Sword of Sacrifice - Preview

Chapter 1

The day Damian’s father was murdered began like any other, but ended with a sacrifice that would unshackle the gods.

It happened a week before Damian’s seventeenth birthday.

He woke an hour before sunrise, stepping out of their little log cabin in the mountains to check the traps he’d set the night before. The late-spring snow blanketing the land and trees glowed silver in the light of the half-moon, his breath frosting in the frigid air as he made his way toward the woods ahead. His short-sleeved shirt did little to stave off the chill, so he hugged himself with his left arm – his good arm – as he walked. His bad arm was hidden under his modified shirt, withered and contracted against his chest, his elbow and wrist permanently flexed. Paralyzed and numb, it’d been that way since birth. But he was plagued by the occasional phantom sensation that he could feel and move it.

Caw, caw!

Damian yawned, extending his good arm, and a large black crow landed on it.

“Morning Ray,” he mumbled.

It was short for “raven,” what Damian had mistaken Ray for when he’d rescued the crow as a chick. Ray gave him a shrewd look, then deposited something in Damian’s hand:  a copper coin.

“Aw come on Ray,” Damian protested. “You can’t keep stealing people’s money!”

The crow had clearly seen Damian collecting money from customers at his father’s blacksmith shop, and had come to the conclusion that the same arrangement of buying and selling applied to feathered folk. Damian shook his head, putting the coin in his shirt pocket, and Ray hopped to his shoulder, eyeing his pants pocket in eager anticipation. Damian held out a handful of seeds he always kept there, watching as Ray pecked at them. When Ray was done, Damian scratched behind the bird’s head, smiling at the little guy.

“You’re a no-good thief, you know that?”

Ray hopped onto Damian’s bad shoulder and began pecking at the front of it.

“Ow! Hey, cut it out!” Damian said, shooing the bird away. He pulled the neck of his shirt down over his bad shoulder, exposing the ugly black scar on the front of it. One that formed a deep indent in his skin, and glowed with a faint, eerie purple light. Ray landed on his bad hand a second time, and sure enough, the damn crow pecked at his scar again. Damian cursed, swatting Ray away, but it was too late; the bird’s beak had pierced the scar. Thick black fluid oozed out of it, dribbling down the front of his arm.

“What the hell got into you?” Damian muttered, pulling down his sleeve. Ray had never pecked him that hard before.

Ray didn’t answer, flying to a branch on a tree overhead and wiping his beak on the bark. Damian shot him a look, then continued through the sparse woods toward the traps he’d set last night. Ray hopped from branch to branch overhead, watching eagerly as Damian checked the traps. They’d all been successful as usual, ensnaring two beavers and a few rabbits. He went to bring them inside before some greedy animal mustered the courage to nibble at them…Ray included.

Caw!

“Uh huh. Should’ve thought about that before you attacked me,” he called out as he stepped into the house to deposit the carcasses. He went back outside then, this time to collect a few eggs from the chicken coop. He felt Ray’s beady little eyes on him, and gave in, setting a freshly laid – and thus not yet frozen – one on the front porch railing. Ray landed there to peck at the egg, making a hole in the top of it to suck out the goodness. “All right buddy, I forgive you.”

The front door creaked open behind him, heavy boots thumping on the porch.

“Morning,” a deep, gruff voice greeted.

Damian turned around to see Dad standing just beyond the doorway. Six-foot-nine and full of muscle, he was the largest man Damian had ever met. His long brown hair and great bushy beard were streaked with gray, his gray shirt and overalls clean but worn. A magenta-colored crystal amulet hung around his neck, glowing with an inner light. And an axe hung from his right hand…a huge hand, thick with callouses and riddled with scars, like his face. Scars he’d earned during a lifetime of killing.

“Morning sir,” Damian greeted. Dad’s piercing blue eyes went to the black stain on Damian’s sleeve. “It wasn’t me this time!” Damian blurted out, taking a step backward and almost tumbling down the stairs. “It was Ray. He pecked me.”

Dad stepped forward, yanking the neck of Damian’s shirt down over his bad shoulder and revealing the still-oozing scar.

“I’m telling the truth,” Damian insisted. Dad eyed the scar, then Ray, who was happily gulping up the yolk from his makeshift bowl. He grunted, letting go of Damian’s collar.

“Finish your chores while I chop down that dead tree.”

He walked past Damian, going down the porch steps and heading off into the woods. Damian watched him go, his heart hammering in his chest. He shot Ray a glare.

“You almost got me killed, you know that?”

Caw!

“Pfft. You think Dad’s gonna give you seeds every day like I do? He doesn’t feed birds. He eats them.”

Ray didn’t dignify that with a response.

The whack, whack of Dad’s axe echoed in the air, and Damian sighed, heading to the garden to harvest garlic and green onion. He brought them back to the cabin, stepping into the kitchen. After plopping his ill-gotten coin in a nearly overflowing jar on the counter labeled “Ray’s Seed(y) Stash,” he started cooking breakfast. By the time he was done, Dad had returned, sitting on one of the two chairs at opposite ends of their long kitchen table to eat.

Everything as it had always been, and as Damian feared it would always be. The same old boring routine.

When they were done, Damian cleaned up, then put on a long-sleeved shirt, then his jacket. Not only to stay warm, but to hide his scar. Dad had made it clear that no one else was allowed to see it, not that Damian would want anyone seeing it anyway.

Grabbing his backpack and slinging it over his good shoulder, he left the cabin with Dad. And so began their morning hike down the mountain, to their blacksmith shop in the city of Rockport.

* * *

As Damian and Dad hiked down the mountain trail, sunlight revealed what had been hidden in darkness a mere hour ago. At the foot of the mountain far below, a dirt road led to the Northern Passage, a winding path through a deep canyon and across imposing mountains miles to the north. It was the only path to Hylon, the country Dad had fought a war with decades ago. Far beyond, Hylon’s coastline curved rightward to a massive volcano over a hundred miles away.

