. Her orders.”

  Reaper shrugs.

  “I see nothing stopping you, Nephalim.”

  “I do.” My eyes canvass him head to toe, from the void of his face to the hidden slippers he calls feet.

  Fortunately, the hooded being can take a hint, and says he will give us some privacy, disappearing through the Observatory doors to join the Behemoths.

  The Phoenix does not react to our presence. Her expression is blank, eyes at the mercy of gravity like her grip on the sword. The Observatory doors close, leaving us alone, and I approach the somber prisoner.

  “I’m sorry about your girlfriend. It took me a minute to piece together who she was. I can’t even imagine what you must be feeling, Harper. But I don’t have the luxury of waiting for you to finish mourning her.”

  The Phoenix doesn’t react, choosing to remain perfectly still in front of her stuffed training target.

  “It won’t bring Em back,” I say. “She’s gone because they took her from you. But we can make them pay.”

  Harper snorts.

  “And how on Earth do you propose we do that? You’re outgunned in every respect. The odds aren’t in your favor, lady.”

  “You’re right. Chances are, we’ll all fail horribly and die trying to take back Atlas. But I don’t know about you — I would rather go down taking a chunk out of them.”

  “Easy to say when you’re not the one who has to fight them,” she scowls. “At what point do we stop hurting ourselves to harm them?”

  She’s not wrong.

  “Listen to me. I am going to do everything in my power to prevent that match from taking place. If I have to tear down the damn Arena to do it—”

  The thought rolls off my tongue before my brain has processed how simple and effective it is. Luca squints like I’ve suffered a stroke, but the idea has taken root.

  “That’s it,” I say. “Can’t have a fight if you don’t have the venue to fight in.”

  “And how exactly do we accomplish that?” Luca asks. “That Arena is fifty metric tons of brick and travertine!”

  “I’ll figure something out. Always do.” I return my focus to the Phoenix, who eyes me with weary new respect. “Over my twice-dead body will you fight that freak. Sound good?”

  Harper smiles for the first time since I’ve met her. It is no ear-to-ear, heartwarming grin, but given time, I can bring her to our side.

  For now, she is pissed, with every right to be. The locket around her neck emits its weird brand of illumination, trying to tell us something, pointing to something in the Cathedral ruins.

  Given time, maybe she will care to find out as well.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The group meets at dawn. The supreme realm’s last defenders boil down to a rogues’ gallery of a Maester and his underworld connections, an outcast angel, a group of portal-raisers, a Whisperer and the celestial being formerly known as Death. They are led by the last surviving Nephalim in name only — a woman with no business being an angel, but who became one anyway.

  The Magi said I was the only person capable of saving Atlas— that under the surviving order, little old Ramona Knox is the one to speak to. The forty-some bodies spread throughout Avalon’s chamber seem to adhere to that logic. Each steals glances at me— some appreciative and trusting, like Luca and Tim’s nods of encouragement; others like Gossamer and Demetrius eye my renewed status from the room’s shadowy corners.

  The pieces are set. The plan is a risk, but the only chance in cold Hell we have.

  “Thank you all for coming,” I begin. The conversations pierced by those nervous first words quiet and subside as all eyes fall on me. Standing where the Magi named Avalon conjured a living firefly from thin air, I hope the next part sounds more confident.

  “Like me, you probably find the most recent events troubling. I might be new here, but for what it’s worth, I’m still struggling to accept the degree of traitors among us. Seraphina, Barrett, the Brotherhood. I look at all your faces, and see that same disgust.

  “The Council trusted these men and women to play an instrumental part in their security. The Maesters were given unlimited means to pursue their scholarly ambitions— for that, this newfound knowledge was weaponized against them.

  “The Nephalim — the stock-and-trade warriors of Atlas— were given unbridled cunning and strength to defeat the Council’s enemies. They may not have been directly involved, even given their poor track record of egomaniacs and mercenary attitudes. But now their leader stands with Ziz.”

  Quorroc speaks.

