Chapter 5: Progress
The Golem stirred. It was a tiny movement, almost imperceptible, but it was enough to crack the brittle layer of dried ash and mud that had been clinging to parts of its form.
The cracked dirt revealed a form that had slowly and subtly recovered from the ruinous damage inflicted upon it. Gashes in the armour had sealed themselves, melted metal and stone had been drawn back into place, and even the head which had been little more than a scorched and slagged mess was now restored to what it had been when sent against the demigod’s Awakening.
In truth, it was something of a failing on the part of the two agents of the High Heavens that they hadn’t noticed the construct recovering. In their defence, the Golem had been designed so that when it needed to repair itself it could do so in stealth since its creators did not want it to be found when in a weakened state. As such there were no random surges of power escaping the construct’s form that would have alerted the angel or the saint.
Full functionality had been reached earlier in the night, the core was brought to full working order, though some of the more minor tertiary systems were still recovering. There were still such flaws as lessened senses, reduced advanced tactics and limited communications, but these too would heal in time. In terms of strength and combat power the, Golem was ready to re-enter the fray whenever needed.
Now it simply waited, preparing to commit to the next steps it needed to take. Unlike a true living being, the Golem was unable to act without purpose. Always it obeyed orders, always it was the servant and tool of others. However, its near destruction had removed its earlier directives. As it stood there were no instructions for it to follow.
However, it was not without some impetus. The energies that had been imparted upon it remained, and with them came . . . suggestions. Not orders, but drives that could become orders in the correct circumstances.
The Golem returned to its stillness, waiting.
Sooner or later its path would become clear. It always did.
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“WHAT DO YOU MEAN ‘HE’S GONE’?!!!”
The bellowed question echoed down the halls of the building, easily heard and drawing attention from the various working agents.
The DMID, or the Divine Monitoring and Intervention Division was a relatively new department of the American government, but it was a department that had, of necessity, grown fast. Already it had taken over a large office building that had once been the headquarters of a large law firm, one that had gone under in a spectacular fashion in the early days after the Black Sun. Their fall had been an object lesson on why one didn’t try to serve a lawsuit against a god. After their rapid closure, the DMID had quietly moved into their former building since it had been a convenient and covert location to use. As far as the general public was aware the offices had been taken over by a stock market trading company, and that was the image they did their best to project.
For the most part, the internal workings of the department closely resembled the customer service department of any company you’d care to name. Most of the time there was an endless quiet murmuring echoing between the various cubicles as the agents within worked to solve whatever issue they were assigned as quietly as possible. It was a sort of professional courtesy, given that everyone knew that everyone else was dealing with something . . . difficult.
The DMID’s state goal was to keep track of the various supernatural forces that had appeared in the world and assess their threat potential to the United States and their allies. On paper, they were just meant to keep an eye on things and gather data that more proactive agencies could make use of.
In practice, most of the new agency spent its time smoothing over the smaller and more manageable issues that cropped up, keeping them from disrupting the general public . If some god saw something in a shop they wanted and just took it, it was a DMID agent that quietly made sure the shop owner was reimbursed and given a little extra on the side to not make a fuss. If some demigod awoke their power in a messy way then it was the agency that cleared things up and arranged for repairs and reparations. When some spirit tore up a nightclub while in the grips of an exultant frenzy, it was the DMID that smoothed things over with the insurance companies and kept things on the low key.
Of course, that was only what the larger portion of the division was tasked with, frustrating and sometimes tedious work, but something essential to keeping the country running. Granted, things were running in a shaky, barely coherent approximation of what had once been normal, but it was close enough to keep things together.
There was another, much smaller, part of the agency that was kept apart from the rest, the part that dealt with more serious issues, darker issues.
The sad fact was that even though it was a national superpower the USA didn’t have the means to put a leash on many of the returned supernatural beings, at least not with any sort of proportional expenditure of resources.
A smaller section of the division had to act more ruthlessly, more amorally, sometimes not even legally, to keep the boat from being rocked. They dealt with the cases that had to be kept quiet, that could lead to much worse things if they boiled over.
The young man that tried to press rape charges against the demigod descended from Bacchus, a demigod that enjoyed his progenitor’s favour, was quietly bribed and threatened into silence. The demigod that had grown too fond of cocaine and heroin was provided with a steady supply under the table to ensure she’d never feel motivated to use violence to sustain her habit. The god that cursed a man with impotence for a slight had any possibility of a bad press or a lawsuit quietly taken care of. That was what they dealt with. Nobody ever said anything concrete about the department, but the other agents noticed that those who worked there grew . . . harder over time, maybe even a bit lifeless.
