Godsend (The Circle War Book 1)

by Matt King

“There’s no one up there. It’s just me and you. You made sure of that.”

  A crescent of a smile formed on Talus’s face, revealing interlocking rows of yellowed teeth. He sheathed his sword, driving it home with a quick shove. “Bahtanu,” he answered in a graveled voice. He urged August forward, gesturing for him to fight. “Bahtanu.”

  The wind swept cold through the grass at their feet, hushing the canyon. He waited for Talus to make the first move, but the giant Pyrian only backed a step away. Finally, August ran forward, unaware at first that he was screaming until his voice filled the narrow mountain corridor. His swords came down against Talus’s thick hide in a spray of sparks as the monster raised his arm to shield his face. The vibrations sent shockwaves up August's forearm. He threw everything he had into the blows, never once denting the pocked crust, and yet he kept swinging his blades, harder each time until exhaustion stole his aim and he missed wildly.

  Catching him mid-stumble, Talus seized him by the shirt. He swung August like a hammer, pounding him into the ground again and again, lifting him higher each time until he pinned him against the earth with one last thrust. August couldn’t move beneath his fist. The pressure was unbearable. If there was a bone left unbroken in his chest, he couldn’t feel it. His breaths came in whispered, labored rales. It felt like he was lifting a car each time he tried to inhale.

  Talus brought him off the ground, holding him at arm’s length. August's limp feet dangled above the grassy path. He had no strength to break the monster's grip. Instead, he looked at his shirt held taut by Talus, and sliced through the fabric to free himself. He fell to the ground with a thud and immediately started grasping for handfuls of grass to pull himself away.

  The hum of the synapse urged him forward, but the sting of defeat stole what strength he had left. He crawled along on his elbows, inching his way towards the opening, until the beast's claws dug into the back of his leg. Talus flipped him onto his back, muttering words through a taunting laugh. August reached for a sword. He tried to swing for Talus’s eyes, but the Pyrian caught the blade in his hand. He pressed it back down toward August's neck.

  August couldn’t stop its descent, even adding both hands to the hilt.

  “Chu vasse somelay com bahtanu,” Talus spat as he leaned closer. “Gyria wai!”

  August’s sword inched closer until the blunt edge threatened to crush his windpipe. No matter how hard he pushed back, he couldn’t move Talus’s arm. His palms were hot with blood as he gripped the razor-sharp skin. Talus slowly began to twist the blade. It broke through the skin, sinking into the muscle of August's neck. August thrashed as hard as he could. Talus wouldn’t budge. Blood leapt from the growing wound in spurts like a fountain.

  “GYRIA WAI. GYRIA WAI.”

  Blood loss drained August’s strength. Inside, he fought wildly to stay alive but it was a war his body could no longer wage. He widened his eyes to stave off the darkness closing in. The world slipped into silence.

  A flash of fiery orange light strobed overhead, and at once the pressure in his neck disappeared. He could see the hazy outline of his sword still lodged beneath his chin. There wasn’t enough strength left in his arms to take it out. More blood spurted from his ruptured arteries, bubbling over into a warm flow over his neck.

  Something pulled at his arms, dragging him backwards toward the synapse. Defeated and dying, he could only watch the stars moving overhead as he listened to his heartbeat fade slowly in his ear.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Coburn awoke to darkness, silent and cold.

  He was alive, but what of Dillon? He assumed the man had wits enough to survive the charge of the beast that had come for him. If there was one thing about Dillon he could count on, it was his resilience in the face of death. It was a trait Coburn hoped to see end, but only by his hand. Their fight on the mountainside had left him with a bitter taste in his mouth. He could feel the remnants of his wounds, hurtful reminders of Dillon’s victory. They hadn’t been on a level playing field then, but there was hope. Now, finally, there was hope.

