Reign of Gods (Sorcery and Sin Book 2)

by Justin DePaoli

  Each blow quavered the creature, made its knees wobbly. On the fourth strike, its stone ankles shattered.

  The giant fell like a hewn tree, its arms waving desperately in front of it.

  A plume of snow mixed with daggers of ice clouded Gynoth’s vision, but through it he made out a shape heaving and pulling.

  The snow dust settled, and Voss cried. He was charging two dozen colossi who had lagged behind their fallen kin, dragging with him the very arm of the colossus he had downed.

  He had snapped the giant’s limb off at the shoulder and wielded it with godly strength.

  “Argh!” Voss roared, whipping the arm into a colossus’s leg. The blow shattered the giant’s knee. The colossus crumbled, baying.

  Voss’s weapon had one less finger attached to its hand after the brief battle. Two more digits broke off upon slamming into the ankle of another giant.

  Voss jumped and swung the arm into a giant’s chest like the downward strike of a great sword.

  The wrist fractured then. Voss regarded his now-stubby weapon. He jabbed it into the crotch of an approaching colossus. More bits and pieces splintered off.

  He paused briefly, hunched over. Eyes at his feet, he slowly craned his neck upward, facing off with half a dozen slow-approaching colossi. They came at all angles, enveloping him in a circle.

  Voss staggered this way and that, less god now and more a man who’d spent his reserves.

  Gynoth flipped over onto his stomach, then pushed himself to his feet. “What’s happening to him?”

  “Hum,” Heinla said, putting an arm around Gynoth’s neck. She looked on wistfully. “Voss sacrificed everything, Mister Necromancer. He’s as strong as iron, stronger! Much stronger. But it all evens out. It all equalizes. I can’t bathe in my own waters for eternity, you know?”

  The answer, in a far more succinct manner that Gynoth would have appreciated, was this: Voss had gone up, and now he had to come down.

  But he still had a smidgen of air beneath his feet before he hit the proverbial ground.

  Gynoth couldn’t see Voss’s face, but he was certain the god was smiling. He had that posture, that stand-up-straight, shoulders-back, chin-high look that told his circling attackers he knew something they did not.

  Voss lifted the arm of a fallen colossus—his weapon—high into the air. He roared then, a tremendous war cry. And he lunged forward, swinging the arm hard and true into a colossus’s knee, gimping the creature.

  A flurry of strikes followed, and dodges and ducks too as colossus fists attempted to pulverize him. Voss’s chucked his weapon into the face of a giant, then ran at another. He launched himself into the colossus’s midsection, forcing it to stumble back.

  And again, Voss’s head speared into the giant’s stone gut. Rock crumbled. The colossus’s stomach split open like a great gulf. The creature clutched at its belly and fell.

  Voss spun, facing three remaining colossi. Gynoth could see his face. Or what was left of his face.

  The god’s jaw had been mangled, teeth punched up through his lip and into his nostrils. One of his ears had fallen off, and his shoulder looked to have been driven into the cavity of his chest. His arm dangled limply, the other still operable—for now.

  He stomped his foot, inviting the colossi in. Begging them to try their luck.

  Gynoth heard Heinla shouting directions to bring something to her, but he couldn’t spare the time to look. Not now, not when—

  Voss took the first fist without so much as a stagger. But then a foot caught him and took off the remainder of his jaw. He fell to one knee, shaking his head. He glanced up, raised a hand.

  Gynoth heard the deadening thud and winced. Voss’s hand, somehow, had deflected a colossal knee from caving in his face. But it had cost him an entire limb—the force ripped his arm not only out of its socket but from his body.

  “Mister Necromancer,” Heinla said, “move.”

  Gynoth took one look and decided that moving was the proper choice to make. Behind him, sloshing in place, crested a wave. It was smaller than the one Heinla had summoned before, but far larger than any a natural storm over the ocean was capable of conjuring. Before it lay barrels and crates full of weapons and armor.

  Heinla’s face twisted and her teeth smashed together. The wave surged forward, picking up sharp and blunt objects of iron in its path. It swept the weapons along effortlessly, just as it swept snow along like sand.