Then there was the last, and smallest, of the departments, but arguably the one with the most power.
The simple fact was that America as a nation wouldn’t be able to survive if it didn’t have some sort of hammer to bring down when it was needed. Already there had been three attempts to carve out a kingdom inside the nation. The first attempt by a demigod drunk on their power, the other two by different gods that had each tried their own methods of conquest. Each occasion had been a nightmare scenario for the government, given that in those cases a military response would lead to overwhelming casualties. In addition, so soon after the Black Sun, fear and confusion had been running rampant in the country, an operation like that, especially if it took losses as they predicted, could have led to riots and hysteria at the very least.
Various political and military leaders had desperately been scrabbling for any solution at a time when they still didn’t have enough information. The few demigods that had signed on with the government were still, untested, uncertain protectors that couldn’t yet be fully trusted, not to mention lacking in any real combat experience. As the demigod had started what could very well become a zombie outbreak there had been serious consideration given to the use of a nuclear weapon on home soil to stop her.
Fortune had favoured the nation though, and the demigod somehow managed to infuriate not one but two powerful supernatural beings, leading to her end.
After that . . . well, it was something of a legend in the DMID. A story that had been retold, exaggerated, embellished, stripped down and then told again until nobody without the highest levels of clearance knew the truth. Apparently, some young agent with balls of tri-cast steel managed to talk to the beings that had killed the demigod, and somehow brokered a deal. The result was Herne the Hunter and the Greek goddess Artemis had formed a pact with the American Government, promising to act as bounty hunters for the nation in exchange for certain payments and promises.
Gods had a lot of power, and could take what they wanted, but it was much more satisfying when it was given to them. The US government had set aside enormous sections of wild woodland for each of them, supplied thaem with anything they wanted, be it barrels of wine, lavish food, even small temples and shrines, all in exchange for two small favours.
Firstly, that the two hunter gods stayed in their domains rather than roaming across the North American continent. Secondly, that the gods would listhen when the government when they ‘suggested’ the target of a hunt.
That had been an acceptable pact for the gods. They had little desire to entire modern urbanised areas and were happy to live in their wild woodlands. As for the quarries that were suggested . . . those were fine. Listening to the entrities of mortals was nothing new to either of them, and monsters, rampaging demigods, or ambitious gods, all made fine quarries hunt.
The DMID had grown up around those two divine assets. Sure, they dealt with other things as well, but those two were the core, the nucleus.
And now one of them had gone AWOL.
The quiet murmurs of the office were all silenced by a roar from one of the side offices, every head turning that way. The voice had been easy enough to recognise, Director Henricks, the man in charge of the deployment of America’s divine bounty hunters.
And what did he mean ‘he’s gone’?
In the office, the director stared across his desk at the agent before him. Agent Grey was one of an entire division of personnel that were meant to manage and monitor Herne and Artemis, as well as any demigods that signed on with the government. Generally, catering to the gods was easy enough. They seemed to be happy just living and hunting in their vast woodlands, they accepted requests in keeping with their pact and rarely left their lands otherwise, and when they did they always demanded a mortal escort to tend to their demands. It was a bit messy and costly, but it worked.
Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.
Until now.
“Sir, two days ago Herne was seen near the edge of his woods. Since then he hasn’t been spotted. This morning agent Semeya performed the ritual to call him, and there was no response. In accordance with our pact, we sent teams into the woods to find him, but no trace was found. We sought out . . . supernatural aid, and the magic user sent to help couldn’t find any hint of his presence. More than that, the camps he normally uses have been cleared out, his totems are gone, and even his shrine is empty.”
The director didn’t ask if there’d been any message left, if there had been it would already have been mentioned. Instead, he asked a more pertinent question.
“What of Artemis?”
“She’s confirmed to still be in her forest,” Agent Grey confirmed. “There do not seem to be any sort of changes in her behaviour. She has been hunting and celebrating with her companions as normal. Extra agents have been assigned to watch her, though so far nothing seems to be different.”
Alright, then that was something. America still had one trump card where it should be, and he still had a job to do.
“Okay,” The DMID director leaned forward, both his palms coming down on his desk hard enough to rattle his stationary, emphasizing his words. “Find the agents assigned to watch him for the past week and rake them all over the coals, I want to know everything Herne did, who he saw, what he ate! If he stepped on a beetle then I want to know who its next of kin were, who ate the body, and who attended its funeral. Understand?! I want to know what happened and if it is anything we did! Go!”
