The first thing she’d seen was the coastline, expanding slowly in the window as though the sea were rushing to meet them. That brought on painful memories of Wylhome, the waves, of nearly drowning… So much had happened in the last few days. They had crossed the breadth of Aurelia, a journey of some five-thousand miles or so, though it did not feel that way. But such was the nature of Engine travel. We miss out on the details though, she thought. Then again, this was no holiday nor sight-seeing trip. She was not a young woman exploring the world, anymore. She had spent plenty of her twenties ambling from one city to the next, relishing each new spice, custom, or performance. Now, she was swept up in something much bigger. And speed mattered.

  But the larger the coastline grew, the more she saw of the port-town that sat upon it like a brooding guardian—or what was left of it.

  Disaster had befallen Dreamholding. Telos’s mouth fell open as he beheld the ruined houses, the smoking fires, the trampled hillocks. Tears were burning in the corners of his eyes but he was stubbornly refusing to let them fall.

  “This curse follows me wherever I go,” he whispered.

  “You cannot blame yourself for every misfortune, Telos,” she said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Not all evils arise from Nereth’s curse.”

  He muttered darkly, something she did not catch. Telos seemed like the last person in the world to have suicidal tendencies, but she saw it then, a glimpse of the despair that leads men and women to take their own lives; the eidolon of false conviction: that the world would be better off without them.

  “Nereth wants you to believe you’re the problem, but she is,” Ylia pressed.

  Telos nodded. He cleared his throat.

  “Let us hope Beltanus has not lost patience.”

  ***

  The Warmaster ground to a halt in Dreamholding Station. The station had been largely unaffected by whatever had happened, though it was practically empty. A stationmaster greeted them. But as with Daimonopolis, it seemed he had much else on his mind, and had seen much wilder sights than their eclectic party.

  “What happened here?” Ylia braved.

  The stationmaster turned white. Even the memory, it seemed, was scarring.

  “I don’t rightly understand. There were… there were these things that came from the ocean. And then, a ship in the sky. Fire. Weaponry… I’ve never seen anything like it. Some folk say that it was Daimons, living Daimons. That some of them must have survived beneath the ocean. They killed maybe a fifty people. Cut them to pieces. Others, they…” He trailed off. She saw the muscles in his throat working as though he were fighting the urge to be sick. “And then there was the god!”

  “Beltanus?” Telos said, eagerly.

  “It could have been. I mean, he had the gauntlet, just like in the stories. A hammer too. That’s still here.”

  Ylia felt as though she’d been slapped.

  “Still here? Then where’s Beltanus?”

  The stationmaster stood frozen for a few moments, as the dreadful seconds ticked by with the slowness of a scalpel through tough leather.

  “He… He died. I think… Oh Gods…” He doubled over and threw up his guts over the station. Ylia leapt back to avoid the splash of yellow bile. Telos went white and staggered. Jubal caught him before he fell. Qala put a shocked hand to her mouth. Xheng uttered an expletive in Qi’shathian. Urgal actually moaned; it was the most heartbreaking sound she had ever heard.

  As for Ylia, she was speechless. She could not have understood correctly. But the stationmaster’s reaction said it all. He had seen a god—that was enough to make a man mad; Telos was living evidence of that fact. But not only that, he had seen a god die.

  “He can’t actually be dead,” Ylia whispered. “There must be some mistake.”

  “You can see for yourself,” the stationmaster whispered. “They’re still… still honouring him. Mourning. The whole town. Every last dragonling in the town has been sent flying. No one can believe it. No one understands.”

  “How did he die?” Telos said, and there was a numbness in Telos’s voice that haunted her. It was the voice of a ghost who no longer felt any tether to the living world.

  “Fighting for us, I think,” the stationmaster said. And for the first time the horror and fear melted away, and instead his eyes widened, brightened, a kind of fire lighting his cheeks. “You should have seen it—him! He leapt. Flew, he did. The hammer… He cracked them apart. Fought them all off. They were no match. He would have won, if not…” He trailed off, his eyes darkening again.

  “If not for what?” Telos pressed, and there was madness in his words now. The ghost cared not for life, but they cared for answers, they burned for the truth.