  The trio of colossi surrounding Voss heard the water’s roar, and they turned. They anchored their feet in the ice, and pounded their fists in the snow to steady themselves.

  “Hum,” Heinla said, rubbing her hands joyfully. “Do you know they say iron doesn’t mix well with water? It causes icky rust. But I think they go together very nicely. Don’t you?”

  That question came as the first drops of water splashed the colossi.

  “There’s the tickle,” Heinla said. “Now the punch! Watch!”

  The summit of the wave crimped as it passed the colossi overhead. It collapsed onto them, a great ocean cascade that teetered and wobbled the giants. Then came the audible tinks and tanks and clangs and clongs.

  Crudely smithed swords and blunt hammers smashed into their stony frames. Angular shields and round skullcaps busted loose chunks of rock from their chests. Rusted greaves and dull axes carved apart their faces like a sculptor molding a mountain to his liking.

  “That’s a beaut-ee-ful scene,” said Heinla, nibbling her bottom lip while watching the battered colossi slowly break apart.

  “You killed Voss,” Gynoth remarked.

  Heinla chewed her nonexistent nails, then yanked a clomped mat of hair down and chewed on that. “He was dead no matter what, Mister Necromancer. He would much prefer to be killed by his fellow gods than these… oh, I don’t know what to call them!”

  “Ah,” said Nollis, slapping Heinla’s tiny shoulders. “Miscreations, methinks. Mis…cre…ations.”

  Wet from the blowback of the surging wave, Gynoth shivered. He had little time to wallow in his lack of creature comforts, however, for the true battle had just begun.

  Over ways, his risen army had ceased their retreat. The Breakers, as they were known—a massive conglomerate of corpses in the rough shape of a circle, intended to march forward slowly and break the enemy’s ranks—stretched from the base of one cliff to another and went back as far as a hundred feet.

  A skeletal horse trotted up the far edge of the Breakers, Lairn sitting on its saddle. He yelled things, but Gynoth could not discern them. Orders, likely—stratagems and reminders.

  If the risen had been a living army, Lairn might have shouted words of motivation and inspiration. But these cadavers belonged to Gynoth. They had not free will, nor the capability to refuse orders. They would kill themselves with the same vigor as they’d kill their enemy, if commanded to do so.

  The gods before Gynoth, however… well, they had proven trustworthy thus far, but how much longer? He’d bound their souls to his gem, but he still couldn’t help feel they weren’t his to command. There was something about them. Something different. Something… perverted.

  “Rouen,” Gynoth called out, “Earella, Aquael, come with me. The rest of you, stay here and provide cover for us and help the risen break those colossi.” The trio of gods came in close to Gynoth. He nodded at them in acknowledgment, then pointed out a ways from the Ripper. “We jog out and then arc around, coming in from behind.”

  “Ah,” Earella said, “a flank.”

  “Unlike any you’ve seen before,” Gynoth said. He started off, a light lope through the snow, which was more difficult than he’d expected. Where the snow was stiff and packed, running came easy. Where it lay as a fine fluff, it was impossible.

  He looked back on occasion, ensuring the three gods were still there. They were.

  Snow sprayed into the cuffs of his pants and slid beneath the tongues of his boots. Throughout mostly his entire existence, he had known only the cold and bitterness it b
rought, so this did not bother him. Far more annoying was the boredom and monotony of endless snow and gray skies. On this day, however, boredom did not and could not exist. He was, after all, about to bring thousands of colossi to their knees.

  The plan was simple. Most good plans are. He’d come in from behind, make his way to the edge of the Ripper. There, he’d retreat into the realm of death and bring from it rotted roots and decayed vines. He’d sew them together through the deep soil around the edges of the Ripper, far beneath the layer of permafrost above.

  When the Breakers pushed the colossi back, those vines and roots and creepers and brambles would burst through the earth. They’d coil around fat ankles of stone. They’d wrap around colossi torsos, bind their arms, make for a fine braid around their necks.

  Some giants would die on the surface. Many more would be dragged into the Ripper, coming to a final resting place wherever the abyss ended. Their numbers would break, and then the fun would begin.

