Godsend (The Circle War Book 1)

by Matt King

  The Circle stood at attention, unfamiliar with how to handle the sudden interruption. She shied away from their stares as she fought to hold her mental barriers against Amara's probing. Before her defenses could fall, she stepped forward to make her announcement.

  “I have always stood on the outside of conflict,” she said. “However, I cannot stand by anymore.”

  As she spoke, the only sound on the mountaintop was the wind brushing together the leaves of ivy. Beside her, Amara’s face was blank. Soraste and Balenor both looked at her with pleading glances to stop whatever it was she was about to do.

  She pressed on. “Paralos does not fight alone. I will join him.”

  She walked to his side amidst a group of gods either too shocked or too scared to react. She faced Amara at the opposite end of the pond.

  “Traitor!” Galan thundered. “How dare you, after all the Lady has done for you!”

  Meryn maintained her silence. She could feel the eyes of the group on her.

  “You have nothing to say for yourself?”

  “I have nothing to answer for.”

  “Understand,” he said, his voice dropping, “I will see you pay for this betrayal. There will be no mercy for you, Meryn.”

  “And you can expect none in return.”

  The light in Galan's eyes flashed a brilliant red. He started toward her.

  “No,” Amara said, extending an arm to stop him. Her stare never wavered from Meryn. “Let her go. She has made her choice.”

  As hard as she tried, Meryn couldn’t help but let her eyes fall under Amara’s gaze.

  “The sides have been chosen. The battle is set.” Amara’s words lumbered where they had once danced. “This meeting of the Circle is complete. May She save us in the end.”

  Meryn stood in place as the image of Ascension began to dissolve, returning them to the midst of the violent storm their meeting had spawned. She caught the eyes of some before they passed through their synapses to return home. Cerenus wore his usual amused expression. Tamaril gave her a pitying glance before turning away from her. Only Paralos met her stare. He waited until the rest were gone before he spoke.

  “You should have told me about this,” he said. “I had a plan and you were not a part of it.”

  She had expected him to refuse her help and she had her argument ready. “There is too much at risk to let you fight them alone.”

  “You expect me to believe you would turn your back on your mentor that easily? You have no history with me, no reason to come to my aid.”

  “I am not doing this for you. I do it because Amara will never stop. Someone has to put an end to her, and if it's to be you, then I have no choice but to help.”

  Paralos floated closer. “You don't know what you're getting into, Meryn. Amara's armies will rip yours apart, if Galan’s legion doesn’t first.”

  “You act as though I have not raised barbarian worlds for such a purpose.”

  “I doubt that you have. And what of your champions?”

  “They will be ready.”

  The old god scoffed. “Will they? Even if you manage to get past Galan, Amara will bring Talus for this fight.”

  It was a name she expected, and yet it had no less of an impact. “We can beat them, Paralos.”

  “I can. I have no such confidence in you.” He turned to leave and then paused. “Heed my warnings, Meryn. Go back to Amara and beg for her forgiveness. Stay away from this fight.”

  “I cannot.”

  Paralos drifted away. His light flared as he prepared for his trip through space. “Then I cannot help you.”

  She watched him go until his synapse faded, leaving her alone in the fledgling nebula. The weight of her secrets now relieved, a new dread settled in its place. What she needed was assurance she was doing the right thing, but there was no one on her side to console her. Instead, she floated in the midst of the Circle’s violent creation, and wondered how much longer she would enjoy such miracles of life.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Rocks belonged in one of two categories: those that left bruises when he landed on them and those that broke ribs. As August lay on the rocks next to the track with the end of the train roaring past, he took a stinging breath. “Christ,” he said through a grimace. “Why do they always have to be breakers?”

  He waited until his ribs healed before picking himself up and swatting the dirt from his jeans and jacket. While taking his bearings, he noticed that his legs seemed to be more air-conditioned than usual. He stuck his leg out for inspection. A rip the size of his fist ran down the side of his left calf. Self-healing pants were too much to ask for, apparently. He walked down to grab his backpack from the weeds.

