This is the one. I feel it in my bones, feather and fin-shaped capillary beds. The color is right, the paint unspoiled, and the canvas balanced and smooth. The tower will rise, and my daughter shall return with her resolve in time to stop what’s coming. I cannot undo the damage my niece has done, but I can stop her from claiming another peninsula. Millia Gnu Aye, this time, the throne is mine.
“Bastion! What are you doing?!” Igor shouted, the rope sliding out from under his hooves as something violently pulled on the other end. “If I let go, she’ll fall!”
Bastion hovered over the edge of the Origin Well, tapping his fingers, short on patience.
The line yanked forward, pulling Igor, the rope whining and smoke rising from beneath his feet. Morta screamed, and he heard a scraping noise as she clawed against the stone walls.
Igor dug into the marble floor, carpets bunching up beneath his hooves.
Bastion moved, dusty rags falling off his shoulders revealing grafted insect-like appendages with circular saws, spinning lathes, and power lines cut to expose copper filaments, blue arcs of electricity snapping across his back.
“To my dearest daughter,” he said, fingers running across the rope, caressing a woman’s cheek seconds before slitting her throat. “I look forward to your coronation as the duchess of death.”
The rope snapped like a cheap toothpick; the line going slack, Morta’s screams echoing down a depthless pit.
“Morta!” Igor charged without thinking, aiming for the well and diving after her, but the older machine was much faster, grabbing hold of Igor’s neck like a snapping viper.
“Not so fast,” Bastion said. “She needs to find her resolve, and you would only get in the way, spoiling the paint I’ve so carefully curated.”
Bastion’s joints snapped into place with a shower of sparks, creating an eight-foot radius and ulna. His scapula spun like a record, struck by tiny fingers, sending surges of electricity through Igor’s body.
Igor struggled, hooves tensing against his chest like a dying wasp as the fluorescent lights across his back popped, glass spilling onto the floor and crunching beneath Bastion’s feet.
The lights faded, his field of vision obscured as his lens cracked and his mane burst into flames.
Igor saw a flash before his eye, an image of a black-haired little girl asleep in his hands, one leg draped over his arm, her skirts caught in the rivets on his wrist, a wistful smile, and a line of drool.
The world snapped back into focus—a burst of clarity. Static crackled in his ears, blue arcs dancing between his fingers. Summoning all his strength, he kicked, his feet slamming into Bastion’s elbow with a sharp, ringing crack.
Igor ducked low as a heavy barrel slid from his back, locking into place. It fired with a thunderous blast, thirty-seven caliber rimfire punching into the soft bellows of Bastion’s neck. The shot tore through like flesh, ichor splattering the walls in a dark, arterial spray.
Bastion flinched, touching the bloody hole with his left hand. He threw Igor into the air, who crashed against the rib vaults and collapsed onto the pews, taconite pellets spilling everywhere as iron pipes dropped on top of him.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve felt pain.” Bastion looked at his fingers dripping with black ichor. “I knew conduits to be valuable, but you exceeded my expectations.”
The Gnatu gathered around them, tiny metal crabs peeking out from behind the pews, nickel antennae probing the floor. Cats, dogs, birds, squirrels, and rats, care and content labels stitched into their patchwork skin.
Igor found his feet, stumbling around as he shoved the pipes off his shoulders and broke the wooden seats beneath his hooves.
Why didn’t they attack? He thought, looking around at the metal fey.
Bastion was a traitor. He’d dropped their ward into the abyss, but they didn’t move. The Gnatu waited, pincers, paws, and feet as still as tree trunks, beady eyes staring at Igor, jaws quivering in anticipation as if a school of piranha.
There was only one being the Gnatu would obey other than the sisters of fate.
Igor hung his head. “I thought you were dead,” he said, antifreeze dripping from his body like blood. “Iapyx, father of fate.”
“Dead?” Iapyx made a gravelly noise, a rusty hinge, laughter from a poorly oiled machine. “I was once,” he said, hands dropping to the floor as he leaned forward, resting on his knuckles. “I prophesied my end long before the great war.”