It was a sight that never failed to fill Damian with awe and wonder, stirring his soul with the promise of a grand adventure. Of strange places and great battles, with a reward of priceless treasures at the journey’s end.

And in the opposite direction, the road led south to the city of Rockport, and following it promised the same day he’d already lived countless times before. He sighed, kicking at a pebble as they hiked.

“I still think we should live on the second floor of the shop,” he stated. “It’d save us a lot of time.”

“Mountains make strong men,” Dad recited.

“Couldn’t we just live here on the weekends then? Do we really need to be that strong?”

“Isolation forces a man to solve his own problems,” Dad replied. “Hard to feel powerless when there isn’t a problem you can’t solve.”

They continued down the winding path, and Damian fell silent, gazing at the scenery far below. The country of Farum was essentially a huge island, with sheer rock walls hundreds of feet high rising up from the sea all around its perimeter. Its only connection to the continent to the north was the Northern Passage, which served as a land bridge to Hylon.

“What are we working on today?” Damian asked.

“You tell me.”

“Well…we have to finish that sword for Lord Garland’s son,” Damian said, referring to the replica of Dad’s greatsword, a now-legendary weapon Dad had used leading the final battle against Hylon to win the war.

“And then?” Dad pressed. Damian tilted his head back, dragging his feet dramatically.

“Not the nails!” he groaned. Dad smirked. Making nails was a necessary evil for a blacksmith, and Damian’s least favorite job.

“Swords take things apart. Nails bring them together. Besides, if you can make a nail…”

“You can make just about anything,” Damian recited. “Nobody’s gonna tell stories about Damian, legendary nail-forger.”

“Building things is more heroic than destroying them,” Dad countered. He smiled. “Don’t worry, people will tell stories about you no matter what you do. Most of them behind your back.”

“You make people sound terrible.”

“Terrible and wonderful…and everything in between.”

“What were Hylon’s soldiers like?” Damian asked, always eager to try to get Dad to talk about the war. A subject the man rarely spoke about, despite it clearly having been the most exciting part of his life.

“Us,” Dad answered.

“I mean, what was it like fighting them?”

Dad paused.

“Every man I killed, killed a part of me.”

Damian looked up at his father, not knowing how to reply to that. Something in his Dad’s expression told him not to push the subject, but he couldn’t help himself.

“But it must have been exciting sometimes,” he pressed. “Being in battle, I mean.”

“Sometimes,” Dad conceded. “But this is better.”

“Hiking down a mountain?”

“Spending my life with you.”

They both fell silent, and Damian concentrated on navigating the steep path down the mountain, a journey that had forged his legs into muscular, tireless limbs. At length, they made it to the foot of the mountain, continuing onward toward a wide road in the distance, one that went all the way to Rockport. Here, there wasn’t a hint of snow, the temperature easily twenty degrees warmer. Damian took off his jacket, slinging it over his bad shoulder. Dad eyed Damian’s boots.

“A bare foot is good for the sole,” he recited. The military had taught Dad aphorisms for every occasion; the man lived by them, and expected Damian to do the same. So Damian took off his boots and socks, tying them to his backpack. This disturbed Ray, who flew overhead in lazy circles, following them. “Go on ahead,” Dad prompted gesturing toward the town. “Run and don’t stop ‘til you get there.”

Damian went to remove his backpack, and Dad stopped him.

“A life of leisure is a life of misery,” he warned. “A reward is only as big as the difficulty in earning it. So…”

“No difficulty, no reward.”

“That’s my boy,” Dad replied. “Wear the backpack.”

Damian complied, breaking out into a run toward Rockport. Dad ran right behind him, keeping pace easily despite being forty years older. Minutes passed, and Damian fell into his usual cadence of breathing, counting each breath in a hypnotic mantra as he went.

In, two, three, four…out, two, three, four.

In this way, he ran to the tunnel that sloped down into the plateau toward Rockport, reaching it without stopping or even slowing.

The tunnel was twenty feet wide and fifteen hundred feet long, and angled down twenty degrees into the earth, lanterns bolted to the walls lighting the way forward. Even this early, horse-drawn wagons were pulling loads of ice-covered fish up the slope, and Damian ran near the wall to avoid getting in their way.

The tunnel ended in an arched gateway twenty feet wide and ten feet tall, with “We are the Shield of Farum” carved into the archway. It was guarded by several soldiers in gray gambeson, multilayered cloth armor over which they wore riveted mail. Their uniforms sported the symbol of a shield with a magenta circle on the left upper chest, the crest of the Outer Ring of Farum. Some of the soldiers were on foot, a few more on horseback, and all of them eyed Damian and Dad as they approached. Damian wasn’t even winded when he stopped before them; while he only had one arm, his legs more than made up for it.

“Morning Colonel Ferrer!” one of the soldiers greeted, saluting sharply, then unlocking the gate and swinging it open. “Morning Damian.”

“Lieutenant Colonel Porter,” Dad replied. “How’s the sea?”

“Plenty of fish and no enemy ships,” Porter answered with a grin. “Just the way I like it.”

“Any attacks on the Northern Stronghold?” Dad asked.

“Nope. Blood moon’s coming next month though. It’s got everyone on-edge.”

“Go ahead of me,” Dad told Damian. He turned back to Porter. “Any word from the Inner Ring?”

Damian left the men behind, taking stone steps down to Main Street. He dodged a man busy chipping away at the steps, who glanced up at him as he passed.

“Morning Damian!” the man greeted.

“Morning,” Damian replied.

The city of Rockport was actually below sea level, the tunnel they’d come through the only way in or out. It’d been built as a near-perfect circle, the eastern half bordered by a curved cliff wall five hundred feet high, while the western half had a curved, fifty-foot-tall seawall keeping the ocean at bay. Countless wooden docks extended beyond the seawall, serving hundreds of colorful fishing ships and a fleet of warships. Pairs of wooden platforms connected to each other by pully systems went up and down the seawall; as the platform on the bottom was unloaded, and the platform on top was loaded with cargo, the topmost platform lowered while the bottom raised back up to be loaded next.