  His dismount left him only a mile or so from the Fairview town line, right in the middle of a whole bunch of nothing. Perfect. Jumping early was a lesson he’d learned on his first ride. Nobody cared if you waltzed into town on foot. It’s when you came barreling off a moving train in the middle of a busy intersection when people tended to dial 911, or snap pictures. Both were bad news in his case.

  If there were signs of civilization nearby, they were hidden by a wall of kudzu that covered the pines like a blanket. He left the train tracks as soon as a church steeple appeared over the trees. The old building sat atop a hill on the other side of the woods, looking down on a wide swath of corn fields and pastures around its base. He opted for the cover of the corn stalks as he veered toward the sounds of cars in the distance. His first order of business was finding a gas station, preferably one with an old pay phone outside—and a phone book. For once he wished he was back at Phoenix with their endless bank of databases, where finding an address was as easy as scanning a person’s picture. Asking nosy gas station clerks where someone lived only led to questions, and he wasn't feeling particularly creative.

  A few minutes later, he made it to the road, a two-lane state highway, and started south. It wasn't long until he came to an intersection where a Stop-N-Gas sat alone on the corner. The windows were decorated with faded Fourth of July streamers and a few stray cigarette posters that lay tilted against the glass. Despite its apparent age, there wasn't a pay phone in sight.

  So much for avoiding creative explanations. He opened the door, setting off a bell that announced his arrival.

  “Help you?”

  The old man behind the counter had a worried look on his face, like he’d forgotten how to deal with customers. He also wore a mechanic’s jumpsuit, like he’d forgotten he worked in a convenience store.

  “I hope so,” August replied. “I'm a little lost.”

  “All right.”

  “I was answering an ad for seasonal work and I can't seem to find the guy's house.”

  “That so?” The man's reply sounded more suspicious than curious.

  “Yeah. Guy said his name was 'Boar,' or 'Beer,' or something like that.”

  “That’d be Bear Lawson, but I don't recall the Lawsons ever paying anyone for help with the harvest.”

  “It's only supposed to be for a week.” August smiled, hoping the story might hold enough water to keep him afloat. “Look, I don't want to trouble you. If you have a phone, I can call the girl at the employment agency and get this whole thing straightened out.”

  “Ain't no need for that,” the man said. “You're not too far off. If he told you to come this way, he probably meant for you to turn at this intersection and head straight up 47. Go about two miles and you'll see the Lawson house on the right. White house, red barn. You can't miss it.”

  “You're a life-saver.”

  “If you say so.”

  After buying a dusty bottle of Coke as a thank you, he made his way back out to the road. A passing driver gave him a two-fingered wave as he marched up a hill, something August took as a warning the first time someone had done that to him. Up north, people never waved. If a stranger said anything to you, it was either to mug you or let you know you were on fire. Down here, you couldn't pass somebody without nodding your hea
d or honking a horn. It made no sense.

  He reached the crest of the hill and saw the Lawson farm just down the road. The white house and the barn were right there, just like the old man said. With the end in sight, he thought it was finally time to piece together an introduction. “Hello there,” he practiced as he combed his fingers through his hair. “You must be Bear. A mutual friend asked me to... Jesus, a mutual friend?” He cleared his throat to try again. “Okay. Greetings! I— No, he's not an alien. Um... All right. Bear Lawson? Nice to meet you. I was just wondering if you've heard about the wonders of immortality? It's got some great benefits. You get to live forever, you’ll never get a cold again, and all you have to do in return is fight an army of terrifying monsters. Welcome aboard.”

  He made it to the house before he could settle on a choice. A quick check of his breath left him wincing at the results. I’ll just have to keep my distance.

  The Lawsons’ driveway was nearly as long as the walk from the gas station. The gravel path wound through a stand of oaks, each heavy with leaves that were trading their summer green for the red and gold of early fall. The house itself was a modest white two-story building with a green roof and a wrap-around front porch. Behind it stood the barn, separated from the house by the end of the driveway and a few rows of wildflowers. Off to the left was a smaller green barn, followed by two other barns behind it, closer to the fields. They were like the nesting dolls of farm buildings.