As Agent Grey nodded Director Henricks stabbed a button on his intercom, summoning three more agents in as he gestured Grey out.
“I’m guessing all of you already know what’s happened?” he asked, unsurprised at the nods he received.
Honestly, he was the head of a new national department, responsible for god-only-knew how much money, resources and personnel, and it took several layers of security and classification before even potentially vital information trickled through to him. On the other hand, if you listened to the gossip next to the coffee machine he could probably shave hours of his wait period.
“Very well. Anton! You are assigned to try to find where Herne has gone. If he’s not in his woods then we need to know where he is and why he’s there! Be as subtle as you can, but results are more important than discretion.
“Cassell, your job is to keep this quiet. There’s no way to keep it from getting out, but you’re going to keep it from being too loud. We don’t want riots or ambitious demigods trying their hand at conquest. Herne has left for his own reasons, that’s the official line. That means he hasn’t broken with us, and that until someone says otherwise he is coming back. Understand?!”
The two agents nodded and left. The director waited until the door clicked closed, then addressed the last agent.
“Has there been any change with our third Divine Asset? Is there any chance that whatever affected this change in Herne might also influence them?”
“The Green Knight is still in place sir, so we can still call on him if we need to.” The last agent, a young woman with her dark hair done up in a tight professional bun, said. “There has been no change in his behaviour, he just continues to tend to his garden and listen to his music.”
The existence of the Green Knight was one of the best-kept secrets of the USA, a hidden card kept in the dark while their two other aces drew attention.
As for who and what the Green Knight was . . . that was a bit complicated. He wasn’t really a god, but he was more human than an elemental spirit. He wasn’t a fey, but he did have connections with the Summer Court. He was something else.
As far as the various mystic scholars who worked for the United States government could work out, the Green Knight was an incarnation of the seasons of growth, of spring and summer. It wasn’t like he was a god, where they had dominion over such things, rather those things gave rise to the Green Knight. It was a weakness, as he had explained to the agent who had negotiated with him. Every year, when the first leaf of autumn fell he would die, only to be reborn when the first shoots of spring emerged. However, it was also a strength in that during the time he lived he was immortal in a way that surpassed even a god. Cut his head off, burn his body, blast him with lightning, freeze him solid, none of it mattered and he would return in less than a day, completely healed.
The Green Knight had proposed a pact to the US government. They could call on his aid in exchange for providing him with a small out-of-the-way place where he could tend his garden and wait. Exactly what he was waiting for he hadn’t revealed, but the USA was desperate for any edge they could gain and had agreed. So far they had only needed to ask his aid once, and that had been enough to prove his power, and to scare quite a few people. Any event that ended with a ‘tree of corpses’ was one that any sane person took note of.
They still weren’t sure why he had settled in America rather than Britain, which was supposedly his homeland, given he was intertwined with Arthurian legend, but since it was to their benefit they weren’t complaining.
“Okay, make sure your branch keeps an eye on him. If there are any changes in his behaviour then let me know at once.”
As he watched the agent nod and leave director Henricks mulled over what had happened.
Herne’s disappearance was serious, but not crippling. Still, they needed to find out where he’d gone. As part of a campaign to reassure their citizens that the government had at least some control over the situation after the Black Sun, the deal between Herne and the government had been widely popularised in various media across the country. Knowing that a god was backing them against the likes of monsters and rogue demigods had done wonders for the public calm. But now . . .
Herne was now linked with the USA, and if he caused problems in other countries it could lead to a diplomatic nightmare.
The director massaged his forehead and tried to think of what his next move should be. His agents were competent, so he didn’t have to micromanage them. What he had to do was coordinate this with the other departments, and make sure they didn’t end up getting in each other’s way.
Oh, and he had to let the President know. yeah, that was going to be fun.
Letting out a sigh he reached for his desk’s phone. No point in putting this off.
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“An oracle?”
Hadriel asked the question as she looked at Lady Joan as she stood in the doorway to the dining area.
“Yes. I believe there are at least two members of the choir of the principalities upon the mortal plane. Is that not correct?”
“Indeed, one of them was a part of the wing I was attached to before being reassigned to aiding our charge.” The red-winged angel confirmed. “But an oracle is no simple matter, depending upon what knowledge you seek the costs in power can be exhausting.”
