Beloved of Death: Twisted Gods, #2

By Tim Niederriter

Death's grasp is like steel.

Dol and Min reach the lands in the east, where giants wage war on humanity. Iron-limbed engines of war march on both sides of this war.

On their mission to save the gods, the two heroes rediscover their love for each other.

Yet, the rapacious god of death seeks his destiny to marry the savior of the gods. Min can only put off the god's advances for so long.

 

As the rest of the pantheon gathers to be healed, the forces of the Veiled amass on the other side of the battle lines. The question of when to strike back must soon have an answer.

Beloved of Death is the second book of the "Twisted Gods" heroic fantasy series. Steam-powered monsters meet divine sorcery amid a storm of love and war.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mental Cellar Publications
• Release date: Sep 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9798223833284

Tim Niederriter

Tim Niederriter loves writing fantasy blended with science fiction. He lives in the green valley of southern Minnesota where he plays some of the nerdiest tabletop games imaginable. If you meet him, remember, his name is pronounced “Need a writer.”

Book preview

Twisted Gods Series

The Forgotten Mask

Beloved of Death

Time’s Needle (Coming soon!)

Fallen Gods (Coming soon!)

...And More to come...

Other Series by Tim Niederriter

Demon Hunter

Shifter Empire

Bondmage

Invisibles

Forces of Empire

Rain Protocol

Graycollars

Other Books and Stories

Rem’s Dream

Find all Tim’s books and serials at www.mentalcellarpublications.com

For the shadows that give light meaning.

Reason is fleeting.

The cold of the mountains gave way to a warm westward wind.

Dol blinked against the breeze, though the dust in the air didn’t bother him as much as the cold the troupe left behind. He adjusted his grip on his wind fan as he soared higher over the wagons moving east beneath him.

No temperature touched his nerves as much as the fact that he flew alone for the moment. The clouded actors, Ensanen and Galli, stayed with the wagons after patrolling earlier that morning. His fellow avatar, Mikina was still resting after healing the goddess at the Mountain Temple a week ago. Using her healing abilities on a divine being exhausted her for days on end. At least this time she’d suffered less than before.

Dol’s flexed his free hand, the one not clinging to his wind fan. Theories of Min’s increased strength mingled with memories of her lips on his. She’d healed him in that moment, and given him confidence to match the hope he’d held onto for years prior. They’d fought giants side by side, and confronted evil in the air and on the ground.

He couldn’t imagine his world without her and yet he still had to try. His finger brushed the true mask of Baragont where it hung from a cord around his neck. Made of black clay and inlaid with orange-red carnelian gemstones, the mask made him an avatar of the death god. Baragont’s shadow hung over him and Mikina for another reason altogether.

She’d long ago been sworn to marry the lord of the clock’s Eighth Hour.

Another updraft took Dol higher. He squinted at the horizon. They must be three days at least from the city of Tesrin, the capital of Yanbria and the city built around Hambru’s seat at the Grand Temple.

In the distance, among scrub and struggling trees, towered  three shapes. Dol scowled, recognizing the mechanical silhouettes of storm giants, though these were smaller than any he’d seen before. All three were built low and stocky, and none of the machines gathered clouds about them.

Dol willed the fan to drive the wind behind him. He hurtled through the air, narrowing his eyes against resistance to follow the movements of the three colossal humanoid shapes. As he closed the distance he noted they all stood still, neither swaying nor marching.

He circled them higher up and spotted tiny human shapes on the ground. One of the small figures pointed up at him. Others scrambled to the sides of the immobile giants. Dol descended further. He never heard of a giant being caught at rest before. Perhaps that meant he’d stumbled upon something stranger.

An amplified feminine voice blasted from one of the giants, clear as a trumpet. Who goes there?

Dol donned the true mask and used it to boost the volume of his reply without employing the power of the death god’s devastating shout. I am the Avatar of Baragont. Who are you?

The answer boomed from below, the same voice as before. We are the Sentinels of Yanbria. My name is Tachana Moroshen of the Electors’ Council.

We are friends, then. Dol let the fan drop him lower little by little. He approached the shoulder of the giant in the center of the three hulking forms. I’m part of a troupe of actors coming from the Mountain Temple.

I should have known, he thought. These aren’t storm giants. These are war machines built of fallen foes. We truly have reached Yanbria.

Dol alighted on the road ahead of the wagons that carried the troupe toward the force of Yanbrian Sentinels. Behind him, the infantry kept their distance, though organized into a pike block. A group of Yanbrian officers convened to approach the caravan.

He waved to the driver on the front wagon, trying to ignore the emaciated forms of the living dead that walked on either side of the oxen. The chained belonged to Baragont. Dol could direct these ones in the death god’s absense, but he still feared them.

The wagon driver, a hard-worn man named Roln waved to Dol in return. Avatar, he called. What is this army?

They’re among the road wardens of Yanbria, said Dol. Keeping the way safe for travelers like us. He walked closer to the lead wagon. Where is Talonen? He and Mikina should meet with these commanders.

The driver tugged the reins to stop the wagon, and then bowed his head. I’d offer to go find them, but you’ll prove faster.

Dol moved toward the second of the four wagons, where Mikina rode, flanked as was the entire column by the oppressive presence of the chained. The dead stood at ease, sickeningly elongated, each seven feet tall thanks to stretched limbs. Every one of the thirty animated corpses carried a weapon from Baragont’s armory, and trailed a chain of the same make from the neck. Small scripts fluttered along the length of each chain, covered in scrawled prayers and blessings.

As he approached Mikina’s wagon, the mottled, gray arm of a chained snaked out to bar his path. No, avatar, said the dead woman through bluish lips. Be polite when and announce yourself to death’s betrothed.

