Godsend (The Circle War Book 1)

by Matt King

  The walkers opened fire. Shadow rushed forward to meet them. She ripped through their armor, tearing their heads from their bodies and shredding the plating around their chests, leaving nothing but sparking husks in her wake. Most of the machines never got off a clean shot. August let his strength gather while Shadow made short work of the mob. He watched as she pulled the cords from a spider’s mouth and then whipped it from side to side, barreling through the crowd of machines.

  The Horsemen appeared from the shadow of the Mountain, hitting the retreating walkers from behind in a swarm. They were joined by a host of Orphii.

  Still not fully healed but strong enough to fight, August walked toward the fray. You stay close to my Johnny, Ray had told him once, and that’s exactly what he planned to do. He closed in on Shadow, who saw him, only to turn her orange eyes toward the sky.

  Coburn landed between them in a cloud of dust. He smashed August across the face with the butt end of his staff and then turned for Shadow. A pair of gun barrels rose from his arm, laying down a streaking sheet of fire. Flames singed the hair of Shadow’s arm. She picked up the body of a walker to block the brunt of his attack, and then hurled it toward Coburn, knocking him off his feet. Coburn stood up quickly and spit a streak of blood on the ground.

  “Give it up,” August said. “You can't beat all of us.”

  Coburn’s eyes flared. “I won't have to.”

  As Shadow charged for him, Coburn rammed the base of his staff into the ground, releasing a curtain of light from the tip of the spear that knocked her away. In a flash, August found himself trapped beneath an umbrella of energy. The sounds of war were muted instantly, leaving only Coburn’s mechanical growls, angry and snarling. He let go of the planted staff, moving toward August in slow steps, his eyes focused like a wolf stalking its prey.

  The ceiling of the dome was only a couple of feet above their heads at its highest point and barely wider than a boxing ring. Coburn’s frame filled every inch of it. Over his shoulder, Shadow and the Orphii beat against the barrier to no avail.

  “No one is coming to save you,” he said. Metal plates separated along Coburn’s left forearm, extending on hinges until they formed a dagger resting against the back of his hand. The end of the blade glowed red hot.

  August held his ground. “I never said I needed saving.”

  Coburn charged forward, and August drew both swords at once to knock his thrust away. He kept the blades separate, hoping to counter Coburn’s speed with some of his own. Every time he saw an opening to strike, Coburn closed it before he could react. He pushed August back to the wall, peppering him with hits until August’s arms grew tired from blocking. Fight back, god damn it! he screamed to himself, but there was nothing he could do when every second was taken up by avoiding blows that would've killed him if they'd landed.

  “You are no champion,” the cyborg growled. He slammed a fist across August’s face. “The bitch goddess will get your head as a reminder of her failure.” Coburn hit him again. “Get up and face me.”

  August stumbled as he tried to rise. Another punch crashed against his visor.

  “Get up!”

  Frustrated to the point of desperation, August thrust the hilts of his swords into Coburn’s midsection as he ducked beneath another punch and then reached up, grabbing Coburn around the throat in a head lock. Coburn shrugged him off easily, kicking August into the barrier. The back of August’s head smacked against the dome’s shell. He could hear Coburn’s bladed left arm slicing through the air and he raised his sword to block it. A quick thrust of his shoulder to Coburn’s chest gave him some room, and he used it to swing his other blade, finally giving it a chance to sing. The whistling edge caught Coburn across the cheek, leaving behind a sparking wound. Coburn stumbled backward holding his hand to his mouth. It came away with blood.

  August pounced. The echo of his blades rang through the dome as he drove Coburn back with a flurry of strikes. His swords cut deep gashes into the cyborg’s metal plates. Coburn retaliated with a charging tackle that sent them both to the ground. August dropped his swords as they wrestled to gain the upper hand. He rocked Coburn’s head back with the ridge of his forearm and then grabbed hold of the thick cables surrounding his neck. The metal casings held strong. He pulled with all his strength until one of the lines snapped. Coburn cried out in anger. He swatted August away with the back of his hand, but the damage to his circuits kept his left arm limp at his side.