  “The Other One. Some call him the Dragon Warrior. Others, the Godblade. Don’t know what he was. Like a Daimon but also a man. But like a dragon, too. Never seen anything like that.”

  The words troubled Ylia, but they clearly meant something different to Telos. As much as she liked to tease him, he had a mighty mind. He was always turning on possibilities that eluded her and the others. His eyes were roving left and right, not focused on the world in front of him, but on some inner labyrinth. He’s figured something out, she thought. She wanted to know, but she supposed he would share when he was ready.

  Ylia did not know what to say to the stationmaster, but Qala thankfully stepped in.

  “Thank you, stationmaster. For telling us. For your courage.”

  The stationmaster turned red, clearly embarrassed, but he performed a little half bow of gratitude.

  “If you’re looking to pay your respects, then follow the road out of here north to the market square. The fountain there was destroyed and they have made a bed of stone rubble from the town. He lies upon it…”

  They thanked him once more and set off. A cobbled road led from the station towards the clusters of buildings. The ones on the outskirts still stood, but the closer they drew to the centre, the more destruction they saw. Gables lay strewn about the streets, blocking the passage of carts and horses. Homesteads had been breached and rent open like eggs. There were still bodies hanging from windows. The ones in the streets had clearly been cleared—for bloodstains remained where they had once been—but those in more precarious locations had yet to be removed.

  The corpses were strange. Many had been dismembered, but they were also withered. This disaster had purportedly happened within the last few days, yet the corpses looked years old, gangrene skin without moisture clinging to feeble bones. It was as though something had sucked all the fluid out of them…

  When they saw the crowds, they knew they had found the site of mourning. They heard the wails and the screams. Some women dashed their heads against the stone floor. Children howled. Men stood fingering prayer beads and muttering old hymns beneath their breath, though the way they uttered them sounded more like cursing.

  Atop a huge bed wrought from jagged pieces of rubble lay a colossal metallic form. He was magnificent, even in death. Yet Ylia could not help but notice the grisly details that detracted from his divinity: the savage gash in the neck that severed head from body, the eagerness of the flies, the smell of putrefaction already begun. There were other smells too: the odour of Daimonsblood which was now so familiar she was almost beginning to filter it out of her perception, but also a smell that she could not define, flowery yet thick. The only way she could mentally describe it was that the smell was like the aftermath of a lightning bolt, like light oozing. It’s the power leaking from the corpse, she thought. I don’t know how I know that, but that’s what it must be.

  Telos fell to his knees. He put his head in his hands and wailed. She leaned down and stroked his hair. Then she held him to her breast and whispered words of comfort. But he was inconsolable. The others watched in graven silence. Jubal actually lowered his hood and bowed his head. No one remarked upon the presence of a theront. No one cared. The magnitude of what had happened was too great for such petty divisions.

  “Danyil and Beltanus, both,” Telos whispered. “I always thought I was a pawn in their game. But they risked themselves more than me. They… they believed in me. Gods know why…”

  “I’m going to say something sincere now,” Ylia replied. “And I’m only going to say it once, so pay attention.”

  He looked up at her, and though grief stained his face, the shadow of a smile quirked his lips upward.

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  “Go on…”

  “They chose you because you are special, Telos. Not by birthright, nor by societal power. You are special because you never give up. That is why they picked you, Telos. Not because you’re smart, although you are. Not because you were skilful, although that’s true too. I’m willing to bet every last Demon I have—which thanks to you is none at all—that they picked you because after three months in Ob-koron, you were still trying to escape. The Warden hates you because he couldn’t break you, Telos. So, don’t break now. Please…”

  He stared at her. And she saw something in his eyes she had never seen in anyone’s eyes before, a kind of devotion that made her lightheaded, made her heart falter and skip, made her want to confess things she had never confessed. The only other person who had looked at her with pure love like that had been her father, and he had vanished without a trace. I can’t let it happen to Telos, she thought. I won’t let them take him away too.

  She felt the weight of the object she had picked up from Albron’s corpse, the hideous buzz of power that ran through it, even when it was not in the hand. She had slipped it under her loose blouse. It was still relatively conscpicuous, but there was no hope of her hiding it in her skin-tight leather britches, so the blouse would have to do.