A mile beyond the seawall stood the Dragon’s Maw, a narrow peninsula that closed off the sea around Rockport, save for a narrow channel to the left. A massive rampart had been built upon the entire length of the peninsula, a great stone wall fifty feet tall with towers placed at regular intervals, jutting up like dragon’s teeth. Rockport was the only port in Farum, and the Dragon’s Maw was the first line of defense against naval invasions. The evil kingdom of Hylon had sent its forces to do just that half a century ago, starting a war that’d lasted thirty years.

Damian continued down Main Street for a few blocks, then spotted an elderly woman carrying a basket practically overflowing with muffins ahead. He cursed under his breath, ducking down a side street…but it was too late.

“Damian!” the woman exclaimed, rushing to catch up with him. He turned around, forcing a smile. “Ooo, have a muffin,” she added. “A growing boy like you needs to eat!”

“I already…” Damian began, but Mrs. Hershel was already on her tippy-toes, shoving a muffin into his mouth. At six feet two, Damian was taller than most…except for Dad, of course. “Mmf, fanks Miffuf Herfel,” Damian mumbled, extracting the muffin from his mouth. “Wow, it’s really good,” he added, because it really was. “What’s the secret ingredient?”

She gave him a look.

“It’s not about any one ingredient, it’s how they work together,” she replied. “Every ingredient has what the others are missing.”

Damian smiled, retrieving a few coins – and seeds – from his pocket, and offering them to her.

“Put those away or I’ll feed them to you,” she scolded, slapping his hand and scattering the coins on the street. Damian bent over to pick them up, while Ray swooped down out of nowhere to devour the seeds, and Mrs. Hershel took the opportunity to flee the scene.

 Damian smiled, shaking his head at her. He finished the muffin as he continued down the side street, savoring every bite. Being the widow to the former town baker, Mrs. Hershel’s baking was now the finest in Rockport, much to the current town baker’s irritation. It was obvious that the man couldn’t wait for Mrs. Hershel to kick the bucket…and that Mrs. Hershel took perverse pleasure in staying alive for the sole purpose of showing the man up.

Caw!

“Just got crumbs left,” Damian told Ray, who happily flew up to relieve Damian of them, then flew away, no doubt eager to continue his life of crime.

Damian reached the end of the side street, turning right down a wider one…and was immediately accosted by another woman. It was Ms. Reynolds, a rail-thin, elderly woman whose face no one had never seen, covered as it was by countless layers of makeup. And while people tended to lose a few marbles as they aged, he suspected Ms. Reynolds had never had many to begin with.

“Oh Damian,” she gushed, rushing up to him and grabbing his bad wrist. “Where’s your father?”

“Coming,” Damian replied.

“It’s been eleven years since I’ve been with a man,” she mused rather wistfully, information he would’ve happily gone to his grave without knowing. She let go of his wrist, leaving a perfect handprint of makeup on it. “He’s rich and tall, and oh! He’s got such a nice shape!”

“Uh huh,” he mumbled. More than a few women in Rockport had their eye on Dad, not that Dad seemed to notice or care. The less you wanted something, the more it wanted you. Unfortunately for Damian, the converse was also true.

“And look at you all grown up,” she purred with a predatory gleam in her eyes. “Such gorgeous hair…and those eyes,” she added, her own eyes dribbling down to his chest, then a bit further south.

“Bye Ms. Reynolds!” he blurted out, escaping as quickly as he could. Still, he waved for politeness’s sake, then wiped the makeup from his wrist after she was safely out of view.

Damian hurried toward the shops a few blocks away from the fifty-foot-tall seawall, doing his best not to make eye contact with anyone else. Their blacksmith’s shop was just ahead, a quaint one-story building with a sign out front displaying a magenta hammer and anvil. The store was in the front and the smithy was in the back; he stepped inside, depositing his heavy backpack on the floor.

“Morning kid,” a short, wiry man in his fifties greeted from behind the counter. It was Cedric, an old friend of Dad’s from the military. “You make it through the gauntlet okay?”

“Stuffed and assaulted, but still alive.”

“Your adoring fans left you this,” Cedric quipped, gesturing at the counter. There was another tray of Mrs. Hershel’s muffins there, as well as a basket of Baskerville apples, knitted blankets, and so on.

Damian grimaced, lowering his gaze.

“Be thankful for it, kid,” Cedric stated. “Before your father brought you here, most people only gave a damn about themselves.”

Damian didn’t reply, making his way quickly past the counter to the workshop in the rear of the building. The message of the gifts wasn’t lost on him, of course. The whole town felt bad for him, cripple that he was, and he’d become their poor little charity case.

He felt a familiar glumness come over him, and trudged into the workshop to fire up the forge. It wasn’t long before Dad stepped into the workshop, so tall that he had to duck under the doorway.

“Alright,” he declared. “Let’s finish that greatsword.”

* * *

With only one arm, smithing was a difficult job indeed, which was why Dad had helped Damian design and build a mechanical arm of sorts. One bolted to the anvil stand, that had vices to grip metal as he worked. After years of practice, Damian could work at a reasonable pace, enough to be a help rather than a burden. By the time they put the finishing touches on the greatsword, the sun was already close to setting, and Damian was starving, having skipped lunch. They took a break to eat dinner, then got to work doing the most soul-sucking job Damian knew of:  making a whole boatload of nails. For boats, appropriately enough.

After another hour of this, Dad set down his hammer.

“That’s enough torture for today. Come on outside.”

“For sparring?” Damian guessed. He still hadn’t recovered from all the bruises Dad had given him yesterday.

“For sparring,” Dad confirmed.

“But I already feel bad enough about myself,” Damian quipped. Dad smirked, heading to the door at the rear of the building, and Damian sighed, grabbing the long pack filled with various wooden sparring weapons, then following Dad to the small fenced-in area behind the shop. The sky was orange-red with the setting sun, the cool breeze feeling marvelous after a day by the forge.