“Ironic, isn’t it? That I should set into motion the events leading to my death. Had I known Mother would spit Daedalus out as a fallen god starting a war with me, I’d have done things differently.” Iapyx paced the altar, his feet dragging behind him, scratching the marble, resisting, as if another soul lay within, but the immaculate machine couldn’t be subdued. “Even I can’t change that fate,” he said. “Mother won’t allow it, so I found another way.”
“Weapons of war came first, you see. Clubs, sticks, and knives, but with every generation came something greater. Adelaide may have propositioned my brother for a womb, but the boy asked me for my hands. I learned early on how useful they can be, and I gave my daughters the tools they needed to guide them in my absence.”
“Love, fertility, and death, with the passing of centuries came industrial revolutions, enough to spur my enduring spirit, giving me the materials to build the first tower of Babel and escape my mother’s tomb.”
The Gnatu gathered, climbing upon Iapyx’s back and forming the metal framework of a terrible exoskeleton. They moved in unison, one body and one mind, a metal manifestation of a resurrected god.
“They did well, but imagine my surprise, having crawled from the depths of darkness, when I found the peninsula in ruin, my eldest daughter having failed in her most important duty.”
“Why deceive her?” Igor asked, diverting power to his back legs, stabilizing himself. “Why not just tell her the truth?”
“I tried that once already, but the results were unsatisfactory.”
“Igor, what do you know of my brother’s curse?” Iapyx said, snapping his fingers, fluorescent lights flashing across his back. “It manifested in the first generation when Adelaide’s daughters failed as duchesses of fertility. She and her children nearly returned to the primordial soup and so I granted them death as a mercy. Given their ephemeral nature, my halfblooded niece was a necessary evil, and I raised her as my own despite my better judgment.”
“After the tower was built, Morta was supposed to kill her, but she proved incapable, giving Millia Gnu Aye my throne.” He leaned forward, whispering in Igor’s ear. “Do you know the true purpose of a conduit?” he asked. “Bastion was mine, and he served his purpose. A second body should my flesh fail. I took control and tweaked the painting, nudging my daughters in a new direction while preserving the virtues of the old. Deception proved necessary.”
“You abandoned her,” Igor said. “Morta was your daughter!”
“She couldn’t be the duchess I needed, so I tried again.” He stepped down from the altar, making a clicking noise, the tips of his toes scratching the marble as if he were dancing on ice. “Probability was against me from the first. I knew that, but still slaved over each painting, hoping things would change if only I tried a different stroke.”
“Madeline, betrayed me, Igor, giving birth to a duchess of fertility that surpassed even my practiced hand. I’ll admit, my return wouldn’t have been possible without Nona, but I can’t control her, and so she needs to die.”
Iapyx swung a stinger-like appendage, smashing through the pews. Igor hurled himself toward the altar as splinters and metal pellets tore into his body. Antifreeze surged through his veins like adrenaline, blue sparks racing along his spine as he launched into action. He charged Iapyx, slamming his hoof into the creature’s iron ribcage. The blow landed with a sharp clang, his leg rebounding uselessly. In a flash, Iapyx seized his arm and tore it clean off.
Igor screamed, liquid spurting from his shoulder, severed wires hissing like snakes as his opponent’s metal stinger came down again, striking the marble with such force it left craters.
He could see the Gnatu interconnected within, a twisted orgy of iron and flesh, patches of fur, teeth, and undone needlework, their hands fused into a hooked weapon.
Igor rolled away as Iapyx flung marble debris and dislodged a rotary weapon from his chest, spinning and glowing red hot.
With seconds to spare, Igor shot a hook from his back, lodging it into the rib vaults and launching himself into the air. A hail of hollow points ricocheted about the cathedral, scoring the wood and iron, chips, marble, and torn carpet, flying like feathers from a ruptured pillow.
“My first painting,” Iapyx said, drawing a line across the walls with a hail of gunfire. “They fumbled with the weave, and I learned early on they needed guides to steady their unpracticed hands.”
Igor dropped from the ceiling, bullets striking his shoulder and splintering into sparks and fire. He righted himself, lowering his head for a clean shot, a long rail thrust from his back electrical charge building into a single beam. He fired, the force sending him flying as the rail slid back; the blast generating a shockwave across the floor and shaking the cathedral.
