Iron Angel

you change all that. We would like for you to join us as an equal-to have the honour of standing with us, shoulder to shoulder, against Hell’s armies.”

How generous of you. Cospinol’s cheek smarted. He felt bile rise in his throat, but he said nothing.

Rys went on, “Only after we have defeated this Mesmerist threat to our lands here on earth will we be able to storm the gates of Heaven and reclaim our rightful inheritance.” He smiled. “But you must prove yourself worthy first. This war with Hell threatens everything we have achieved thus far. Since our mother Ayen crushed our uprising in Heaven we have struggled back from the brink of oblivion. Our father Iril was shattered, the pieces of him scattered throughout the Maze. Do you think he can help us?” Rys shook his head. “Iril’s dissolution gave this upstart King Menoa the opportunity to claim the title of Lord of the Maze for himself.”

He sifted through a platter of shells, then wrinkled his brow in disgust. “And now there is no more room in Hell. The Mesmerists must extend their bloody Maze into this world.” He gave a deep sigh. “If his creatures win, mankind faces the same oblivion Ayen sought to bestow upon us.”

“And if you win,” Cospinol said, “mankind faces slavery.”

“A kinder prospect, surely?”

Cospinol ground his teeth.

Rys stared at him for a while, then finally shrugged. “After our victory, you can take as many slaves as you like. Keep them alive for all I care. Just don’t breed with them-don’t make the same mistake as Ulcis. One demigod loose in our world is quite enough.”

“It was never our world,” Cospinol said.

Rys ignored this. “Take your skyship to Deepgate,” he said. “And seal this new portal before the Mesmerists can gain a foothold there. While our enemy’s attention is focused on the chained city, the flow of demons into Pandemeria will cease. This will be the best chance we’ve ever had to attack the Mesmerists and drive them back into Hell.”

Cospinol gave a grunt of derision. “You make it sound so simple, Rys. Yet you expect me to risk my life to secure your freedom when I remain imprisoned? What do you have to offer? A vague promise of solidarity between us? You’ll betray me as soon as the Mesmerists are defeated.”

“You prefer oblivion?”

“If I am doomed to die aboard this ship, at least I’ll die knowing that you have failed.”

The knives in Rys’s belt glittered. “But we intend to offer you the means to free yourself.”

Cospinol shifted his gaze between his brothers, looking from Rys’s hard stare to Mirith’s drooling grin; from Hafe’s sweat-crumpled brow to Sabor’s darkly serious frown. How could he trust any of them? “Explain.”

Now Sabor rose from the table. “Ulcis had feasted for three thousand years,” the god of clocks explained. “He had harvested enough power to leave his abyss, yet he was murdered before he could realize his escape. The souls in his veins have now passed to his daughter, Carnival. Her blood would provide you with enough power to leave the shelter of the Rotsward.”

Cospinol felt his heartbeat quicken. Three millennia of souls for the taking? If Sabor was speaking the truth, and Cospinol could capture this girl and harvest her blood, then he would be free of his prison at last. He would feel the sun on his face again.

“The witchsphere is capable of guiding you towards her,” Rys said. “It is my gift to you.”

Mirith sniggered. “Beware of lies, Cospinol.”

Rys wheeled on the crippled god, a silver knife already in his fist. “Don’t test me, Mirith. You rely too much on your fool’s face to shield you.”

The crippled god jerked away from the blade. His chair fell back, striking the floor, and Mirith rolled backwards out of it wings over heels. He squawked and came to rest on his rear.

Hafe boomed a laugh.

Rys turned back to Cospinol. “Why should we betray each other when mutual cooperation benefits us all?” he growled. “Seal the portal under Deepgate while we fight the enemy in Pandemeria. Kill the girl and use her power to shed this rotting carapace. Then join us as an equal.”

An equal? Like poor Mirith?

The sea god realized now how much his younger brother needed him. Rys’s armies could not withstand an assault from a second arconite; he had no choice but to offer Cospinol the demigod’s power in payment for his aid. “The daughter…Carnival,” he said. “She’s already murdered one god, and she’ll be vastly stronger now.”

“She’s savage and untrained,” Rys said. “No match for your slave…” He gestured at the floor. “What do you call him? The barbarian who drags this ship?”

“Anchor.” Cospinol barely noticed Hafe’s guffaw in response to this. “You suggest I use my slave as an assassin?”

“He is already an assassin,” Rys replied. “How many has he killed for you now? A hundred thousand? Half a million?”

“More.”

Hafe chuckled. “Half a million souls!” The god of dirt and poison thumped one fist against his huge copper breastplate. “And you call me greedy? Goat’s balls, that human slave has eaten more souls than the Maze.”

“Indeed,” Rys agreed. “While we fostered legions to break free of Ayen’s bonds and win our own kingdoms on this world, our brother has invested the bulk of his power in one single mortal.” His eyes narrowed on Cospinol. “And yet he himself remains weak, trapped here aboard his own airboat. It seems he has been feeding the choicest morsels to his pet.”

Cospinol’s shoulders slumped. “It’s the weight,” he explained. “The corpses…I take their souls, but the dead refuse to leave my ship. They cling to the rigging, masts, and yards; they wander the decks and haunt my steps. I hack them off the gunwales, send them screaming to the ground below, but they always return. Each new cadaver slows the Rotsward further, and so my giant needs greater and greater strength to pull the ship behind him. I must give him his share of souls or else remain grounded and helpless.” He sighed. “Ayen was clever in her choice of prison.”

“Our mother’s cunning was evident in the design of all our gaols.” Rys flashed his teeth. “Yet we escaped ours long ago, while you remain here and starve.”

“I do not starve,” Cospinol snarled.

“But you are a prisoner.” The god of flowers and knives leaned closer. “A slave.”

Cospinol’s heart filled with despair. Rys was right: he was a slave, as pathetic as the hook-fingered boy who clambered through the rotting spaces of his skyship’s belly. This floating wreck offered him no future. Yet with the Mesmerist witchsphere to guide him, he might find the power to be free of his skyship…

“I’ll do it,” he said at last. “I’ll travel to Deepgate and seal the portal. I’ll kill the girl and return to Coreollis.”

Whatever happened now, Cospinol had joined his fate to that of mankind: if he failed, he faced oblivion at the hands of the Mesmerists; success would only bring him slavery under Rys’s rule. To be truly free, he would have to defeat both his enemies and his own brothers.

Rys must have seen something in Cospinol’s expression for he said, “Do not think about betraying me, brother.”

Cospinol placed a hand against his stinging cheek. The decaying skyship creaked and shuddered around him. He sensed the impossible weight of the great vessel, the legions of dead clinging to its greasy timbers, and he envisioned his slave striding across the ground so far below, dragging it all behind him. If Cospinol could leave the Rotsward, then Anchor would also be free.

“Your barbarian is strong,” Rys said. “But even he would be crushed under the tide of our combined armies.”

Cospinol allowed himself an inward smile.

You haven’t seen the bastard fight.