  While Coburn nursed his wound, August collected his swords. Now, before he recovers, the fighter in him coached. August joined the blades together and tried to spear Coburn through the chest, but the cyborg’s hand clasped the handle of August’s staff before it found its mark. One glimpse of Coburn’s metal grin was all August saw before the swords were ripped from his hands.

  Coburn took the sword staff with his working arm and rammed it down into the meat of August’s thigh. The blade sliced through the Liridian shell all the way through the bone. August cried out in pain, somehow managing to hold himself upright to keep the blade from slicing down the rest of his leg. His body shivered.

  “Yes…scream,” Coburn hissed. “Scream to the heavens so she can hear you die.”

  A heat burned through August, and not just from the wound. He looked at Coburn’s left arm hanging dead at his side. When he settled on his next move, he braced himself for the pain.

  He took hold of Coburn’s wrist, pressing it down toward his leg. He couldn’t budge the metal fingers off the hilt of his blades, but he didn’t need to. He hit the release button on his staff, and when the upper sword fell into his hand, he drove the end of it through Coburn’s open mouth.

  The point went straight through, coming out the other side covered in blood, severed wires, and chips of bone. Coburn tried to pull away. Before he could, August took hold of the sword’s handle with both hands and drove Coburn to the ground. He leaned with all his weight until he’d buried the length of the sword in the earth.

  “I owe you a thousand of these,” August said through gritted teeth as he fought to keep Coburn pinned, “but I'll settle for one.”

  Coburn roared in anger as August thrust the sword’s handle forward, driving a wedge down the center of Coburn’s face, flaying the skull. His roars faded into the high-pitched whine of sparking machinery. August held the sword in place, panting with exhaustion until the light in Coburn’s eyes faded.

  With a final shudder, Coburn’s mechanical body went limp.

  August held his breath until he was sure there was no fight left in the man.

  It’s over.

  He had to repeat the words to himself until he believed it enough to stand and pull his sword free. He screamed as he pulled out the other sword still buried in his leg. Panting, he knocked away Coburn’s staff, evaporating the shell of light. Shadow came bounding to his side. Behind her stood the Orphii with the Horsemen close by. The brothers’ armor was torn and shredded by fire in parts, but they were alive. Scattered around the pit were the lifeless husks of Galan’s army.

  Behind him came a sound like crackling static. August turned on his heel with his swords raised high. Shadow snarled and whipped a protective hand in front of him.

  White flecks of light formed in a mist over Coburn’s corpse. They started to swirl, rising like a tornado toward the sky until August lost sight of it as it blended with the ceiling above him. When it was gone, a loud knell rumbled from the opposite side of the valley. It was answered by the triumphant roar of a Mountain.

  August gently guided Shadow’s arm away and walked until he could see to the other side of the dome. Clouds of smoke passed between the Orphii in the field. The few forces of Galan’s that remained were retreating toward the synapse.

  When he was satisfied that nothing was within striking distance of killing him, August sat down on the cool dirt and pushed the button on his neck to release the mask. He wiped the dark blood from his blade on a clump of nearby grass. He eyed the spot where Coburn had spe
ared him through the leg. The rip in the suit was gone.

  What do you know, he thought. I finally got some self-healing pants.

  Shadow scanned the area a final time before she disappeared into a storm of electricity. When it was gone, Bear stood tall on the ruined valley floor. He looked at August with a measured smile. Elosian dust fell from his clothes in flaky clouds.

  “You made it,” August said.

  “Sorry we didn't get here sooner.”

  “It’s okay. I’m just glad you came along when you did.”

  Bear looked him over. “You got a new suit.”

  “You like it? Beats the hell out of ’70s corduroy.”

  “I expect it does.” An easier smile formed this time. “You all right?”

  The answer didn't come right away. “I think so,” he finally replied, still trying to regain his breath. “Just please God tell me there’s no one left to fight.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Michael stepped through the synapse.