What Hadriel said was something of an understatement. Principalities were angels of time and blessings, well respected in the heavenly ranks for the support they could offer their allies, but normally kept away from the field of battle due to their lack of combat power. In times past they had been the educators of early humanity, teaching the mortals what they needed to know to survive outside of Eden. In the new age that had come after the Black Sun, they had become healers and supporters to their fellow warriors of heaven. However, that was not the limit of their powers.
As angels of time, they possessed a small fraction of their creator’s boundless omniscience, the ability to see beyond the currents of the present and into the past or even the future. It was not a power to be used casually though, for the future was jealous of its secrets. In every culture around the world prophets and oracles were special existences, and often they were dogged by as much tragedy as they were prestige. Angels of the choir of principalities went beyond that, and were able to summon up visions or knowledge from the future at will. The cost though, could be ruinous for them if pushed too far.
“Allow me to confirm, the cost upon the angel casting the oracle grows the more far-reaching and accurate the oracle needs to be, correct?”
Hadriel nodded, pleased that the resurrected soul at least had some idea of what she was asking for. The warrior angel could see why she would ask for such a boon, there were very few circumstances in the world where knowledge of the future would not be a valuable asset. However, the principalities were not ones to use such power on a whim, they needed good reasons to push themselves so far.
“Then could you send them a request for an answer to a question?”
“I cannot promise an answer, but I shall ask. What would you have them use their power upon?”
The angel was curious. The resurrected saint was no fool, so she would not be asking for the answer to some frivolous query. But a more important and informative question might be more than the descended principalities might be willing to drain themselves to answer.
“Where can Adam best help.”
Hadriel waited, staring at the saint as she did so. When no further detail was forthcoming the crimson-winged angel could only blink in surprise.
“Is that all?”
Where was the rest of it, the need for a time, a place, an objective? She was asking for an oracle to aid their charge, and a demigod acknowledged by the Almighty Himself, that could not be the entirety of her question.
“Oui.” The saint nodded. “I do not seek a specific oracle, no great question. I merely wish for a starting point, a place Adam can work from, nothing more. We both know that if we try to steer him according to our own preconceptions the results could be . . . unforgiving.”
The angelic warrior silently nodded her head to acknowledge the point. In creation, there were forces that even the likes of gods and angels had to yield to. Fate and Destiny were among them, forces that fought against being controlled, forces that tended to trample those that stood in their way.
The problem was that for all their power Destiny and Fate were . . . capricious, uncertain. Having a destiny didn’t make Adam invincible, it didn’t mean that he couldn’t dodge the wrong way and end up with an arrow in the throat at the hands of some lowly thug. Yet, at the same time, it also meant that if a god or higher power tried to force him down a path they had contrived then chance and luck would turn on them and punish them even as their plans fell apart. There were none, save for the Almighty Himself, who truly understood the twisting rules of predestination, and He was not offering them to anyone.
“So, you intend to follow, not lead?”
Hadriel posed the question, even though she was already certain of the saint’s answer. Sure enough, Joan simply nodded.
“It is not our place to point Adam down any path. We are merely at his side to ensure he has aid when he stumbles. Will you be able to ask if the oracle can be called?”
When the reborn soul had first asked for an oracle, the angel had been . . . sceptical of the practicalities. In her, admittedly limited experience, foretellings of the future were always about gaining more information, more details, more control
This request of the saints was different. Its vagueness, its simplicity, the utter lack of details . . . it all might make it an unusually inexpensive oracle to cast.
Yes. The thought firmed in her mind as she contemplated it more. Such a simple question might be more easily answered by one of the Principalities. It would still cost them, but it would be nowhere as taxing as a more detailed request would be. Not like the more tactical predictions they regularly had to make in order to keep the ranks of the High Heavens ahead of the denizens of the Pits.
With very slight amusement she realized that some of them might be willing to cast this oracle simply for the novelty of working with such a vague request. To them, it would be akin to being asked to slay a feral housecat after years of being forced to face raging lions. Such a relatively easy task might be accomplished simply to see what sorts of results it might yield.
“Very well,” She agreed. “I shall send your request later this evening when I contact my fellow angels once more.”
“Thank you, honoured Hadriel.” The French saint inclined her head in a respectful nod. “This shall be of great aid, I am sure. Now, we should discuss what our-”
Anything else Joan of Arc might have been about to say was cut off by a world-shaking crash from outside. Literally world shaking, since all around them ornaments, furniture and decorations all rattled as though the farmhouse had been hit by an earthquake.
“YEAH! THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT!”
The exhilarated and pleased shout came from outside, and the saint and the angel exchanged looks as they headed out to see what the commotion was.