Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The stone of the Keep quaked and groaned. My ears were ringing. I was now against the wall, Septimus leaning over me, hands braced over my shoulders. My eyes flicked up to meet his, both of us asking a silent question.
Zefiah said again, more urgently, {Kyrene, they have come for you.}
They.
The gods.
Septimus smiled. “Well,” he murmured against my ear, low voice shivering over the shell of it, “I suppose you’re getting your wish.”
He straightened and stepped back. I drew Zefiah as another wave of tremors rocked the keep. I glanced over my shoulder, at the row of windows that overlooked the balcony. They revealed only a star-dotted night sky—none of the telltale wisps of rainbow light that indicated a god was near.
{But their warriors are,} Zefiah said, reading my thoughts.
Whose? I asked.
“Septimus!”
I turned to see Sylina darting around the corner, red skirts flying out behind her as she steadied herself against the wall.
“You knew the deal,” she said. “As soon as they come for her, it’s time to—”
“I know, my queen. I am nothing if not obedient.” He bowed his head, and Sylina shook her head in a way that seemed to imply she was rolling her eyes.
Another crash, and then Atrius was beside Sylina, sword in hand.
“Septimus—” he barked.
Septimus raised his palms. “I know. Your wife already so rudely issued my marching orders.”
“You call me rude?” Sylina said. “Some might call it rude that my brother-in-law keeps bringing trouble to my kingdom. Go take care of that before they blow up the Weaver-damned Keep.”
I wondered if I was imagining that Septimus looked a little touched. “You think of me as your—”
{Kyrene, behind you!} Zefiah bellowed, and I whirled around just in time to see the balcony windows shattering.
My hands flew up to shield my face, but razored shards of glass still sliced my cheeks. When I lowered them, gleaming figures were pulling themselves up onto the balcony.
I thought, at first, they were soldiers clad in copper armor.
But no, as they pulled themselves up over the edge, it quickly became apparent that these weren’t people at all.
They were machines, tubes and gears and rods assembled into a mimicry of humans, without the pesky restrictions of bones and tendons.
They had faces that bore uncanny recreations of mortal features, perpetually still in polished metal.
Instead of hands, they had long, curved blades, already wet with black blood.
They came in rows and rows—dozens of them. The last to step onto the balcony was a bit smaller than the rest, their movements less uncannily smooth. This one was an actual mortal, I realized, made of flesh and blood—albeit encased in shining, god-touched copper armor.
{Srana’s blasphemous creations,} Zefiah said, hissing with displeasure.
Didn’t have the balls to come herself. So she sent her mechanical army.
For thousands of years, Srana had been the goddess of science and machinery.
But now, at war with her own siblings, the only power that mattered was the ability to rip out the throat of another.
So Srana came up with a way to build herself an army.
Turned out flesh and blood weren’t all that important after all.
Srana’s automatons had neither, and perhaps they were better off for it. They were, however, quite stupid—their “thought” limited to gears clicking into place, without the complex problem solving of conscious minds. The one thing Srana couldn’t quite figure out how to replace.
Thus, the purpose of the single human husk at the center of this army of steel. A general to think for an army that could not think at all.
Now this was someone who had sacrificed for their power.
At first, I couldn’t tell whether they were male or female, because so much of their human body had been cut away.
As they approached, I could see more of him—him, yes, definitely a man.
His arms were metal up to the shoulders, a collection of pipes and gears and gleaming brass, countless pieces clicking and working in unison.
The left hand was comprised of five skeletal metal fingers, and the right was merely a long, curved blade welded directly to the arm.
His chest was bare. The skin was raw where it met the metal, as if it had opened and re-healed many times, the scar tissue visible even from this far away.
His face was no better—half man, half machine, their meeting point red and inflamed right down the center of his skull.
He was undeniably strong. He moved faster and smoother than any human could.
Yet, up close, it was breathtaking how much it had clearly taken from him.
The way the two halves of him warred and scarred him, over and over again.
The cost of becoming a weapon created by the best blacksmith in the divine world.
Then I glanced down at Zefiah, pulsing with godlight in my hands—my hands that were scarred many times over themselves—and thought, Maybe I shouldn’t judge.
I braced myself as the wave of machinery approached. The automatons moved in perfect lockstep, mimicking their leader—even the minute actions, like the way he turned his head, the way his eyes narrowed.
There were a lot of them. Not too many for me. But a lot.
Septimus leaned forward and muttered in my ear, “Don’t move. Stay out of sight. If we play this game right, they lead us to Srana.”
Then a smug smile curled over his lips as he strode toward the general, one hand casually in his suit pocket, the other holding a cigarillo.
“Lukon! What a pleasure to see you again after so long.”
The man—Lukon, apparently—scowled. Ticktitititick, as the sea of machinery echoed the expression.