Igor landed on his belly, arms trembling as he tried to see through the clouds of smoke.
“My second attempt,” Iapyx said, the static dispersing, corpses of the Gnatu lying around him, legs twitching, an effective shield wall. “My girls were lonely and afraid. They clung to each other, hearth, and home, never cleaving to a husband, no child to suckle at their breasts. Their love grew stunted, incapable of advancing beyond sisterly affections firmly binding death’s hands.”
The Gnatu separated, climbing into Iapyx’s arms as the lights along his spine shifted from green to red. An elongated rail erupted from his back, firing a lightning bolt like a launched spear.
Igor hesitated, the blast striking him head-on and launching him to the far end of the cathedral. He smashed against the wall, his body crackling with energy, his head shaking as he tried to stand, but his feet failed him.
“On my fourth attempt, I promised Alexander my daughter’s hand in marriage. The perfect solution. She was a better motivator than any treasure I possess, but her retainer stole her heart and riches, fame, and fortune proved inadequate in place of a duchess.” Iapyx launched himself from the rib vaults, landing in front of Igor. “I readjusted my strokes on the eleventh painting, but underestimated Nyx, and the dye spoiled. No matter what I tried, the future seemed inevitable.”
Igor found a burst of strength launching himself into Iapyx, his saw-like appendages ripping and tearing, but his teeth broke off, unable to scratch the immaculate machine’s sternum.
Iapyx grabbed Igor’s throat, squeezing until something popped, and his arms went limp.
“On my eighteenth attempt, I lost faith. How many times had I painted with different strokes, dyes, and brushes, still the outcome was the same, and yet, I tried again and found Morta’s daughter who proved a powerful motivator. Morta descended of her free will and made it far but faltered towards the end. Love is powerful, but hatred burns forever.”
Iapyx tossed Igor’s body back toward the altar. He tumbled to the floor, arms and legs limp, head shaking as antifreeze leaked from his neck and broken distributor.
“I learned much from twenty, and I now know it’s possible to change divine providence.” Iapyx stepped on Igor’s head, cracking his lens further, blue liquid spurting from where his arm used to be. “This time I let Nona steal her mother’s fate driving a wedge between her and Morta.” Iapyx pointed towards the dormant fingers of the Isomerase. “Their bonds aren’t as deep this time. Morta bullies Nona, isolating her, and the poor half-blood runs away from home. Her mother has proven a more useful pawn than I thought possible. Why didn’t I think of it before?”
Igor tried to move, subconsciously kicking, but his body wouldn’t respond, his skull creaking under pressure as Iapyx shifted his weight, talons piercing his throat.
“This painting will be the one. I can feel it in my bones, feather and fin-shaped capillary beds. Morta will find her resolve and even Nona will accept her fate,” Iapyx said, lifting Igor’s limp body off the ground and letting him dangle above the floor. “You played your part, too. At first, I thought it a mistake allowing machines to separate from my will, but you and Charon proved your worth. When lost, alone, uncertain, or scared, they sought your company instead of each other, and their relationship as sisters grew more naturally.”
“Let her go,” Igor said in a raspy voice, spitting up ichor.
“Morta has a job to do, Igor. I won’t release her until she kills her cousin, and I can’t do it for her. The steel of Kath’le Kal rejected me after she succeeded in my role.” His head twisted around like an owl. “Listen, I’m not unnecessarily cruel, Nona need not suffer. She will pass peacefully when the time is right. That sweet child deserves better than the twisted whore she’s destined to become.”
Igor’s hooves twitched, oil dripping from his broken torso. “What kind of father are you?” he asked.
Iapyx laughed, his grip tightening around Igor’s neck, unscrewing his head and letting his body drop to the floor. “Be not afraid, my child,” he said, his talons becoming like serpents, slithering inside Igor’s memory bank. “I will not decommission you but make a few changes. Morta will need you when she returns. You are dear to her.”
“You…” Igor’s voice failed him. “Are a monster…”
“No, Igor, I am ascended,” Iapyx said. “For I now weave the fate of the gods.”
End of Book One