Caw!

Damian glanced up, seeing Ray land on the roof of the shop, perching there to watch them.

“You’re going to enjoy this, aren’t you,” Damian accused. Crows were notorious for holding grudges, and he’d swatted Ray earlier.

“Shortsword first,” Dad prompted. Damian grabbed a shortsword, while Dad chose a spear and shield for himself.

“Not the spear,” Damian groaned. “I hate spears.”

“Oh I know,” Dad replied with a devilish grin. “And why is that?”

“Spears beat swords, spears tie swords with shields, and sword and shield beats spear and shield,” Damian recited.

“So if you can beat a spear with a sword…” Dad pressed.

“…you can beat anything,” Damian finished with a sigh.

“Ready?”

“No,” Damian quipped…and then Dad lunged at him, thrusting at his chest!

Damian dodged backward, blocking the spear with his sword in the nick of time. But Dad thrust a second time, stabbing him with the blunt tip of the spear.

“Now what did I tell you about dodging straight back?” Dad lectured.

Damian dodged backward and to the side instead, circling around Dad, who thrust again and again, first at his belly, then at his face. The spear was so long that it forced Damian to stay well beyond his sword’s reach, and Dad was far too skilled to risk closing in on him.

“Come on, fight!” Dad urged, thrusting again.

Damian dodged forward and to the side this time, closing the distance and winding up to thrust at Dad’s flank. But he hesitated for a split-second, and Dad batted his sword to the side, punishing him with a jab to the gut.

“Don’t hesitate,” Dad admonished. “In a fight, you have to commit to hurting the other person…or killing them.”

“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” Damian protested, backing out of range again.

“Well some people will want to hurt you.”

“The war’s over Dad,” he grumbled. “No one’s gonna attack me.”

“That’s what they all say until the enemy knocks on their door. And when they do, you’ll be predator or you’ll be prey.”

Dad lunged at him just as he finished speaking, feigning high, then thrusting at his gut again. Damian dodged to the side…and collided with a trash barrel set outside the shop. Dad took advantage of his misfortune, scoring yet another jab on him.

“Remember, your environment can be your weapon and your shield,” Dad lectured, thrusting at Damian again. Damian dodged to the right, blocking it, but still kept his distance. Dad lowered his spear. “You can’t defend people to death, Damian. You want to be a turtle? Grab a shield instead of that sword.”

“I can’t beat a spear,” Damian argued.

“Yet,” Dad corrected. He put away the spear, retrieving a wooden practice axe and medium-sized shield.

“Finally, a weapon that isn’t seven feet long,” Damian quipped.

Dad replied not with words, but by rushing at him with a ferocious overhead chop. One that Damian managed to block, thank goodness. He spotted an opening, and kicked at Dad’s belly with his rear foot. A teep kick, or a pushing kick, meant to shove Dad backward. Dad stumbled, then caught his balance, breaking out in a smile.

“Now that’s more like it!”

Damian attacked with another teep kick, hoping to knock Dad off-balance. But this time Dad was prepared, dodging to the side, then side-kicking Damian in the gut. Damian grunted, the blow forcing him back a few feet. If Dad hadn’t pulled the kick back, he would’ve earned a few broken ribs.

“Too predictable,” Dad admonished. “The best attack is a surprise.”

Damian paused, then stepped forward with a foot-sweep, trying to catch Dad’s forward leg, then hook it with his foot to pull it out from underneath him. Dad anticipated this, pulling his front leg back, and swung his axe and a forty-five-degree angle at Damian’s neck. Damian blocked it with his sword, skipping forward for a thrust to Dad’s belly. Dad blocked with his shield, then stepped in, ramming Damian with it. Damian stumbled backward, then fell onto his back with a whump.

“Roll!” Dad cried, leaping forward with an overhead chop.

Damian was already rolling to the left, and pushed himself to his feet, the attack missing him by mere inches. He didn’t hesitate, lunging with another thrust at Dad’s chest. Dad blocked it easily.

“Don’t thrust,” he admonished. “You can’t generate enough power with only one arm.”

Damian grimaced, stepping straight back…and paid for it by Dad ramming him with the shield. It struck him full-on, and he fell onto his back again.

“Ha!” Dad cried, executing a deadly overhead chop…and tapping Damian lightly on the face. Damian cursed, smacking Dad’s axe to the side with his sword, then getting to his feet. “You know why I won?”

“Because you have two arms,” Damian replied, a little sharper than he’d planned.

“Because I didn’t hesitate.”

“I know,” Damian grumbled.

“You know, but you don’t do.”

“It doesn’t matter how much I train,” Damian muttered, tossing his sword on the ground. “No matter what I do, I’ll never be as good as someone who isn’t…who isn’t broken.”

Dad lowered his axe and his shield.

“Is that what you think?” he asked. “That you’re broken?”

“I am,” Damian replied, his vision blurring with moisture. He turned away, hating himself for showing his father weakness.

“Then you are,” Dad replied.

“What?”

“If you think you’re broken, that’s where you’re broken.”

Damian swallowed past a lump in his throat.

“Are you ashamed of me?”

“No,” Dad answered. “You are.”

Damian lowered his gaze.

“Get your sword,” Dad muttered.

Damian retrieved it, and Dad glanced up at Ray, who – apparently bored by the lack of fighting – was flying off into the darkening sky.

“It’s getting late,” he stated. “Let’s pack up.”

They brought the weapons back into the workshop, then went to the front of the building. Cedric had already gone home for the day; Damian grabbed his backpack, then followed Dad to the door. Dad pulled the door open, and…

BOOM!

The windows at the front of the shop shattered, glass exploding inward at them. A shockwave struck Damian, throwing him backward into the counter, sending the gifts atop it falling to the floor. Glass shards pelted him, stinging the back of his neck and head, and he cried out, crouching down. The front door burst inward, slamming into Dad and throwing him backward into one of the shelves. It tipped over, spilling weapons onto the floor, and Dad fell with them.