  His breath brushed back against his lips with each exhale. He tried to move his legs. The naked skin of his knee cap touched a ceiling with barely a bend. There was no floor beneath his feet. As he gained his wits, he realized that he was lying face-down, with his arms tucked in along his stomach and his chin pressed against his chest. Pinned in place by cool metal walls on all sides, there was only the slightest room to maneuver. He had an overwhelming urge to roll over, to push himself up, to stand, and the mounting claustrophobia sent beads of sweat dripping onto the floor of his metal casket, forming a layer of sticky moisture beneath his forehead.

  No! I am not a man of weakness. I won’t give in.

  And then he did.

  Time frayed his sanity. How much time had passed, he didn’t know, but every moment in the black tomb alone with his confinement was another layer of his strength—mental and physical—lost. He began to talk to himself to distract from the gripping pains in his stomach. In his weakest moments he would scream until his ears rang. Only exhaustion could silence him. His dying body, bruised and broken, wilted like a plant hidden from the sun.

  Sleep was a mirage—close, but never within reach. The constant state of tension shredded his stomach. He held his bowels until his body was too weak to function, and then he let them go, shrieking with anger as the warmth pooled around his legs. The smell made him retch. Hot bile flowed from his mouth and nose, splashing against the wall of his tomb with enough force to send half of it back across his lips. His choking, spastic breaths left him light-headed, and the hyperventilation caused him to drift off into a merciful respite from consciousness.

  He dreamed of August Dillon. About the years spent training the man, nurturing him, only to be repaid with betrayal. Coburn pictured the sickening grin on his face after he’d been captured, smug in his new-found powers. Dreams of revenge steeled him. He held onto the feelings, concentrating on them like a light guiding him home.

  The man does not deserve to live. But I do.

  A hissing whine urged him out of his shallow sleep. Air rushed over his skin. When the darkness lifted and he was thrust into the blazing light again, he didn’t have the strength to squint his eyes to shield them. He blinked slowly, trying to make out his surroundings.

  “He smells like an ill-born child,” a deep voice spoke. “Clean him.”

  Coarse hands peeled Coburn from his metal tomb and dragged him away by his arms. His head bobbed listlessly as he tried to bring his eyes into focus through the resurfacing pain of his injuries. He gritted his teeth, determined not to let them see his suffering. Once his vision sharpened, he stared at one of the creatures, whose rough grip pinched the loose skin of Coburn’s working arm. As they passed through cones of light, he saw that its skin held a dull prism of colors, and its eyes glowed bluish white.

  “Where are you taking me?” he croaked.

  Neither answered, and in truth, he didn’t care. So long as they didn’t take him back to the casket, he could dream of nothing worse that might lay ahead.

  They carried him into a room with a wide pit of clear, bubbling liquid in the center of the floor. The guards threw him in with no warning. As soon as the fluid touched his skin, his mind and body seized, paralyzed by a wildfire of pain that felt like it was eating straight through to his bones. He thrashed to bring himself to the surface only to get thrust back down by sticks pushing against his chest. The agony was too much to bear. Without thinking, he took in a breath of water. His lungs were quick to fill, and the fire in his chest nearly blinded him with pain.

  A pair of hands gripped him again and slung him out onto the floor, where he regurgitated the water in barking spasms. His throat was stripped raw. When the dry heaves gave way, he collapsed, shivering uncontrollably. He opened his eyes to look at his shaking hands. They were bright red and covered in pockets of blisters.

  One of the guards addressed the other in a language Coburn couldn’t und
erstand before it threw a dark blanket over his back. The smooth fabric felt like spikes against his skin, but he wouldn’t cry out. Not again. Instead, he pulled the blanket over his shoulders. He continued to shiver even as the liquid evaporated in wisps of steam. There was a reason, he told himself. There was a reason he was alive. If they wanted him dead, he would’ve been killed long ago. They wanted something. Whatever it was, he had no intention of giving it up without a price.

  The guards grabbed him again and pulled him back into the hallway, then down a winding set of stairs. A dull light flickered near the bottom. The stairs ended in a narrow landing with a single open door on one side. Once through the entryway, Coburn was thrown to the floor by the guards. He heard them leave the room, shutting the door behind him.

