God of Clocks (Deepgate Codex, Book 3)
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In the cataclysm of the battle of the gods, a portal to Hell has been opened, releasing legions of unnatural creatures that have pushed humanity to the edge of extinction. While warring deities clash with fallen angels, the only hope for mankind’s survival lies with the most unlikely heroes: Former assassin Rachel Hael has rejoined blood-magician Mina Greene and her little dog, Basilis, on one last desperate mission to save the world from the ravages of Hell. As Rachel travels to the final confrontation she has both sought and feared, she begins to realize that time itself is unraveling. And so she must prepare herself for a sacrifice that may claim her heart, her life, her soul—and even then it may not be enough.
to watch the tethered man rise amongst their ranks. Anchor's rope grated across the timbers behind him, dislodging some of the debris the vessel had accumulated. He moved faster, pulling upon the spars to quicken his ascent, weaving through that great crosshatched scaffold like a bobbin through a loom. By now the Failed had reached Cospinol's gallowsmen and a fight was under way. Most of the gallowsmen fled, but some remained trapped in nooses and fought; these men were soon relieved of their
about him? “Nothing,” Anchor replied. “He can rot here.” “Who are you talking to?” said Mr. D. “My master,” Anchor said. “Your master? Where is he? I want to speak to him.” Anchor grunted. He crouched over the hole in the floor and began to widen it by ripping up more boards. After it was wide enough for him, he stopped and peered down into the darkness. A chill breeze blew up from below. He could not guess how deep the chasm went. “Anchor?” Mr. D said. “I demand an audience with your
“What is that object you drag?” they said. “There is food within.” “The Rotsward is my master's ship,” Anchor replied. “There's no food aboard.” One figure stepped closer. It was larger than its neighbours and appeared to be wearing red plate armour, yet the steel panels of its suit did not move in the way layers of metal should. This armour was merely an affectation. “There are many souls inside the Rotsward,” it said, and the group chorused its words. “Souls everywhere.” It tilted its head
recently. There were still signs of recent logging: stacks of freshly cut logs and piles of smaller branches. Wide trails crisscrossed the grey-green earth underneath the cradled tavern. A reflection flashed across the steel blade of Dill's cleaver. Down below, one of the woodsmen on the stoop moved suddenly. An arrow struck the edge of the incisor, glanced off, and hit the roof of Dill's mouth. It dropped, landing just inside the row of huge teeth. Rachel flinched. She heard laughing from
looked to be no larger than a simple knife. In the forest gloom he looked like a huge black bear. The great hemp rope that tethered him to his master's airship rose skywards from the harness on his back, but otherwise there was no evidence of the Rotsward's presence here, nor of the many passengers floating in the fog above him. He was quite alone. He looked up and grinned. “Rachel Hael.” “I thought you abhorred blades,” she said with a glance at his handiwork. “Only when they are used in