  When the feeling of nausea passed, he opened his eyes, expecting to see monsters and machines clashing on the battlefield. What he saw instead made his heart race.

  “No!” he screamed, turning around to run back through the portal. The doorway had disappeared, leaving him staring at darkness. “I can’t do this! I can’t!”

  His father's laugh rang through his head.

  Be still, Amara's voice reassured him.

  He stared at his hands. His pale white skin reappeared, skin that was whole and not ashen. Skin that had no power.

  “Why is it gone?” he pleaded.

  Michael…

  “I need it.”

  You have forgotten your control. Face him and remember what you are.

  “I don’t understand why you’re doing this to me.”

  Because he is the only thing left in this world that has power over you. You must break yourself from his control. Show him that he is weak. Show him which of you has true power.

  Trembling, he turned toward his father’s house. His legs felt heavy as he took his first step onto the cobblestone walkway. It was a place he swore he'd never go near again, a place he'd barely escaped from once before. How could he survive another attempt?

  The candles in the dormer windows were like orange eyes boring through the foggy twilight, watching him approach. He shied away from their stare. The neighborhood was silent. Everyone asleep. Everyone safe. The front door to the house stood ahead of him, white on the front, but a dark shade of red stain on the other side. The Bloody Door, as he remembered it. Stained in part with his own blood.

  He paused at the top of the brick landing, unsure whether he could go on. It took imagining Amara's disappointment in him to raise his hand—still colored pasty white—and rap slowly against the wood.

  A light appeared in the thin window above the door. He heard footsteps on the stairs. His heart beat loudly in his ears. A few seconds later, his father’s voice spoke from the other side.

  “Who is it?”

  Michael fought to speak. After suffering the man's voice in his head for so long, it was paralyzing to hear it again in person. His words lodged in his throat.

  “Me,” he said finally.

  The door flung open. “Michael!” his father shouted. “Thank God! You're alive!” He ran forward and threw a pair of wiry arms around Michael's neck.

  Remember, Amara told him. Remember who he truly is.

  Michael jerked away, breaking his hold.

  The severity stunned the man for a moment, but his smile stayed fast. He'd lost weight, though he still carried a paunch of a belly. His hair seemed thinner. “I can't believe it,” he said. “Come inside out of the cold.”

  He opened the door wider and stood aside. Michael forced himself across the threshold, only making it as far as the foyer table. The house was as dark and foreboding as he remembered. Everything was arranged in its perfect place. Don't touch that. Never touch that. He saw the hall closet ahead, surfacing forgotten images, memories of days spent banging on its door, begging to be let free.

  “This is a blessing,” his father said behind him, closing the Bloody Door. “I've been so worried. They told me all these things about you, and... well, I couldn't believe they were true. You were always such a good boy.”

  “Was I?” His voice was weak. A good boy. He'd forgotten how much he hated those words.

  “Of course. You were the best. I mean…you are the best. I’m sorry, my head is just so scattered. Come into the kitchen and I’ll make us some tea.”

  He led them into the kitchen, shuffling his gangly legs in their loose-fitting pajama pants. On top, he wore his Eastern Maryland Community Outreach sweatshirt. Michael didn't recognize this man, sniveling and small. Those weren't the arms that used to push him down. Those boney fingers weren't the ones that used to curl up into a fist before they snapped the bones in his jaw.

  Something’s wrong. His mind seized, unable to reconcile his memories with what stood before him.

  After starting a pot of water boiling, his father walked to the hallway closet and opened it. Michael held his breath, expecting to see marks on the other side of the door where he’d once scratched his fingernails to bloody stumps.

  The wood was smooth and clean.

  “You’re shivering. Take this, you look so cold.” He held up a wool sweater. After a hesitant start, he tried to place it over Michael’s shoulders.

  Michael stepped back. “Don’t touch me.”