“Dad!” Damian cried, rushing up to him. Dad got to his feet, clutching at his left side.

“Go!” he barked, shoving shoved Damian through the open doorway with his free hand.

BOOM!

“What’s happening?” Damian cried, even as a sharp whistling sound grew steadily louder ahead of them. Something that looked like a red-hot glowing ball flew over the seawall, crashing into the shops a block to their right.

BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!

Damian cried out, covering his ears with his hands, even as people poured out of the buildings around them, filling the streets.

A horn blared from the west, near the entrance to the city, and soldiers rushed toward the seawall, climbing the steps to the top of it. A familiar soldier in white and magenta armor sprinted down the street toward them; it was Lieutenant Colonel Porter.

“What’s going on?” Dad demanded.

“Enemy vessel made it past the Dragon’s Maw, sir!” Porter answered, stopping before them.

“Get our gunners on it!” Dad snapped. “What kind of force are we looking at?”

“Lieutenant Colonel!” a soldier at the top of the seawall shouted, gesturing for Porter to come. Porter glanced at Dad, who nodded, following Porter to the stone steps going up the side of the seawall.

“Stay behind me,” Dad ordered Damian.

They rushed up the steps, making their way up to the top of the seawall, a stone platform twenty feet wide. Wooden docks were visible beyond and a few yards below, the ocean spreading out all the way to the Dragon’s Maw a mile away.

“What is it?” Porter asked the soldier who’d summoned him. The man pointed to a spot in the ocean less than a hundred yards away. “I don’t see…”

And then something rose from the depths of the ocean like a great big sea monster. A huge ship made of gold and red metal; the largest ship Damian had ever seen.

One with cannons lining its side, pointing right at them.

“Cover!” Porter screamed, ducking low.

Dad turned and grabbed Damian, lifting him with one arm and rushing him down the steps just as the cannons fired.

BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!

More red-hot cannonballs flew over the seawall, smashing into the city beyond and below and setting everything around them on fire. Dad swore, stopping partway down the steps, and Porter caught up with them, soldiers fleeing down the steps as well. There was an arched doorway into the seawall itself to their left, and Dad glanced at it, then at Porter. The blood drained from Porter’s face.

“Requesting permission to open the sluices, sir,” he stated.

“Denied,” Dad replied. “It’s one ship. We need to fight.”

They continued down the seawall, heading back down the street, making their way back toward the city entrance.

“Sir!” a soldier ahead of them shouted, pointing behind them. Damian turned…and his breath caught in his throat.

For the monstrous red and gold ship had surfaced completely, and despite having no masts or sails, had somehow moved parallel to the seawall, only ten yards away. Metal doors on the side of its hull swung downward to form ramps onto the top of the seawall…and an army of soldiers in red and gold armor rushed down them, running across the wall to the stairs leading down to the city.

“Your orders, Colonel,” Porter requested, eyeing Dad. But Dad didn’t answer. His eyes were wide, his face pale…and Damian followed his gaze to the one of the ship’s ramps.

There, coming down it, was a woman on horseback. One wearing silver armor and a deep blue cape, with a gauntlet that glowed bright silver in the darkness.

“Sir?” Porter pressed. Dad came to life, looking down at the man.

“That’s up to you, Lieutenant Colonel. Rockport is in your hands now.”

Porter blinked.

“What?”

Dad grabbed Damian’s arm, pushing past Porter and pulling Damian down the street with him. He broke out in a run.

“Dad, what are you doing?” Damian blurted out, glancing back at Porter.

“Get to the entrance!” Dad ordered. “Run!”

“But…”

“Don’t question me!” Dad snapped.

Damian sprinted down the street after Dad, who clutched at his ribs as he ran, shoving aside anyone unlucky enough to get in his way with his free hand. They made it to the gate, where soldiers on horseback were standing guard.

“Two horses, now!” Dad commanded.

The men rushed to dismount, stepping to the side, and Dad struggled to pull himself up into the saddle, even as Damian vaulted into his own saddle with practiced ease.

“Lose the pack,” Dad told Damian, who pulled it off his shoulder, throwing it aside.

“Where are you…” one of the soldiers began, but Dad snapped his reigns, breaking out into a gallop away from the city. “Colonel, wait! We need you!” the soldier yelled after him.

“Ride, Damian!” Dad shouted.

Damian hesitated, then prompted his own horse in a gallop after Dad, charging up the long tunnel behind him. They burst out of it into open terrain, the mountain they called home looming ahead.

“Where are we going?” Damian asked.

“Home,” Dad replied tersely. Damian glanced back.

“What about Rockport?”

No reply.

“We have to help them!” Damian pressed.

“We go back, we die,” Dad snapped, glaring at him. Damian glanced back again, then pulled on his reigns, stopping his horse. Dad did as well, twisting around to glare at him. “What the hell are you doing?”

“We have to go back,” Damian insisted. Dad cursed turning his horse around and riding up to Damian. He leaned over, grabbing Damian by the front of his shirt and glaring at him.

“You know how many people have died to get you here?” he snapped.

The blood drained from Damian’s face.

“Rockport is finished,” Dad stated. “And if you don’t come with me right now, I…”

He jerked his head to the right then, staring off at something in the distance Damian blinked, then followed his gaze, peering into the darkness.

Then he saw it.

For there, racing toward them a few miles away, was something Damian had never seen before. A huge creature half-hidden in shadow, moonlight giving a hint of a huge, metallic body and insect-like legs. But its eyes glowing with a brilliant white light that pierced through the darkness.

Eyes that were staring right at them.

“Dad?” he blurted out. The blood drained from Dad’s face.

“They’re coming,” he declared, with a voice that chilled Damian to the bone.

“What?”

“They’re coming,” Dad repeated. “For you.”

Chapter 2

“Faster!” Dad shouted.