  Gynoth wondered if the mainland of Avestas was also under assault. Undoubtedly it would be, and likely by demons and colossi, unless the latter sent their entire population to the Ancient Lands. The capital kingdoms could stave off the assault for some time, if they banded together. But they’d fall, in the end. That was why putting a quick end to this colossi invasion here and now was paramount for the survival of Avestas.

  Gynoth would raise the colossi as his own army, and with the risen and gods at his side, he’d march southward, into Avestas. He’d protect that land. He’d save that land. Eventually, he’d lord over that land. He’d serve as its eternal king. He had never born a child, but that would soon change, for the world would be his child.

  An explosion in the distance made Gynoth flinch. He glanced toward the Ripper. A trail of fire burning in the white snow should have caught his eye, but instead the sky commanded his attention. A volcanic eruption in the clouds boiled away the colors of gray and silt and mud that hung over the Ancient Lands always.

  A meteor as sprawling as Gynoth’s fortress, as towering and high-reaching as the spire of Haeglin—it fell from the sky like a pillar crafted from the furnace of the heavens.

  It plummeted into the amalgamation of risen and colossi who had collided in battle.

  Gynoth shielded his eyes, unable to withstand the intense cloud of flame that flared after contact. A ripple of heat swam outward from the meteor, melting sheets of snow and ice. He felt the warmth burning into him. Felt like he was ablaze.

  When he opened his eyes again, he stared at his hands. Blisters covered his fingers, some of them wet and open. He touched his face, finding that it too was blistered and raw and burnt. Only because of his arm were his eyes still functional.

  He wished they weren’t.

  The army that he had painstakingly gathered… gone. The skeletal horses he’d risen from stables across Avestas… gone. They’d vanished beneath the rived earth, into a pit whose edges met the Ripper, forming an unrivaled gorge. One half glowed the color of embers, and the other vomited out risen.

  There were ten thousand in all. They’d crawled into the Ripper days ago, deep down until obfuscated by the blackness. They were to climb up and wrangle the fleeing, broken ranks of colossi. Instead, they climbed up and were met with an elemental surprise.

  Ocean waves bore down on them, summoned undoubtedly from Heinla. There were visible gusts of wind too, and bolts of lightning that struck with ferocity.

  Gynoth saw several hundred risen swept back into the Ripper. The others he did not, for a fist punched him in the back of his skull, and the light of the world went dim.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Silence. Oriana indulged in it, closing her eyes once more. She lay in her four-poster bed, the same one she’d slept in as a child and young woman, until she’d received her uncle’s estate for her eighteenth birthday.

  The fact that she was queen still hadn’t sunk in. She’d never felt the relief and joy that she’d expected—only crippling anxiety as monstrous creatures marched on Haeglin.

  There was a knock at the door. She sighed, opened her eyes. “Yes?”

  “Lady Oriana,” said one of the guards posted outside, “Mister Horace Dewn wishes to speak with you.”

  Oriana sat up and yawned away her tiredness. It was midday, but her nights had been long and offered little time to sleep. “Send him in.”

  The door opened and Horace strolled inside, hands steepled at his belly. He wore a faded sage green tunic, dirt streaking down the arms. His hair was parted to one side, freshly combed—an unusual look for the normally inconspicuous spymaster.

  “Your scouts have reported back,” he said, nary a tinge of worry or relief in his voice. “Three of them.”

  “Where are the other four?”

  Horace shrugged. “Could be anywhere, including six feet under. Colossi have crested the Crags. Their pace puts them at Haeglin in less than two weeks, if they set a course here.”

  “They don’t know Haeglin even exists.”

  Horace paced the room. “Demons have taken the North and South approaches.”

  Oriana turned an ear toward Horace, as if she’d misheard. “Both? Already?”

  “They seem to have had split their forces at the Gape.” Horace stopped at the dresser. He swept a finger across the top, shooing dust into the air. “A strategic maneuver that speaks of their intelligence. It allows them to sandwich Haeglin, surround this jut of earth. It also tells me they have knowledge of Avestas; far more than I anticipated.”