  He decided to try the front door rather than back. Back doors were for people you knew. Front doors were for crazy-talking strangers. He knocked twice and waited. The house was silent. He leaned forward to see if he could peek beneath the shade pulled down on the front door window. Shadows stretched across a brightly lit wood floor, but there was no movement among them. He knocked again, harder. “Hello?” he called out. No reply.

  He stepped off the porch and walked to the driveway, following it around to the back of the house. The gravel path ended at the base of another oak tree, which was surrounded by a ring of yellow flowers. Other than a small garden patch, there wasn't much to see besides endless rows of corn.

  “Hello?” he repeated as he rounded the corner. “Anybody here?”

  The back of the house had a single exit coming off of a screened porch that was no bigger than a postage stamp. He bypassed it and walked toward the red barn. A set of steps led to a room above the opened double-doors of the storage area beneath. One side was occupied by a tractor that had seen better days. The other was empty. Tire tracks led away from the opening.

  Maybe they’re off picking up another barn. He pushed his backpack up on his shoulder and turned around to walk back to the street. The woods across the highway looked bushy enough to hide in while he waited for them to come home. He got halfway back to the bend in the driveway when he heard hinges squeal on the green barn's door.

  “Something I can help you with, mister?”

  The voice was deep enough to shake dust off a window pane. August turned around and couldn’t help himself from taking a surprised step back.

  A man roughly the size of Idaho stood in the opening of the barn. Dressed in a beige work shirt, tan boots and dusty jeans, he looked every bit the farmer, if farmers were seven feet tall and built like an action figure. He was muscled, but not toned. Thick but not fat. His hair faded from brown on top to silver along the sides, with a gray stubbled beard to match. He wore his hair pulled back in a short ponytail that fell to the tip of his collar. He was older than August would’ve thought. Regardless, if this was Bear Lawson, he might owe Meryn an apology.

  “I, uh…” August cleared his throat in an attempt to compose himself. “Sorry to sneak up on you like that, but no one answered at the front. Hope I didn't scare you.”

  “Nossir,” the man responded, which was probably Southern for “No, sir.” He wiped his hands on a red bandana before folding his forearms across his chest.

  It was during the long pause that followed that August began to curse himself for not figuring out what he was going to say earlier. “You’ve got a beautiful place here,” he said, trying to buy some time. “Lots of...you know…space. And crops.”

  “Farms are funny that way.”

  A second voice came from inside the house. “Bear?”

  “Outside, Daddy.”

  The porch door slammed shut with a clap. An older man walked down the steps, eyeing August through a pair of round wire-frame glasses. He kept his weight propped on a cane next to his right leg. The white bristles of his buzz cut stood out in contrast to his tanned skin.

  “Well,” the man said. “Who do we have here?”

  “Hi,” August replied.

  “Hi yourself. Sorry I couldn’t get the door. You left before I could make it down.” The man turned to Bear, who had left the barn door to walk over to his father's side. “This a friend of yours, Bear?”

  “I believe he was just getting ready to decide what his story was, Daddy.”

  August’s heart pounded as he stood in Bear's shadow. “I was hoping,” he said, “that I could trouble you folks for a place to spend a couple of nights.”

  The Lawsons traded a glance.

  “I'm headed up North,” he continued. “Canada, eventually. This is probably going to sound crazy, but my great, great grandfather was a train man, and he once rode a boxcar all the way up to Montreal to find work.”

  The hell is this crap? Whatever it was, Bear and his father were still listening, so he decided to go with it.

  “I'm trying to follow the same route, but the next train won't be along for another couple of days and I'm sort of stuck without a place to stay until then.”

  “They make hotels, you know,” Bear said. “Even out here.”

  “Right. Well, that's the thing, actually. I'm sort of following in his footsteps in more ways than one. I lost my job a few weeks ago down in Georgia and didn't do such a good job of saving for the future, if you know what I mean.”