  All of a sudden, the pall of grief was broken. The notes of a song rose and soared above them. Those flagellating themselves ceased. Tears halted.

  It was a woman’s voice: gorgeous, resonant, but also shrill at points, as though it were a strain to hit certain notes. A human voice. A flawed voice. But all the more beautiful for it.

  Heads turned, and ears pricked. The voice climbed higher and higher until it seemed heaven-sent.

  It was Qala.

  She sang in Qi’shathian, and none knew the words, save perhaps Xheng. But they knew the spirit of the words. It was a song of mourning and beauty, of great things passing from the world. A song of the mystery and terror of death, the final doorway all mortals must step through.

  The song held them in thrall, in enchantment. The crowd listened rapturous as Qala gave her all to the rise and fall of the notes, to the bittersweet beauty of the melody. Music is a lot like magic, Ylia realised. She sings just like she casts spells. Maybe it was a spell, a spell to make the fear and confusion and terror go away. At least, for a little while.

  When it was done, there was no grand applause. Just shining eyes, looks of gratitude. Qala bowed her head. Silence reigned.

  But it was a good silence, the silence of a thing well done, of a moment seized, of balance restored.

  “Qala…” Ylia whispered, her voice hoarse with the nearness of tears. “That was… beautiful.”

  Qala only smiled.

  As if released from a curse, the people began to leave. First in twos and threes, then en masse. It was as though Qala had so eloquently summarised how they felt, they could not go home and begin to rebuild their lives. Many approached the altar and bowed and kissed the metal arm of Beltanus before departing. Others scattered flowers. Coins were laid at the god’s feet. Some gave offerings of metal: rusty old swords, horseshoes, nails and bolts from broken Engines.

  Soon, only Ylia and the party remained with Beltanus’s corpse. Sunlight fell down, bathing the god in gold. How can something so terrible look so beautiful?

  They approached as one. Even Urgal moved silently and with head lowered, as though in respect. She had never seen the cat quite so abashed, so sorrowful. She wondered how it was he understood so much of what was happening and its significance.

  For long moments, none of them said anything. Then Telos broke the silence.

  “I swear to you, Beltanus, that I will fulfill the quest you set me. I will venture to Memory and recover the Nergal. Destroy it, if I have to. You had faith in me. I let you down. But not again. I won’t give up.” Telos flashed Ylia a look, and Ylia smiled in encouragement. “If I have to fight Nereth herself to stop the Daimons, I will.”

  “Well said, Telos Daggeron,” Jubal rumbled.

  The theront’s eyes narrowed, and he looked somewhere far off. Ylia followed his gaze and saw there was a gleaming object, just outside the city’s outskirts. As with the altar, there was a small crowd gathering about it.

  “What is it, Jubal?” Ylia asked.

  “The god’s hammer,” Jubal said. “I think we should take a look.”

  ***

  The hammer lay upright in a field. It was a startling contrast: the glorious, god-forged instrument of destruction, whose steel seemed to glow with inner light, and the muddy grassland in which it lay. The crowd surrounding it were mostly men. They stood in uneasy stances, arms folded. Two were in hot debate, though they fell silent as Ylia and the others approached. Three surly people immediately left. The two who had been arguing remained, eyeing the fellowship warily.

  “This is Beltanus’s hammer,” Ylia said.

  “Damn right,” one of the men said. He was taller than the other, with a thick brown beard and the broad arms of a labourer. His eyes flicked to Jubal. On any other day, he might have made a remark, but it seemed his mind was preoccupied with some other problems—or trauma.

  “But why is it here?”

  “Because the damn thing doesn’t want to be lifted,” the other man said. “Anyone who touches it gets a shock. It’s like the weapon… like it’s choosing who can lift it.”

  “Don’t be daft!” the bearded man snapped, although by the way he shifted his weight back and forth, and his brow furrowed, the thought had clearly also occurred to him. “It’s just booby-trapped, is all.”

  “May I try?” Telos said.

  The two men stared at him.

  “You can if you like. But Old Barren, the biggest man in Dreamholding, just tried to heft it, and he’s in the doctor’s house. Ain’t likely to come out any time soon, either. Stung him something fierce.”