Damian leaned over his horse, jamming his heels into its flanks. Foam spilled out of the side of its mouth, its coat slick with sweat as they raced across the flat, grassy plain toward the mountain trail that would bring them home.

Thumpa-thump, thumpa-thump…

The huge, insectoid creature with glowing white eyes was charging toward them from ahead and to the right, only two miles away now.

“What is that thing?” Damian asked. “What do you mean they’re coming for me?”

“We ride as far up as we can, then run the rest of the way home!” Dad shouted over the hoofbeats.

“But who’s…”

“Focus Damian!”

They raced to the mountain path, galloping up the relatively gentle slope at its start, but soon it got too steep for the horses. They dismounted, and Dad doubled over, clutching at his ribs, his face deathly pale in the moonlight.

“Dad?”

“Don’t wait for me,” Dad snapped, running up the trail as best he could. “If I fall behind, leave me. “Go to the…house, into the basement. “There’s a trapdoor under the red and…gold rug there. Take the tunnels as far as you can! Turn right, then left. There’s a secret door at the end. Pull the…”

“What? What tunnels?”

“Pull the third beam from the top, and head down the trapdoor under the gold rug beyond,” Dad gasped. “Promise me you will, Damian. Promise me!”

A chill ran through Damian.

“I promise.”

They rushed up the steep, winding path, the way forward barely visible in the darkness. Glancing back, Damian saw the creature chasing them veer toward the foot of the mountain a mile away.

“Eyes forward!” Dad urged. “You trip, you die!”

They continued up the slope, Damian’s legs burning with the effort. He focused on his breathing, settling into a familiar cadence.

In, two, three, four…out, two, three, four.

Damian focused, pushing himself as hard as he could, ignoring the pain in his legs and the burning in his lungs. The pain didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, other than getting home.

In, two, three, four…out, two, three, four.

He spotted their log cabin a hundred feet ahead, barely visible in the moonlight. Glancing back, he saw the dark silhouette of the massive creature racing up the side of the mountain toward them, only a few hundred yards away now, and closing the distance rapidly. On its back rode a shadowy figure, one carrying a strange silver light in their left hand.

“In the house!” Dad urged. “Don’t wait for me!”

Damian obeyed, bounding up the porch stairs and flinging the door open. He rushed into the kitchen, and Dad struggled up the steps and through the doorway behind him, then turned and shoved the door closed behind them.

“To the basement!” Dad ordered…

…and then the door exploded inward as something smashed through it, hunks of wood flying into the kitchen. It was a multi-jointed insectoid tail made of gold and red metal, and at its end was a huge metallic hand, with thumbs on both sides of the fingers.

It shot toward Dad, clipping his right shoulder, the impact flinging him backward into the kitchen table. The table broke under Dad’s weight, and he fell to the floor, the back of his head bouncing off the floorboards.

“Dad!” Damian cried, rushing to his side. He grabbed his father under the armpit with his good arm, trying to haul the man to his feet. But Dad was far too heavy, and he resorted to dragging him across the floor toward the living room.

The insectoid arm yanked backward out of the doorway, tearing the door frame free and vanishing from sight. Dad came to, screaming out in pain and clutching his right shoulder; it was clearly deformed, blood streaming from a large gash in the front of it. Still, Dad managed to struggle to his feet, shoving Damian toward the door to the basement.

“Go!” he snapped, tearing the door open and rushing down the stairs, ducking to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling. They reached the bottom, and Dad went right to an old, dusty rug on the floor, reaching down under it, then pulling it upward. Sure enough, it wasn’t a rug at all, but a cleverly disguised trapdoor. Dad lifted it, revealing stairs going down.

“Go down first,” he ordered. Damian did so, and Dad followed behind him, turning around to close the trapdoor. The basement door burst open, red light filling the room just as Dad slammed the trapdoor shut, locking it.

Darkness enveloped them, the amulet hanging from Dad’s neck somehow glowing faint magenta in the void. Muted footsteps thumped on the basement steps above, coming toward them.

The sudden flare of a match pierced the darkness, and Dad lit a small lantern set by the foot of the steps. This revealed a long, narrow tunnel beneath the basement, its earthen walls and ceiling supported by thick beams of black wood.

“What is this place?” Damian whispered.

“Come,” Dad hissed, handing the lantern to Damian, then limping down the tunnel. Damian followed behind, reaching the end of the tunnel, which branched left and right. Dad turned down the rightmost tunnel, continuing forward.

Bam-bam ba-ba-ba-bam!

The sounds came from behind them, followed by a crack…and Damian heard the trapdoor’s hinges squeal. He glanced back, seeing the red glow coming from the basement…and a silver, metallic boot descending to the first step, along with a length of metal chain.

Terror gripped him, and he turned right, rushing to catch up with Dad. They reached the end of the tunnel, where it again branched left and right, and this time Dad turned left.

“Dad…” he whispered, glancing back again.

Red light from the tunnel they’d been in grew steadily brighter, the sound of footsteps echoing off the walls…and of the chain dragging across the floor.

Dad shot him a deadly glare, putting a finger to his lips. They continued forward, turning left again, and then they came to the end of a short tunnel. A dead-end this time. Dad grabbed one of the horizontal wooden beams on the wall, the third one from the top, and pulled. The wall swung outward, revealing that it was a cleverly disguised door. It opened into a storage room with shelves lining the walls, packed with hundreds of sealed jars.

“Get in!” Dad snapped. Damian followed him inside, and Dad rushed to close the door.

Beyond it, the red light grew brighter, the footsteps faster now.

Damian helped Dad shove the door closed; there was a crossbar set against the wall, and Dad lifted it with one hand, wincing in pain. Damian helped him lift it, bringing it to the door, even as the footsteps grew louder from beyond.

Closer. Closer.

“Slide it in, hurry!” Dad urged…and then something slammed into the door.

Bam bam, ba-ba-ba-bam!