  “It is possible that given the High Priestess’ recent history, this is very much in line with a pattern of self-preserving behavior.”

  “What are you saying, Maester?”

  Luca answers on the old man’s behalf.

  “I think what Quorroc is trying to insinuate, is that Seraphina may simply be over her head.”

  Quorroc frowns, as if he didn’t need the help.

  “The High Priestess is a fascinating, if not predictable example of extreme survival tactics. In every situation, she has played the most advantageous side to her favor. Right now, Seraphina believes that this Hannah woman offers the best deal—“

  “And if we can offer her a better one, she might flip.” Recalling my earlier confrontation in her quarters, Quorroc may not be far off the mark.

  “Precisely, Nephalim.”

  “If it comes to that,” I say, “we will give the Priestess her chance to repent. But if she refuses, I won’t be giving her a second.” Quorroc nods, and Seraphina’s status is thereby a concluded debate. “Any other concerns?”

  At the silence of almost fifty people, I accept there is no confusion as to whom the enemy is, and what happens if we fail.

  “Make no mistake, people — this is a fight to the death. The Phoenix has tentatively accepted her role as Tim’s champion, and every one of us needs to support her by making sure the match can’t take place.”

  Demetrius interrupts from the back of the room.

  “Are you saying we can’t even count on Death’s champion for certain?”

  If anyone was going to resist my plan, it was the criminal elements we brought in.

  “The situation with the Phoenix is complicated — she has every reason not to help us. For now, we are lucky to count on her support. She will continue feeding Ziz’s forces the idea she is willing to fight their champion. If we can act quickly, and compromise the venue, it will cause them to rethink —”

  “Please!” one of Demetrius’ hooded friends yells. “It will merely cause delay!”

  “Delay is all we need,” I snipe at the outsiders. “Delay will breed opportunity, hopefully allowing us to corner this Mykul character.”

  “Ramona is right,” Quorroc adds. “On the current timeline, we stand little chance of saving Atlas. If we were to cause a diversion — buy ourselves a few precious seconds — our options will greatly expand.”

  “So what do we do?” Tim asks. The man who calls himself Death on one side of me, and Luca on the other, gives me the strength to see this through. I cannot vouch for the League, but Quorroc promised they would be a minimal liability at worst.

  From the way Demetrius is glaring at me, I sincerely doubt that.

  “We destroy the Arena,” I say.

  “How?” Avalon asks. The Magus’ curiosity is piqued. “We don’t have the demolition capability, nor the manpower to bring a structure of that size down.”

  “We don’t, but Hannah does.”

  Luca smiles as my idea becomes his own. This replicates through Quorroc and Avalon’s faces, followed by Ti
m. The League members remain unimpressed.

  “The Behemoths,” the angel says. “Of course. We draw them to the Arena—”

  “And have them steamroll right through it.”

  “This is a dangerous plan, Ramona,” the Maester states. “Might I urge restraint from foolhardy schemes that serve to compromise this group. We are small enough to begin with.”

  It is hard to miss his cynicism — this amounts to no less than a suicide mission for many of us. The somber reality floats among my audience, and their determination softens.

  I can’t let that happen.

  “Every person in this room needs to understand one thing. If we sit back and do nothing, we all die anyway! Do you think I’m standing here, gloating at the fact this could totally backfire? Do you think I want to risk life and limb to save a place that didn’t even want me until they needed to be saved?”

  The more words escape, the more my eyes burn and my throat closes up. Reflecting on their renewed mortality is no light task, but we’re out of time to do it.

  Before I have to further implore them, a hand reaches for mine. Tim’s fingers close around my own — for a girl famous for being unemotive, I’m freakishly sentimental, lately — giving me needed support.

  “I’m with you,” says the man who calls himself Death.

  “So am I,” Luca remarks. “To the bitter end, sister.”

  One by one, each of my remaining allies affirms their support. Quorroc and each of the Magi state in some form that they are willing to lay down their lives — Elion does it with a quiet smile. At last, Demetrius reluctantly pledges his crew’s to our aims.