  As he lay on the floor listening to his stuttered breaths, a penetrating hum rose from the metal surface vibrating beneath his body. The sound was barely audible, but it was enough to fill his head with an unnerving sense, a warning that something terrible was close.

  “Yours is an interesting breed,” a man spoke. It was the same baritone voice he’d heard after being pulled from his chamber. “Even in the face of certain death, you entertain the notion of control over your fate. Your arrogance is outweighed only by your capacity for self-delusion.”

  “I have no delusions,” Coburn answered. He fought to bring himself up to standing, wrapping the leathery fabric around his raw skin as he gained his feet.

  The spherical room was alive with electronic activity, and yet completely barren except for a tall, black metal throne set against the far wall. Quick pulses of muted red light traveled along the floor and walls, lighting the room in a flickering glow. A man dressed in a full suit of crimson armor sat in the throne. The circuitry of the room traveled along the exterior of the chair to his armor, where it flowed across the surface, ending at a glowing ornate collar that illuminated his face. A dark cape hung loosely over his right shoulder. He was pale and hairless with solid black eyes cut along the equator by red horizontal pupils.

  “You think you are going to survive because you have something I want,” he said.

  Coburn looked back over his shoulder at the staircase. “You could hear my thoughts.”

  His host seemed bored with the revelation. “You are dying.” He brought a finger to the side of his throat and tapped. “Here.”

  “Yes,” Coburn replied, thinking it best not to lie. “Who are you?”

  “Galan of the Karell, defender of our Lady’s peace and servant to the Goddess who blesses us with life. And you, you are an intruder in these lands. Who sent you here?”

  “No one.”

  Galan snorted. “A race as primitive as yours? You could not have found your way here on your own.”

  Coburn gripped the fabric tighter around his chest. “I was following someone. He went through a doorway.”

  “Who were you following?”

  “His name is August Dillon.”

  The words drew a wan smile. For a moment, the circuits of Galan’s suit glowed brighter along their path. “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  Coburn answered with a nod.

  The floor along the right side of the wall fell away, revealing a staircase that descended beneath the throne room. The void was silent, but only for a pause. Soon, heavy, plodding footsteps sounded from below. The unnerving drone bubbling from the stairs raised the hair on the back of Coburn’s neck. He watched as a pair of spindly metal legs emerged from the darkness to probe the floor of the throne room. Two more legs followed, until finally he saw the beast. It had the torso of a man chiseled from metal, but its lower half was a steel carapace, segmented like an insect and polished to a high shine. Its six legs moved gingerly across the pulsing floor. The machine stared at him through eyes cast in an almond-shaped grid of red wires. Its mouth was a gaping maw of snaking metal cords that ran down its chest like muscle fibers. A pair of humanoid arms held a plate heaped with piles of wet-looking gruel.

  The creature handed him the dish. Coburn took it. He watched the servant leave, unable to take his eyes off the sight.

  “Impressive, wouldn’t you say?”

  “What was it?”

  “One of many in my command,” Galan replied, gesturing toward the plate. “Eat if you are hungry.”

  Coburn picked up a handful of the yellow sludge and ate it in a quick gulp. He expected the worst, but there was no taste. It only took him a few bites to finish the whole thing.

  “Good?”

  “Yes,” he answered. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. The nourishment helped him focus. “What are you going to do with me now?”

  “You said you came here while following August Dillon.”

  “That’s right.”

  “To what end? Dillon has the power of immortals. You couldn’t possibly think you were going to kill him.”

  “I wasn't looking to kill him.” Yet, Coburn continued in his thoughts. “I was looking for the source of his power.”

  Galan’s eyes narrowed. “You won't find that here. He is the spawn of a traitor.”

  By the way he said the last word, Coburn thought it best not to ask questions. Instead, he used the hint of conflict to his advantage. “I can help you kill August Dillon,” he said. “To get revenge on those who’ve wronged you. I trained him. I know everything he knows, and more.”

  “Knowledge alone will not defeat a champion of the gods.”