  He’s holding something back, Oriana thought. She said nothing, hoping her silence would prompt him to continue.

  Horace faced Oriana, a pained look on his face. “The demons came ashore at the West, colossi at the East, and their attack commenced at—or almost at—the same time.”

  “That sounds like a very big coincidence,” Oriana said.

  “Or—”

  “Another strategic maneuver?”

  Horace nodded. “They’re working as one. Demons could scout the land and we’d never know it. They’re quick, agile. So long as they keep off the roads and travel beneath a night sky, chances are Avestas would be none the wiser. They relay their knowledge to the colossi, and…” He let the implication linger.

  “It would mean your estimation of their arrival is correct. Are the vats ready?” The vats would serve as the reservoirs in which the mutations would boil, suffusing the air around them and mutating all who breathed in the vapors.

  Horace meandered toward the door. “That’s the second reason I’ve come. Yes, they were put in place a few hours ago. I’ve inspected them, and so have Rol and Jameson. The old man—”

  “Craw?”

  Horace nodded. “He would know better than any of us if the vats are proper, but no one can find him.”

  Oriana shook her head, confused. “What do you mean no one can find him? He sleeps all day in the guest chambers.”

  “He’s not there. He hasn’t been seen since last night.”

  Oriana rolled her eyes and swung her legs off the bed. She put her feet in a pair of slippers. “Gods, I hope he didn’t croak.” Craw had told her what each mutation was capable of, and this information had been written down, but she nevertheless wanted him to be present in case something… well, went wrong.

  “Well,” she said, “get Jameson to round up a few Jackals and form a search party. We need him. I’m going to look at the vats.”

  “I’ll walk with you,” Horace said.

  That’s another way of saying he has more to talk about. Oriana stood and pulled at the hem of her cotton summer tunic, freeing the bunches and smoothing the wrinkles. She and Horace left her quarters together, walking abreast through the expansive hallways of the keep. The Jackals posted at her door followed, as always.

  Flames flickered within silver sconces that hung upon the walls, and for a while Oriana heard only the hiss of fire and light footsteps across the carpets that stretched throughout the hallways.

  Finally,
as she rounded a corner and came to a spiraling staircase, Horace spoke.

  “The position of our enemy,” he said, “necessitates your edict to the people.”

  Oriana took the first step and paused there. She breathed in deeply and looked at Horace. “It’s not an edict. I’m asking for volunteers.”

  “And when you have fewer volunteers than you’d like? It becomes an edict then, no?”

  Oriana chewed her cheek and proceeded down the stairs at a languid pace, hand on the banister.

  She hadn’t yet told her people that war approached. She wasn’t sure how to tell them—mostly because it wasn’t just war. It was a fight for the survival of man.

  Rumors had been spreading as to why smoke rose over the Gape, but none of those rumors involved demons and colossi. She wondered how people would react when she’d reveal the monstrosities they faced. Probably they wouldn’t believe her, or at least they’d hold a healthy dose of skepticism.

  Horace and Rol had suggested a solution to that problem: capture a demon and bring it to Haeglin. Chain it up, bind its hands and feet. Put its grotesque features on display and show the citizens of Haeglin the horrors that would soon befall them.

  From that, she’d get volunteers who’d agree to be mutated. She didn’t doubt that. But would it be enough? Probably not. So, in the end, Horace would likely be correct—she’d have to issue an edict, force people to undergo the mutations. She’d do this knowing they would die. She’d do this knowing most had families they’d leave behind.

  She would do this because what other choice did she have? After all, she wished to change the world, and to do that she first had to save it.

  “We’ll take Sarpella out tonight,” Oriana said, approaching a landing at the bottom of the stairs. “To the south or north—whatever’s easiest. We’ll get a demon, bring it back, and”—she sighed—“I guess tomorrow I’ll ask for volunteers. And if there aren’t enough willing participants….”

  “The edict,” Horace said.

  Somberly, Oriana nodded. She and Horace departed the keep through the roofless courtyard. Servants were pruning flowers and shrubs, snipping off dead foliage, and hauling in square chunks of stone to construct a new raised garden bed.