  Bear scowled, but neither man looked ready to throw him back on the streets. You're an idiot, Dillon. Keep it up.

  “I'm not asking for charity. I mean to work for whatever I get. Anything you two need me to do, I'll do it. I can harvest or...um...sow.”

  Bear took another look at his father before stepping away to pick up a pile of seed bags. Combined, they must’ve weighed a couple hundred pounds. He tossed them into the back of a flatbed like they were pillows.

  August was left alone with the old man, who wasn't too quick to interrupt the silence.

  “I'm Ray Lawson,” he said, just as August was starting to plan his escape. “I don't believe we've gotten your name yet.”

  “It's August. August Dillon. You've got a great place here, Mr. Lawson.”

  Ray nodded his head. “August, huh? You of German descent?”

  “New Hampshire, actually.”

  “A Yankee. I see. Well, we won't hold that against you. You've met my son, John.” He thumbed over his shoulder. “I like to call him Bear.”

  Bear disappeared into the barn without acknowledging.

  “Yeah, we met. I can see how he got the nickname.”

  “Oh, he didn't get it 'cause he's big,” Ray replied.

  “Why else would you call him that?”

  Ray's smile started at the corner of his mouth and never got much farther. “A story for another time, maybe. Come on inside. You can have a glass of tea, if nothing else.”

  They walked back to the house with Ray leading the way, moving at a hobbled snail’s pace.

  “Watch your step,” he said, pointing his cane at the top of the back porch stairs. “That one's got a board that don't act right.”

  August skipped it entirely as they made their way onto the porch. Inside, the house smelled like an antique shop, probably because it was filled with a bunch of antiques. It had everything he'd come to recognize about southern homes, including a lot of fancy-looking furniture that he bet no one ever sat in. To his left, a plate of leftover bacon sat on t
he kitchen stove, reminding him that he was a few hours shy of going a whole day without food.

  “You hungry?” Ray asked.

  “Not really.”

  “Well, a little snack to munch on couldn't hurt. You look a little worse for wear after all that traveling you've done today.” Ray set a bowl of salted cashews on a bar separating the living room from the kitchen. When he turned around to grab a glass for the tea, August took a handful of nuts and nearly swallowed it whole.

  “So you say you were in Georgia recently?”

  “Mmm hmm.”

  “Looks like you got some sun down there. One of the stops on your relative's trek to the Great White North, I imagine.”

  “One of them, yeah.”

  Ray filled two glasses with iced tea and handed one across the bar. They took a seat at the table. Sweet tea was still a foreign concept to August. Under the watchful eye of Ray, though, he had to make nice, so he took a sip and did his best to hold back a coughing fit. The stuff tasted like cough syrup.

  “Too sweet for ya?”

  “No, no, it's fine. I just swallowed it the wrong way.”

  “So, how did you make it over to this part of town? You passed by a couple of other farms to get here. I know ol' Burt Sommers is a good Christian man. He would've taken you on in no time.”

  It was a question he wasn't expecting. He took another swig of the tea-flavored sugar water. “Actually, I got your name from a guy at the convenience store down the hill. I told him I was looking for work and he mentioned you guys might be a good place to start.”

  “That right?” Ray asked. “At the Stop-N-Gas?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Huh. Well I guess you met Burt after all.”

  August had a sudden wish to turn into dust and fade away. “That guy was Burt?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Oh.”

  “Funny how things work out sometimes, isn't it?”

  “Hilarious.”

  Ray smiled and took a sip of his tea. “You know, when I was a youngster, we used to have a farm a little farther over in the mountains just south of Brevard. We raised cattle. My daddy had more acres than I could walk in a day, but he'd still make me put my boots on and walk the fences to make sure that none of the bulls went searching for love on the neighbor's property. Walking through pastures has a way of ruining a pair of shoes, Mr. Dillon, but it taught me a lot about what I needed to keep a lookout for. I developed a pretty good eye for it.” Ray stopped to take another drink and then sat to wait for August's reply.