  “Michael, what's the matter?” Tears formed along the rims of his eyes. “Tell me what's happening. I... I was crazy with worry. Where did you go?”

  “You don't care,” Michael said. “You never cared.”

  “That's not true!” He clutched the sweater in his fingers. “Wh— How could you ever think that?”

  “Because you never stopped reminding me of it.”

  Part of him questioned what he was saying. This man had never hurt him, had he?

  With a sudden force that made him shrink in pain, the house came alive with memories: The sharp-edged hinges of the Bloody Door. The silhouette of his father standing above him on the stairs. Every corner held a terrible memory, even the flames licking at the bottom of the kettle. The blue part is the hottest. Was he eight or nine when he first got his fingers held over the fire?

  I don't want to remember anymore, he called out to Amara in his thoughts.

  You have to, Michael. Remember what this man has to pay for.

  “Sweetie, what's gotten into you? I missed you so much. I had the whole county out looking for you. Then the police came one day and said you were responsible for all these horrible crimes, and I told them it wasn't you.”

  “You shouldn't have lied. A good boy never lies to the police, remember?”

  His father took a step back. He put a hand down on the counter to steady himself. “Christ have mercy...” he whispered. He wiped the tears from his eyes. “It's okay. It's going to be okay. We can get you through this.”

  He sings a lullaby of deceit, Amara said. Think back to the decadrome. Remember that you are strong now.

  “There's nothing to get through,” Michael answered. “I came back to show you.”

  His father's face contorted in confusion. “I don't understand.”

  Slowly, he began to see the man just as Amara told him he would. Weak. Weak and powerless.

  “I came back to show you that I'm stronger now, and that I'm not afraid of you anymore.”

  “Afraid of...” His voice trailed off. “Michael, there's nothing to be afraid of.”

  Steam billowed out of the kettle in a sharp whistle. His father's shaking hand took the towel hanging off the stove and used it to grab hold of the pot’s handle. Away from the flame, the whistling died to a warble. Instead of reaching for the cups, his father’s hand touched a picture frame sitting prominently beneath the cabinet. It held a photo of the two of them, smiling, giddy in their embrace. He ran a finger along the glass.

&
nbsp; “Do you remember this?” he asked, hopeful.

  Michael stared at the picture, trying to match it to a memory. He looked away, unable to think of a time when he had ever been that happy.

  “This was your tenth birthday. Right around the time your mother and I…” He shook his head quickly and forced a smile. “We went to the carnival that fall because you said it always made you happy. With everything that was going on, and the possibility of losing custody of you, I wanted to take you away from all that. Do you remember? Seeing you smile again…it was one of the best moments of my life.”

  Lies, Amara whispered. He controls you through lies.

  “You remember this, don’t you, honey?”

  He lies because he knows he has lost you. Tell him what you truly remember.

  “What I remember…” Michael muttered.

  “Yes?”

  Memories sped past, pausing only long enough for him to see the scenes of his youth and tremble under their weight. The pain. The hurt. The loneliness. The fear.

  “All those years,” Michael said. “All those years you spent hitting me, screaming at me, tearing me down until I was nothing. I remember. I remember everything you did—every hit, every embarrassing moment when you belittled me in front of my friends. Every time you whispered to the neighbors that you wished I’d run away so you didn’t have to see me again.”

  A line of tears rolled down his father's cheek. “Not...true,” he sputtered. “I would never—”

  “Don't!” Michael yelled. “I lived it. Don't tell me what I know.”

  He felt strength coursing through him, building into a surge of heat in his chest. Heat. He closed his eyes, welcoming it back.

  Now? he asked in his head.

  Now, my prince, Amara answered.

  He lunged forward and grabbed his father by the throat.

  “Michael,” he choked. “Stop this.”

  “There’s no stopping. Not until you show me you’re going to be a good boy. Are you going to be a good boy?”

  He’d never felt stronger in his life. He lifted the man off the floor like he weighed nothing, and held him there as he watched the blood rush to his father’s face, just like it used to do when he screamed in anger.