“Don’t bother, tainted one.” He spoke stilted, heavily accented Obitraen that sounded as if it echoed through a metal tube. Perhaps a stiff translation, via Srana’s magic. “The Sacred Architect has sensed that you have stolen her property. An unforgiveable offense.”
The staff. Which had likely gotten more use these last two weeks than it had in a decade. Enough to attract a god’s attention, coupled with my presence here.
Septimus’s brow furrowed innocently. “Stolen? Me? You must be mistaken.”
Still more automatons crawled over the balcony. A crack slithered through the air. I glanced down to see spiderweb fissures threading through the stone floor.
I peered over my shoulder to see that Sylina and Atrius’s soldiers were steadily gathering—blindfolded priestesses and armored vampires alike.
Lukon’s metal hand snapped to Septimus’s throat, thrusting him against the wall. “Stolen,” he snarled. “And I am sure it is not the only thing.”
Septimus raised his hands.
“You may not want to do that yet,” he said. “I have an offer for your Sacred Architect.”
Lukon hesitated. Clicks pattered through his automaton followers like spring raindrops as they echoed the expression. “What could you possibly have to offer Srana?”
Septimus smiled. “You are looking for the god killer, yes? I happen to know where she is.”
“We will hunt her.”
“It’s one thing to hunt her. Another to catch her.”
Lukon’s scowl deepened. Black blood beaded around his grip on Septimus’s throat. I watched more and more soldiers climb onto the balcony. All the while, Septimus talked.
For fuck’s sake. What was he doing?
{He enjoys the sound of his own words,} Zefiah muttered.
Undeniably true.
I looked to the army. To the soldiers. To the sky, dark.
My toe tapped impatiently against the floor.
We play this game right, and they lead us to Srana, Septimus had said. As if getting to a god required some kind of finesse.
Please. We had gods to kill. Who could waste that kind of time?
“Hey!”
I strode through the broken window, Zefiah drawn and gleaming gold.
In unison, dozens of mechanical faces turned to me in a cascading wave of cli-cli-cli-cli-clicks.
Septimus’s expression of smooth confidence flickered.
“No need to go hunting,” I said as I walked. “Your god slayer is here.”
Lukon started to turn to me, releasing Septimus’s throat, mouth opening, blade half raised.
And my stride didn’t even break as I lifted Zefiah and brought her down across his throat.
Red blood sprayed me. It reeked of oil lubricant. Zefiah made it through most of his throat, though she caught briefly on his spine—reinforced metal—and I had to hack one more time as he fell. I gripped his long black ponytail to stabilize the head as I cut it free.
The automatons fell into immediate disarray, springing forward, weapons raised.
My eyes briefly fell to Septimus, who stared at me, lips parted, eyes wide. I got the impression that he didn’t wear this expression often, and I smugly appreciated being the cause of it.
“You want to kill a god?” I said. “Let’s kill a fucking god.”
Then I marched to the edge of the balcony and lifted Lukon’s dripping head to the sky.
“Murdered your acolyte, you copper cunt,” I bellowed. “If you want me, come and get me yourself, Srana. I’m right here.”
With a mighty heave I hurled the head over the edge, letting it crash down to the rocky shores below. I watched it fall. It bounced against the rocks once, teeth of ivory and gold spraying like ocean foam, before it rolled into the ocean, where it bobbed sadly against the shore.
Exactly as humiliating an end as I wanted it to be. There was nothing that worked better to attract a god than to shove your middle finger up and spit in their face. The greater the slight, the more effective the goad.
Sure enough, fragments of rainbow light now danced between the stars. Signaling the attention of a god.
{You are reckless,} Zefiah said.
You loved it. Get ready to kill another goddess.
“What in the name of the fucking Mother did she just do?” a booming voice roared behind me.
I leaned the flat of Zefiah’s blade over my shoulder and turned to see Atrius and Sylina standing in the balcony doorway, lips parted in shock.
Atrius looked nearly the animal he was the day he almost killed me in the sparring ring—like any minute now he’d try again, on purpose, and probably succeed this time.
Sylina was shooting daggers at me through her blindfold, before whirling around and shouting commands to the priestesses behind her.
All the while Septimus just stared at me, and slowly, like a sunrise I barely remembered cresting the horizon, a smile spread over his face.
“Oh, dove,” he said. “What have you just done?”
“I’m doing what you hired me to do.” I jabbed Zefiah to the sky, brightening minute by minute. “And I’m still not a dove.”
“No.” He rubbed his temple. He looked a little dazed. I could see his own gears, much better hidden than the automatons’, clicking and ticking as he tried to reassemble whatever ruin remained of his plan. “No. You’re a cataclysm.”
{The first correct thing he’s said,} Zefiah remarked.
Oh, stop. Prepare yourself.
A piercing screech sliced through the air. The night burst open like splitting fabric.
And tearing from within it was Srana herself.