  The plan is set — to destroy the location Hannah will seek to humiliate us, and use her own pets to accomplish it. Another day’s worth of planning remains — who contributes what, which of us lures the dragon— but by tomorrow morning, we could plant a major thorn in the Dark Lord’s size.

  Whatever makes the woman’s life harder is worth it.

  ***

  The next morning brings the details to fruition. Luca and I will draw the dragon by confronting Hannah outside the Seat. This will get Barrett’s attention and give the High Priestess a reality check.

  She will likely sic Mykul on us before the dragons, the angel advised. If that is the case, I can hold him off long enough for Ramona to kite the dragon toward the Arena, where Demetrius’ people will pull it off her. Death will use his abilities to taunt the Behemoth into the Arena, whereby its entrance alone should compromise the structure’s integrity.

  Okay, Tim said. What about the Brotherhood? We can’t discount Hannah deploying them to outflank us.

  Luca grimaced.

  They will certainly be a factor. The Brotherhood believes in self-preservation above all. It is why they have done so well in Atlas — they much prefer assassinating you in a dark alley to being cannon fodder.

  I think what Luca is saying, Tim added, is be on your guard, Ramona. Constant checks on your six, three and nine. Hannah will not think twice about crushing us for this. This is all-or-nothing, Ro. We have to push, or get pushed back.

  Those words accompany me escorting Luca up the God’s Road. The angel’s steps are measured, and much more confident than mine.

  Once a gleaming ornament I fell in love with, the Spire is reduced to a symbol of Ziz’s depravity. Five dragons of varying size and ferocity circle the tower’s peak. The smaller greenscale comes too close to its massive cousin’s brown wings, causing the bigger Behemoth to snap its jaws. The smaller one breaks away, screeching like an injured bird.

  Luca disregards the beasts, passing the spot where a small army of Royal Guard once stood. The dead wind and empty cobblestone road once occupied by thousands of cheerful souls is deserted. The sword on Luca’s belt sways as his stroll carries us to the precipice of Hannah’s vile kingdom.

  “Ziz!”

  The single syllable blasts like thunder in every direction. The angel’s wings reach out in full span. Next to him, I feel a gnat; in conjunction to feeling like a mouse to winged elephant above, it is not a good combination.

  Luca unsheathes his sword, scraping its tip along the ground. A moment where I think the Dark Lord’s forces will not answer quickly dissolves in the whine of creaking gates. Between the parting iron, several silhouettes emerge from the interior.

  The blond woman’s followers are all distinct and immediately recognizable. Barrett and Seraphina accompany Hannah on either side. Mykul towers over them, a brute by any other name, wielding a massive ax I immediately recall was held by another individual.

  The Habinar’s weapon.

  At their sides, tens of Brotherhood members flank their leader, pouring out the edges of the giant door frame behind her. The majority don’t wield swords and crossbows but daggers and cracking knuckles. The freak angel is their damage sponge, the Behemoths their overkill.

  Hannah snaps her fingers, recalling two dragons groundside. Their landings bring up dust between the cobbles, pushing tremors beneath our feet as the violently remixed wind settles.

  “You called?”

  “I asked to speak with Ziz,” Luca says. “Not some interloper he hides behind.”

  Hannah’s calm does not break for the angel whose massive sword alone could decapitate her.

  “And who might you be?” the woman asks. All my gratification lies with Barrett, who seems appalled that Luca lives. “Oh, that’s right. You’re the traitor’s son, aren’t you?”

  “Speak your devilry, woman. It will not save you. I have come to hold a palaver with your master.”

  Like Barrett, Seraphina seems caught in a cycle of disbelief. That Luca lives after everything is her damnation. They have done worse than Tomas ever could have, and his son’s survival is the nail in their coffin.

  “Ziz is not presently accepting audiences, as he has no physical body to conduct such negotiations.”

  “Then, you are his agent?”

  “I am merely an intermediary,” Hannah explains. “The Dark Lord speaks through me, and my eyes and ears are his. So whatever you have come to say, please. Make it quick, or I will have no choice but to retaliate against your regressive attitude...son of Tomas.”