He grimaced. Forgive me. I’m but a commoner.

The looming chained said nothing, but kept her arm extended.

Dol planted his feet and bowed his head. Avatar Calas, it’s Avatar Ekdros, returned with news from scouting.

If that isn’t polite enough for this dead guard I don’t know what could be.

Mikina answered him from within the wagon. He may see me now, Handmaiden Crala. Her voice sounded firm but with an ethereal touch that spoke to her current frailty.

He arched a brow at the chained who blocked his way. The dead woman retreated to one side, then bowed low, her lank white hair falling around her head. Dol circled to the rear and climbed into the wagon.

Mikina sat with an open book of Yanbrian dialect at her side. She wore a dark tunic patterned with white lace and a pair of billowy black trousers. Her glasses rested low on her nose. She pushed them up and closed the book as she turned toward Dol. Mikina beckoned him closer. He leaned in. Crala is josking with you, she whispered in his ear. She won’t stop unless you make her.

And if I was death and not just his avatar, she’d never bother in the first place.

That’s obvious. Mikina gave an exasperated sigh. If only they’d disappear. I’m healthy enough to move on my own, but they’re so josking overbearing.

He nodded, familiar enough with her habit of cursing in private to not be surprised by the language. I have a bit of good news then. He explained about the sentinels by the road, and the three war machines he’d seen from above.

That speaks well of the local commanders. Someone in Yanbria thought to post a guard over the road to the Mountain Temple while it was under siege. Mikina folded her legs, then stood up, keeping her head lowered to avoid hitting the wagon’s canvas cover. Let’s speak with them at once.

Right. Dol retreated from her and then the two of them left the wagon.

Talonen, the troupe’s director, met them nearby, where he waited beside the chained handmaiden called Crala. The older man’s nose might have been shattered at some point in the past, probably more than once. Beneath his scars his face looked leathery from decades of life as a nomad in the far west.

I heard what you said to each other just now. His smile might never make up for his scars but apart from that it returned him years. Let’s meet these Yanbrians.

The three of them went ahead of the stopped caravan. By the light of the mid-afternoon sun they watched a cluster of officers approach. The cluster of Yanbrians left their pikes and their war machines at their backs.

Blessings of the clock be upon you, avatars, said the woman at the center of the party. She touched hand to the chest of her brigandine and black leather hauberk. I am Tachana Moroshen, Elector of Yanbria and commander of these sentinels.

Mikina stepped forward, her perfume wafting in the slight breeze toward Dol. He kept his face serious despite his urge to smile at the floral scents.

I am Mikina Calas. She motioned to Dol with half-turn and a wave of her arm. This is Donnilel Ekdros, Avatar of Baragont. We’ve come to aide in your battles with the giants.

Tachana bowed. Her raven-hair, bound in a braid controlled by a blood-red bandanna hung tight behind her head. A glint of sunlight on the goggles hanging from her neck attracted Dol’s attention to the reinforced lenses.

From his time as an engine serf in his home city of Kasdras, he knew such protective spectacles were most often employed by those who worked with steam. When storm giants fell, their engines and metal skeletons could be re-purposed to serve humanity, as war machines or power sources.

She noticed his lingering gaze when she raised her head. Avatar Ekdros, I am also the first pilot of this war machine. She motioned to the hulking form nearest the road. Its called Thornblade because of my doggedness in holding the enemy during battle.

Dol smirked. Such tenacity must serve you well at council as well.

It does. I’d heard you were not traditionally studied, but I see I was misinformed.

Mikina raised her eyebrows. Far from it, she said. Donnilel has a a richly non-traditional education.

Tachana’s eyes gleamed. She turned to Talonen. I take it you’re the troupe’s director?

Yes. Talonen nodded. Elector Moroshen, it is mine and my actors’ ambition to play the stage of the Grand Temple for Hambru.

Of course. Tachana’s lip curled. There are many players in Tesrin with the same dream, but I’m certain you’ll be given time, especially after you broke the siege in the mountains. She turned to the tall woman who stood on her left before a pair of honor guards bearing long blades in their baldrics. Anka will be your guide when we arrive in Tesrin. My troops and I will see you there safe.

The woman called Anka bowed, and Dol glimpsed a shimmer of a jewel inlaid within a gorget at her neck. He guessed the reddish stone was garnet, the jewel of Hambru. Anka raised her head, dark hair gleaming in the afternoon sun. Her gaze moved to Mikina.

I’m pleased to assist, my avatars. I am clouded and jeweled, so I may travel swiftly if you require.

Tachana smiled slightly, just a quirk of shadow on her stern face. Anka is the fastest messenger I’ve ever employed.

Thank you for the compliment, elector, said Anka.

Let us march. Mikina folded her arms. On the way, please tell us the state of the war.

I will say what I can. There is much to tell. Tachana motioned for another messenger to come closer. She quickly wrote her orders on a scroll case, then handed it to the lithe man. Tell the troops we march for Tesrin at once. Our watch on the mountain road is at an end.

Dol almost laughed as the caravan began to move once more. Now, for every chained that escorted them they had three Yanbrian pikemen. And for every ten of the dead, a mighty war machine pounded the plains on either side of the dusty road.

Evening turned the sparse stalks of plains-grass first a light pink, then softer and softer tones. The world lost color little by little as the clocks approached Baragont’s hour. They made camp just before dusk fell. Gathered around the cooking fires, the soldiers joked and laughed with each other.

Dol and Mikina sat with Tachana, the messenger Anka and the two war machine pilots. They waited for dinner to cook over the glowing coals. One of the pilots stretched her arms over her head.

Tachana had introduced the black-haired young woman as Enfia Niharan, the most talented pilot to join Yanbria’s forces in years. At that, Enfia had