The door shoved open a few inches with each bam, throwing Dad and Damian backward onto the floor, the crossbar falling on top of them. The door burst open, blood-red light flooding the room, even as Dad threw the beam off them and struggled to his feet. He backed away from the doorway, shielding his eyes from the bright light, and Damian did the same. He squinted, barely able to make out a tall figure standing in the doorway.

The blood drained from Dad’s face.

It was a man in his late thirties, clad in blue and silver plate armor and a blue cape, a sword belted to his left hip and a glowing, blood-red shield in his left hand. He had short brown hair and a scruffy beard, his face haggard and smudged with black dirt that contrasted sharply with his blue eyes. A silver symbol of a sword and circle had been inlaid into the metal of his breastplate. And while the man’s right hand was bare and smudged with black, when the stranger lowered his shield, Damian saw that his left hand was clad in a blue metal gauntlet. A diamond-shaped compartment made of transparent, teal-colored crystal was embedded in the back of the gauntlet, filled with a glowing silver liquid the likes of which Damian had never seen.

Dad limped to the back right corner of the room, where an old pickaxe was leaning against the wall. He grabbed it, tossing it to Damian, then grabbed a hatchet from the shelf behind him.

“Fight son,” he told Damian. “Whatever you do, don’t let them take you.”

The stranger flicked his gaze to Damian, who took a step back, eyeing the sword sheathed at the stranger’s hip. The man dropped the chain unceremoniously onto the floor.

“Do you know what I am?” he asked. Dad paused, then nodded. The stranger’s eyes flicked to Dad’s hatchet, ignoring Damian.

“You don’t want…this fight,” Dad warned, settling into a fighting stance. He towered over the stranger, nearly two feet taller and a whole lot bigger. “Believe me.”

“A peasant threatening a Keeper,” the stranger mused. “Do you even know what you’re up against?”

“I do,” Dad replied. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Is that so,” the stranger replied.

“Who are you?” Damian demanded.

“Keeper Cyrus,” the stranger answered. “And believe me, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” He shifted his gaze to Dad, gesturing at Damian.

“Do you know what he is?”

Dad hesitated.

“I do.”

Cyrus swallowed visibly, then turned his head away from Dad, staring at the floor. The knuckles of his right hand turned white.

“Why?” the man asked, not looking up.

Dad didn’t reply at first, glancing at Damian, who stared up at Dad wordlessly. Dad gave him a sad smile.

“So that every time he remembers me, he’ll remember what you’ve done,” he answered at last. “And he’ll never be a slave again.”

Cyrus lifted his gaze to Dad, his eyes burning with fury.

“Seventeen years,” Cyrus spat. “And all along, it was a fucking country bumpkin ruining my life!”

Dad hefted his hatchet, slipping into a fighting stance and giving Damian a nod. He was breathing far too quickly, his face pale and slick with sweat.

“You did it on purpose,” Cyrus continued, taking a step forward. “And now you’re going to fight me,” he mused, shaking his head. “Do you really think you can win?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“You’re going to die,” the man promised.

“Maybe. Are you ready to die for this?”

“I’ll never die,” Cyrus retorted. “But while I go on, the world won’t even remember you existed.”

“My son will always…remember me,” Dad retorted. “And everything I taught him will be with him. Forever.”

“You stupid backwoods fuck,” Cyrus spat, glaring at Dad. “You think your pathetic little life means anything?”

“It does to him,” Dad replied…just as Cyrus lunged forward, ramming his shield into Dad!

Bap bap, ba-ba-ba-bap!

Dad jerked backward with each bap, slamming into the shelves behind him. Bottles fell, a few shattering on the packed dirt floor. Dad recovered quickly, charging at Cyrus and swinging his hatchet at the man’s head. Cyrus intercepted the blow with his shield…and Dad’s hatchet flew from his hands.

Clang clang cl-cl-cl-clang!

The hatchet sailed backward as if struck by the shield six times in a row, smashing into a bottle on the shelving above Damian’s head and falling to the floor. Damian retrieved the hatchet, offering it to Dad, who backpedaled, grabbing the weapon and facing Cyrus.

“I don’t even need a weapon to beat you,” the man sneered as he moved toward them. Then sparks flew up from a black bracer he wore on his forearm, just above his gauntlet. He froze, swearing under his breath and eyeing Dad warily, his hand going to the hilt of his sword.

“Look for an opening!” Dad snapped…just as Cyrus leapt at him!

Dad dodged to the side, swinging his hatchet at the man’s exposed right flank, but Cyrus swung his shield to intercept.

Clang clang cl-cl-cl-clang!

This time, Dad managed to hold on to the hatchet, but it jerked away six times, making him stumble backward. Cyrus lunged at him, slamming his shield into Dad’s chest, throwing him backward into the shelving. Once again, it struck six times, slamming him into the wall again and again in rapid succession. Dad screamed, reaching for his injured shoulder, sweat glistening on his forehead. Then he clenched his teeth, pushing off the wall and throwing himself at Cyrus, who held his shield in front of him. Dad burst to the side at the last second, kicking at the side of the man’s knee. It buckled, and Cyrus fell to the floor, his shield falling on top of him.

Dad skid to a stop, then leapt into the air, swinging his hatchet down in a vicious overhead chop at the man’s face.

Cyrus lifted his shield frantically to intercept, and while Dad’s blow should’ve smashed the shield down into the man’s head, instead the hatchet ricocheted off, flying out of his hands.

Clang clang cl-cl-cl-clang!

The hatchet slammed into the ceiling, embedding into one of the wooden beams there. Dust rained down on them, and Dad lost his balance, falling on top of Cyrus’s shield.

“Dad!” Damian cried, rushing toward them. Cyrus rolled to the side toward Damian, shoving Dad off him…and Damian saw his opening. He lifted the pickaxe high above his head, to chop down at the man’s exposed neck. But he hesitated for a split-second…which was all it took for Cyrus to block the attack just in time.

Clang clang cl-cl-cl-clang!