  Luca’s sword lifts, evening out in its aggression, its point level with Hannah’s hip. Even with the short distance between him and the woman’s skulking followers, Luca would close that gap in a heartbeat if I hadn’t implored restraint on his part beforehand. The weapon sways in his grip, but does nothing to quell the storms of panic enveloping us.

  Hannah’s gaze reverts over Luca’s shoulder— the grooves between stones deepen as our eyes lock.

  “To say I’m disappointed would be insufficient. I thought we had an understanding, Miss Knox.”

  Saying anything to the woman’s crude demeanor would only embolden her, continue feeding the slow-drip glee that maddens my resolve.

  “But then, it’s my own fault — never question the impact that delusion has on obedience. I imagine that whatever schemes you have conjured up are well-met with virtue. Heroism is often easy to romanticize, yes?”

  Luca‘s sword twirls in the angel’s beefy palm, veering the blade up and around him, effortlessly passing it to the left hand.

  “Play your card, she-devil. The Dark Lord is not welcome in Atlas.”

  Hannah chuckles. She advances past her advisors, stepping out from the Spire’s long shadow.

  “Really?” she asks. “By whose decree, son of Tomas?”

  Luca gives his sword a final, decisive twirl through the air — shades of the Habinar play in my mind as he struck the blond woman, only to be pulverized — lifting it high in the air. My chest tenses, dreading the flash of white that detonated inside the Observatory, purging hope and killing the Council. But as it comes down, the angel’s sword is knocked horizontally away. High-pitched rings echo from meeting grades of steel with such force, I am only vaguely aware that Luca is disarmed.

  Where Luca meant to cut Tim’s wife in oblong halves, th
e mute warrior freed from the Obelisk cellars circles him on the ground. Mykul’s face is hidden by a golden helmet like those the Royal Guard wore, only without the corniced wings. The grunt from his mouth is a cry of dumb rage as the sword in Luca’s palm flies several feet into the main roadway.

  The angel clutches his shoulder, dislocated by the force with which Mykul struck his blade. The abomination is taller, and much broader in build, but moves uncannily fast. Luca barely scrambles ten feet before Mykul has hands on his armor. The giant lifts my companion off high into the air, thrusting outward.

  Luca flies roughly fifteen feet onto the cobblestone. His trajectory does not stop with landing, revolving between skyward and downward-facing before coming to a wistful halt, dust rising around him. His sword lays just within reach, but without the grounding to grab it outright. Mykul kicks out; the tip of his iron boot connects with my companion’s rib, and the angel is vaulted onto his back.

  “Luca!”

  Frozen between their conflict and Hannah’s pleased grin, Barrett’s disquieting smirk and Seraphina’s renewed horror, his name is all I can manage. The grounded dragons circle the mutated warrior, snorting and whinnying like horses in heat, snapping their jaws as Mykul does his work, unleashing his gloved fist at every spot on the angel’s torso.

  Bending down to where rogue stones decorate the God’s Road, I have one chance to save Luca.

  “Hey ugly!” I yell. Straightening my back, I pitch one into the closest Behemoth’s nose. The creature shrieks as the rock bounces back onto the road, settling near my feet, coinciding with Hannah’s order to kill us both. As Mykul retrieves a sheathed dagger reserved for Luca, I push my considerably thinner body between them, temporarily distracting Mykul while yelling at Luca to cover his head.

  The quickened, widening strides of a creature the size of a small commercial airliner is impossible to stop once started. I break through their struggle — as does the dragon. It is not too primitive to recognize the flaw in its chase, nor failing to know an ally lies directly in its trajectory. The Behemoth swerves at the last second, arcing its wings left away from Mykul, losing all concept of its own dexterity. The speed with which it lands on its side barely avoids a rolling Luca. The outward-flying claws strike Mykul, squarely in the chest, sharing its airborne aptitude for about thirty feet. He crashes through a nearby building and settles in the crumbling bricks and rising ash within.