​34 A March to War

ON A ROCKY plateau east of Byrsa, the forested foothills below ending quarter of a mile from the city, Liviana Avitus waited. She had felt reluctant to leave the thick grey-blue basalt walls of the Blue Palace. Her fingers plucked at her cloak, eyes darting. The Wunn Mountains behind her were all that separated Byrsa from the capital. Marshes festered to the north, divided by four rivers. Discovering the power of the Shathra Stone took time, but she could now traverse great distances in hours. A pity it was not seconds, but wishes were for fools.

She felt weak. A fragment of her form materialised as she regained control. The Stone was a dangerous artefact. Using it meant imprisoning a portion of her soul within. Her angelic magic was almost useless in this world, available only through the Stone that imprisoned her. It was the price for such power.

It took all her strength, both of soul and body, to fight the Stone and her angelic soul. It sought to overpower her, to rid her of consciousness. Andromeda had been born to this body, a method guaranteeing a flawless fusion of spirit and flesh. It had not worked. Instead, it had resulted in something more akin to possession. Her own thoughts and Andromeda’s melded so that at times she didn’t know who she was anymore.

Now that the Stone also had a piece of her, she wondered if she would ever be complete again. It sensed her, knew her for what she was, for the Stone was the Spectrum. It would devour her if she allowed it. They knew that and she had little doubt they didn’t care. It was her punishment for reaching too high. She was the First, even before those damnable Titans. Tartaros had given her the position, and she knew the Darkness could take it back.

Did she not order Canaan to personally see to Threadfin Todralan’s capture? Pen Luthus had put everything in jeopardy. He dared think himself her equal? She’d sent a thrael, one he trusted, to get close enough to him. He had not returned.

She held it in her hands, swirling between her palms like a ball of blue lightning. Nephilim surrounded her, most at nine or ten feet in height, but they couldn’t see her in the dim light, her form a murky shape. The Stone was visible to no one but her. So much power and she used but a hair’s breadth of it.

She studied Gog’s force, not ready to reveal herself. The giants operated and tended war machines, which towered seventy feet in height. Those massive mangonels flung rocks the size of small houses, and there were six, evenly spaced on the high plateau. She spotted a traction trebuchet too, halfway through construction. It would not be long before the main attack. The imperium had little knowledge of such machines, though the Atlantians had stolen several designs. For years, the Todralans had watched Raddhon and its secrets with envious eyes.

She watched a shorter pale imp in leather armour. It lowered a rope with a hook at its end. This it tied to another rope connected to an intricate gear system. A muscular but gangly Avim in leather armour with blonde hair braided to the waist, hefted a rough ball of gravel and tar into a sling. Another sapper bearing a torch lit the ball aflame.

They released the main rod. At the same instant, six Rephaim, naked but for their folded wings and a hide of loincloth banded with skulls, pulled on ropes attached to a counter weight. Wings flexing and muscles rippling, the giants exerted a terrible force and hefted the flaming rock high and far. The fire pots used by the Nephilim artillery were effective if inaccurate, but they’d breached the walls in several places.

The Stone oozed instruction, thoughts appearing as her own. Gog was aware of her now, her summons weighing upon him. Her hands trembled as the sphere spun.

The mangonels loosed. Around her, the Nephilim stretched the length of the plateau; Emim with their leashed beasts, long limbed Avim or winged Rephaim lounging or polishing armour. A gulac in size, meaning a force of eight hundred remained. Not that they mattered. She would instruct him to unleash his full rage upon the city.

Many giants wore blackened steel plate, cuirasses, pauldrons and spiked helms, others wearing spiked greaves and vambraces. This armour was far superior to anything Icarthian blacksmiths could produce. Most wielded the heavy grond, a spiked war hammer. Others carried the harog, a dual weapon consisting of a broad crescent blade at one end, a rounded blunt or spiked weight at the other. A skilled warrior could spin the harog effortlessly on its central axis, obliterating all in its path. A good number also wielded the curved scarap, a broad blade with multiple sharp points. It was a cross between a wide sword and axe.

Their technological abilities far exceeded those of humans, save for the Atlantians who now dwelt beneath the waves. Humans, who depended on courage and weak metals, who were like children with sticks and stones; compared to Gog, they were wailing infants.

The Nephilim commander arrived with the rest of his army. The future king rubbed a red tongue across his canines, black snout sniffing the air. At almost twelve feet, he was abnormal for a Nephilim. Covered in steel armour, he was a nightmare. Once she unleashed her angelic power through him, he would be death itself. The Grim could never be as menacing.

Good and evil didn’t exist, she knew, just survival. Goodness was an illusion, a fiction her angelic brethren espoused without end. They could not see how simple it all was.

She stretched her neck as she looked at Gog, commander of ten of his father’s gulacs. A portion of her soul, which wasn’t conscious, resided within that beast. He fought her control, but it was as an infant’s tantrum. She allowed his mind to remain, not desiring to experience life as a Nephilim. Human life was depressing enough.

His voice rumbled as he gave orders in a guttural tongue. The sound was a crushing symphony that would be a death knell to the defenders in Byrsa. Wargs appeared among the rocks above, held back by handlers. The odd beast looked towards her, whining. They knew what she was. The large predators were alike to pups beside their masters, but their jagged teeth were a match for imperial armour.

Zil flies buzzed about giant and warg, a few daring to lay their eggs in Nephilim hide, though none touched their commander.

He spotted her, of course, and gave her a long level look, as her physical body reasserted itself. The Nephilim leader growled and stomped towards her. Each of his steps was a vibration in her bones.

She had recently taken possession of him, having laid the seeds earlier. She controlled his words and actions, but he remained aware. It was a far more aggressive and unpredictable method than being born to flesh. A short-term measure, and dangerous. Controlling both Liviana Avitus and Gog at the same time, while using the Stone, wasn’t something she could manage indefinitely.

Gog awaited the Shathra Stone. She let it go, and it sped to him. It hovered above his upward palms, spinning in a violent display of colour and light. Fine spidery tentacles shot from the Stone. They latched onto the skulls of the other giants. Gog went to one knee as the Stone’s power filled him, perhaps overwhelming him. She knew that feeling, could still sense it, for part of her soul resided within it. It would weaken him, but the power he gained through the Stone was worth it. Such power could raze the world. It might destroy him in the process. A pity, but it was what he was for, to serve as a weapon, and a buffer.

‘You serve me,’ she said, her voice echoing across the plateau. ‘Know me, all of you. My name is, Andromeda. I do not forgive failure.’ She winced at the use of her true name, for in the mortal tongue it sounded harsh. The distinction between Liviana and Andromeda should not have been necessary since she felt her mortal self, slipping away.

‘You will ravage the human city, and you will capture the mage,’ she continued. Gog remained on one knee, tendrils of power expanding in a web of fiery filaments. ‘That or you will drive him into my grasp. Do not fail, or I will make you all scream for a thousand years.’

The Nephilim leader rose to his feet, the Stone in his hands. She felt its power through him and smiled.

Raising his black muscled arm high with clenched fist, Gog dropped it sharply. Then, he bellowed, the vibrations of his voice trembling through the earth and into her bones. It was as nothing compared to the answering roars that followed.

Andromeda had never felt more alive in human flesh, watching her giants march to war.

In the darkness, Liviana wept.