  Telos cracked his neck and stepped forward. Against the huge hammer, whose handle was nearly six-feet long, he looked tiny indeed. But Ylia knew the strength he commanded, and the power of the Godseed within him.

  Telos placed his hands around the haft.

  He did not even get a chance to try and lift. There was a zapping noise and he yelped—then flew backward, shrieking. He hit the earth with an unceremonious thump and lay still for a few minutes. Oh Gods, Ylia thought, but a second later he had sprung to his feet, dusting himself off.

  “That was… unpleasant,” he said, trooping back over to where the party and the two men waited. The bearded man was looking at him with his brow so knitted it looked like his face might fall off. The shorter man stared open-mouthed.

  “You must be made of tough stuff indeed,” the bearded man finally said. “Old Barren was knocked unconscious.”

  Telos shrugged.

  “It hurt like a bitch, I’ll tell you that.”

  Beneath the humour, she heard his disappointment and confusion. Surely, as Beltanus’s chosen warrior, granted the Godseed, Telos should have been able to take up the hammer?

  They all shared confused looks. Ylia anticipated a witty put-down from Xheng, but none was forthcoming. He had been very quiet indeed since losing his arm. She couldn’t imagine what a rupture it was to one’s sense of self, and capability, to lose something so vital. It was remarkable he was up and moving around. She suspected Qala had something to do with that. He forced himself to go on for her. The honour of Qi’shathians, she thought. A remarkable thing indeed.

  “Well, I’ll have to settle for my sword,” Telos went on, tapping Darkbite. “But it seems a tragedy to just leave it here.”

  “If it can’t be moved, a temple will be built around it, mark my words!” the bearded man said. Ylia was certain he was right.

  “Well, I suppose we should look to the docks?” Telos suggested, brusquely.

  They were about to turn and go when Jubal’s voice stopped them.

  “Let me try.”

  Everyone stared at him.

  “Jubal?” Telos queried.

  The huge theront unslung his bow from his shoulders. He also removed the quiver. He had carried them all the way from Yarruk, and the forest of Yestermere. They have survived flight, flood, ambush, Engine chases, explosions of god-like magnitude. Telos had briefly used the bow during their escape from Daimonopolis. Ylia had shot a single, decent-sized fish. But otherwise, they had been largely unused. They were relics of Jubal’s former life as the Ghost of Northeld. He held them out to Ylia. She looked at him.

  “Jubal… are you sure?”

  “I promised I would teach you archery,” he said. “And I intend to keep that promise. There is much more for you to learn. Perhaps on our voyage to Memory. As for me, I shall not fire a bow again.” He stared at the god-forged hammer, the work of the master-smith. “But a hammer… That, I could wield.”

  “Everyone who has tried has failed,” the bearded man warned.

  “No,” Jubal said. “Every man who has tried has failed. But I am not a man. Not truly.”

  Ylia took the bow and quiver from his hands, slinging it over her shoulder. The string pressed tightly into her chest, still as tight as the day it had been strung. She was tall for a woman, but the longbow felt huge, made for a giant. She belted the quiver of arrows at her hip. It was looking rather empty. She would need to make more arrows.

  Jubal turned and marched towards the hammer. There was a certainty to the set of his strides, to the way his huge limbs moved. He reached out and clasped the haft, not flinching or pausing. He let out a cry of pain but his fingers only tightened their grip.

  He was roaring now. Bellowing like the bull he resembled. His cry rang out over the hills and valleys of Tezada. It thundered through the port-town and smashed the waves back from where they encroached, pure defiance, pure anger, pure beauty. She heard in his voice the weight of four centuries, the loss of everything he held dear, and the defiance that still bloomed in his heart.

  The titanic muscles in Jubal’s body—a body built to break stones and move mountains—flexed and corded. He roared once more, louder even, so that the sky seemed to shimmer, as though struck. Then he was lifting the great hammer up. Clods of earth clung to the head as though it possessed a gravity of its own.

  Mouths fell open. Eyes stared wide.

  Jubal lifted the great weapon up and it caught the sunlight, glimmering silver, orange, and gold. He held it aloft and he seemed, for a moment, an image of the god, a reflection, albeit distorted.

  Telos laughed aloud. There was no jealousy, only joy in his voice.

  “Why, Jubal! The hammer has chosen you!”