The pickaxe flew upward and backward, torn from Damian’s hand, and Damian fell backward into the shelves behind him. Dad took advantage of Damian’s distraction, grabbing Cyrus from behind and throwing him straight up into the air with one arm. The man slammed into the ceiling, falling to the floor with a whump. He gasped for air, his eyes wide, and Dad picked him up over his head again with one hand, bringing the Keeper’s lower back down on his knee.

But Cyrus twisted around at the last moment, Dad’s knee striking his shield instead.

Whump whump wh-wh-CRACK.

Dad’s leg buckled, his shin snapping in two.

He screamed.

Dad!” Damian cried, pushing off the shelving and rushing at Cyrus, who scrambled to his feet. Damian threw himself at the man, knocking him onto the floor. Cyrus kicked Damian off, and Damian stumbled backward, then turned to rush to Dad’s side. Dad’s shin bone was sticking out of his pants, blood soaking the cloth and the floor. Still, he managed to stand on one leg with Damian’s help, his other leg dangling uselessly.

Dad’s face paled, his eyes fluttering, and he swayed a bit.

“Bottle,” he ordered, holding out his hand, his eyes locking on Cyrus, who got to his feet. Damian gave him one, and Dad smashed it on the edge of a shelf, holding the jagged end before him.

“Seventeen god damn years!” Cyrus yelled, rotating his shield so it was on his back. He pointed a finger at Dad. “You ruined my life.”

“You ruined your own life making this your life,” Dad shot back. “Make something else of it while you still can.”

Cyrus charged at Dad, swinging a gauntleted fist at him. Dad blocked it, still standing on one foot, but with such force that it twisted Cyrus to the side. Dad swung the broken bottle at the man’s neck, but Cyrus kept turning with the momentum Dad had created, spinning in a circle to backfist him.

The broken bottle sliced through the back of Cyrus’s neck, the skin gaping open in a gush of blood…just as Cyrus’s backfist struck Dad’s temple.

Dad’s head snapped to the side, and he hopped on one leg, nearly losing his balance. Damian rushed to help him, propping him up, and stood between him and Cyrus.

“Get the pickaxe,” Dad ordered.

“But…”

“Do it!” Dad snapped. Damian obeyed, retrieving the pickaxe and watching as Cyrus put a black-smudged hand to the back of his neck. He stared at the blood on his fingers, his jawline rippling.

“I’ve toyed with you enough,” Cyrus muttered, unsheathing the sword at his left hip. It was a silver double-edged sword with an ornate hilt; one edge glowed with a faint red light, while the other glowed blue. “This is Epoch,” the man declared. “Red cuts the past. Blue cuts the future.” He smiled grimly. “You took mine. Now I’m going to take yours.”

Then he slashed at Dad’s throat, moving so quickly that it was a blur, the glowing blue edge slicing right through Dad’s neck.

“No!” Damian screamed.

Dad jerked his head backward, grabbing at his neck with his hand. But to Damian’s surprise, there was no wound there. Dad’s flesh was somehow – impossibly – intact.

Cyrus rushed forward, kicking Dad’s broken leg, and Dad howled, collapsing onto his side on the floor.

 Damian grabbed a jar from the shelf nearest him, chucking it at the man. Cyrus didn’t even turn to look at Damian, knocking the jar away with his gauntleted hand. His sword glowed bright red on one side now, the blue half not glowing at all.

“Wait,” Dad gasped.

“I’ve waited long enough,” Cyrus replied…and kicked Dad in the face.

“No!” Damian shouted. Cyrus bent over to pick up the chain he’d dropped, and Damian rushed to tackle him. But the man blocked his arm, spinning him around and getting him into a chokehold with one arm. He wrapped the chain around Damian’s waist, tying it behind his back. Then he shoved Damian away, so hard he fell on his hand and knees.

Cyrus turned and strode out of the underground room, his boots thumping on the dirt of the tunnel beyond.

Damian turned to Dad, rushing up to his side. Dad’s nose was bloodied, his eyes glazed over.

“Dad,” Damian blurted out. “Dad!” He wrapped an arm around the big man’s shoulders, pulling him up into a sitting position. Dad’s eyes focused on Damian, and his lower lip trembled, tears streaming down his cheeks. The first tears he had ever seen his father cry.

“I tried,” Dad muttered. “I tried.”

“Dad…”

Dad put a hand on his shoulder, staring into his eyes.

“They’re going to take you son,” he warned. “They’ll try to use you.”

“What?”

“They’ll try to control you. Be strong. Break free. Your curse is your gift. Don’t squander it.”

“I…I don’t understand,” Damian stammered. “What do they want with me?”

Dad sighed, cupping Damian’s cheek with one hand.

“You’re a god, Damian.”

Damian stared at him uncomprehendingly.

“What?”

Dad pulled his necklace with the amulet over his head, hanging it around Damian’s neck. Then he leaned in, kissing Damian’s forehead.

“They called me a hero for killing,” he said. “But I never felt like one until I raised…”

…and then his head separated from his shoulders, toppling backward and landing on the ground. His body crumpled, blood spurting from the stump of his neck in rhythmic pulses.

“Daddy!” Damian screamed.

Dad’s body fell onto its back on the floor, blood spraying the bottles on the shelves behind him. Damian scrambled on his hand and knees up to him, staring in horror.

“No no no,” Damian moaned. “No Daddy, no!”

And then the pain lanced through his bad shoulder, sudden and excruciating, as if a hot poker were being driven through it.

Damian cried out, letting gripping his shoulder tight, even as the pain intensified, blasting past anything he’d ever experienced. He swore, gritting his teeth against the pain, and yanked the collar of his shirt over his bad shoulder, seeing the familiar purple glow of his scar. But there was a strange thin line of golden light outlining the scar. A light he’d never seen before.

He moaned, sweat dribbling down his forehead and stinging his eyes…and as he watched, the scar seemed to push upward, going from being sunken to slightly raised.

The pain abated, the golden light fading away…

…and then the chain around his waist went taut, yanking him violently backward, never to see his father again.