  “All I need are the tools. Make me his equal, and I'll give you his corpse.”

  Galan rested his head against the back of his chair. He looked down at Coburn with eyes that never blinked. “Do you know what tonight is?” he asked.

  Coburn shook his head.

  “This is the Fah Netael, the Night of Ascension, when my army’s leader is chosen. The ceremony was to take place as soon as Amara returned with her ward. Curious that your arrival coincides with such a momentous occasion. Perhaps this is a gift of Her doing.”

  “Yes,” Coburn said. “Surely it must be.”

  “The Pyrians do not tolerate foreign invaders and neither do I. I would have seen to it that you were killed immediately for trespassing in this land, but I thought perhaps your arrival could be a sign. I believe Pyra has sent you to me as a gift.”

  “I can fight for you,” Coburn said. “And for Her. All I need is the power.”

  “The power of the gods is not free. Are you prepared for the sacrifice?”

  “Yes,” he answered hungrily. “Yes!”

  The lights of the room danced along their circuits with feverish speed as Galan rose from his throne. “The human design is flawed, fragile, weak. You fight wars to show strength. In my legion, every creature is strong. You come here dying of disease. There is no disease under what I command. There is no death, no burden of free will. It is the perfect society under Her guidance and my rule. Bestowing this gift upon you will mean your unwavering submission to the greater good.”

  Coburn licked his cracked lips. “I’m ready.”

  “Willing, perhaps,” Galan answered, a thin smile forming. “But not ready.”

  The stone-skinned guards returned. They walked to Coburn’s side, each grabbing an arm to pull him up.

  “Where are they taking me?” he asked.

  “To your metamorphosis.”

  The guards walked him toward the opening in the floor. His heart thundered inside his chest. He was so close now. The narrow staircase descended into darkness until he could no longer see the surface beneath his feet. The only bit of light came from the soft glow emanating from the guard's eyes.

  The deep, maddening hum that prickled his ears in the throne room grew louder as they approached a long hallway at the bottom of the stairs. Unrelenting, it filled his head, drowning out the sound of the guard's footsteps. When he looked ahead, he saw a doorway outlined in a dull red glow. The bass of the vibrations mixed with a new sound, high-pitched but too soft to overtake the thunderous drone.

  It sounded
like screams.

  “Oh god...,” he said, unsure whether he was speaking the words or not. “What's in that room?”

  Galan's voice pierced his thoughts.

  Salvation.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Gyria wai.

  GYRIA WAI!

  August’s eyes shot open. Instead of Talus, he saw the familiar wooden slats of the Lawsons’ barn apartment ceiling overhead. His hand shot to his neck. The breath in his chest froze until he brought his fingers up and saw that they came away clean. He sank back into the pillow.

  Meryn waited patiently at the foot of the bed wearing a white dress he hadn't seen before. It was elegant, with raised decorative lines and lace made out of a fabric of crystal. She looked like a princess ready for her dance at the castle. Just thinking the word castle made him wince. He rubbed his neck again.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked.

  “Pretty good for nearly getting my head chopped off.”

  Paralos stood at her side, arms crossed and scowling. “You were lucky. It's a wonder you're still alive.”

  “No thanks to you. Next time don't wait so long to join in. You didn’t have to hold off until I was almost dead.”

  “It wasn’t me, you imbecile. I told you I can’t interfere. The brothers are the ones who pulled you through the synapse.”

  Paralos motioned to the corner of the apartment where the Horsemen sat around a card table in front of the window. A small lamp lit their faces. Looking over his shoulder, one of the brothers gave August a single nod.

  Assholes, he felt like saying, and immediately tried to erase the thought. The hell was wrong with him? It wasn’t their fault they succeeded where he failed.

  He sat up to lean against the wall. His bloodstains had created an outline of his legs on the sheets. Beside him, the fragments of his t-shirt sat in a crusted wad next to the Meryn’s feet. “What are we doing back here? And when did you show back up?”

  “Too late to stop this lunacy,” she replied, throwing a glance at Paralos. “You were nearly killed.”