Three (The Godslayer Cycle Book 3) (13 page)

Another thought rushed into the man's mind at this.  He quickly glanced to his mother, then back again to the dwarf. 
How is it he knows Mother if he has only come here just now with me?

The dwarf stopped a few feet from the pair and planted his fists upon his hips.  “An' who's yer silen' frien', Darlin'?”

Maribel reached out a gentle hand to place on Nathaniel's arm.  In his astonishment, he barely felt it. “This is a newcomer to Oaken Wood, who I found suffering from a strange malady 'pon the edge of town.  He almost made it here on his own, but he was bested by it before he could.  I provided some healing, and he now appears to be much recovered, though he does profess to some confusion as to who he is.”

Bracken screwed up an eye, squinting his other as he pointedly aimed his gaze at Nathaniel.  “Yer name?”

“Nathaniel G--”  The man stopped, looking to his mother, whom he could see slightly shake her head in sympathy.

“He for some strange reason believes he's my son, Bracken.  It is something left over from his affliction, but I am hoping it will pass with some rest.”

The dwarf walked up to Nathaniel and took in a loud breath through his nostrils.  He had appeared to be about to scoff, when his face shifted to an expression of confusion.  “Tha's off,” he said.  “Ya does 'ave a smell like Nat'anyel.  Old'r, fer sure, bu'...”  The dwarf turned to Maribel.  “'E may no' be yer boy, bu' 'e's from th' same bloo'line.  No mistakin' tha'.  No' 'is father?”

Dwarves can
smell
people?! 
This had never been something that Nathaniel had ever heard of, much less been aware of the skill in his old friend.  And yet - even Nathaniel had to admit there was still so much about the dwarf that he did not know.  By and by, it had only been last year that Bracken had even told the young man where he even came from...

Maribel studied Nathaniel then herself.  “Now that you mention it, I
do
see something of the man in this one.  I am surprised I had not seen it before.  He's not Nathan's father, but he does bear a resemblance.  It was only the one night, but I do now see the kinship.”

The woman's face brightened.   “This must be why you knew of me and Nathan, though it is beyond me how you did.  You must have come here looking for your... what?”  Her brow knit in confusion. “What would he be to you then?  Your nephew?  Cousin?”

Nathaniel had been momentarily lost in the conversation, but suddenly he realized that he was expected to answer.  He felt his face grow warm as he struggled inwardly for something to even say.  “I swear to you,” he said at last.  “I am who I say--”

Maribel's finger fell upon his lips again.  “Hush, you're right.  It is too much to ask of you so soon. It is clear you could not answer, even if you were of a mind to.”

Bracken grunted.  “So wha' d'we call this one?  Nat'anyel th' secon'?”

“Nate,” the man felt himself say, looking to Bracken sincerely.  “You call me 'Nate'.”

Something in how Nathaniel had said the words startled Bracken, as his eyes grew wide a moment. Then the dwarf's stoic personality shoved that aside.  “Close 'nough t' know yer no' 'er boy.  Works fer me, I s'pose.”

In the back of Nathaniel's mind, he could recall the conversation he had once had with Bracken, about how he would rather have the dwarf call him “Nate”, because the dwarf's sounding out his name always sounded like the short man was calling him a flower.  But that was not yet in this timeline, in this afterlife.  Set and defined by his mother's memories, this would have been nearly a year before Nathaniel would make the request.

An arm snaked around Nathaniel's waist and the thin woman pulled him to her with a strength that belied her petite frame.  “Welcome to Oaken Wood, Nate.  You will be well cared for while you recover yourself.  Will he not, Bracken?”

Bracken looked the newcomer up and down, his eyes resting quite firmly upon the hilt of the sword rising from behind Nathaniel's shoulder.  “I don' know, Mar'bel.  I don' much like th' look o' tha' sword...”

Maribel's head buried itself into Nathaniel's arm as her other hand snaked around his bicep.  “He is a traveler through the Wildelands, Bracken.  Would you have him travel without an armory?”

Bracken raised an eyebrow.  “
Yew
don' 'ave a probl'm wit' a
sword
?  An' a swor' like tha' one, i's more'n jus' a weap'n, I ken tell.  Tha's a swor' o' th' gentry, if ever'n I saw one.  Which makes this un eit'er a leg'cy 'r a thief who took i' from one.”

Nathaniel felt his face flush.  “I am no thief, and if you had your right mind, you would know that. You know me better than I know myself most of the time!”

Bracken chuckled.  “'Course yew'd no' know if'n yew were eit'er, an' yer words pre'y much prove tha', 'cause I know yew no' a' all.  Ne'er knew ya, ne'er e'en saw ya.”  Bracken grunted again, drawing it out into a low growl.  Finally, he rolled his eyes and threw his arms into the air.  “A'right, ya li'l woodsy witch, yew.  He c'n stay.  I'll go fix a room.”

Bracken turned without another word and began to stomp off to the front entrance, the easy swagger now gone from his walk.

“Thank you, Bracken!” called Maribel, releasing her hold on Nathaniel's arm long enough to wave after him.  “You're a better man than you let anyone else see!”

Bracken bellowed a harsh laugh in response, and waved away the compliment brusquely without facing the two.  A moment later, he disappeared into the building.

Maribel hugged herself to Nathaniel's side once more before letting him go.  She looked up into his eyes, visibly trying to take in all that he was with her stare.  “I don't know what it is about you, Nate,” she said, “but somehow, it seems the more I am close to you, the more I do not wish to let you go.”

Maribel blushed at this and took a step back.  “Oh my, now that was not forward at all!  Please, forgive me.  I did not intend it as it sounded.”

The man smiled himself.  “I would not have taken it for anything more than what I would always hope,” he said, reaching out and taking hold of her arms in his hands.  “You see in me who I truly am to you, and I can only hope that you will come to see the truth of it.”  He felt tears welling in his eyes again, but made no effort to hide them.  “You have no idea how special this moment is to me, to have you here.  And I want to share this time with you more than I even want to breathe right now.”

Maribel visibly blushed, and Nathaniel felt his own self-consciousness rise.  “Not as it sounds.  I'm not--”

“I understand,” said Maribel, bowing her head to hide her reddening cheeks.  “It is not lust I feel, either.  I cannot explain it.  It just...  overwhelms.”

The woman pulled back, folding her hands modestly in front of her.  “I must go to meditate on this, seek guidance.  Whatever this is, it is beyond my humble understandings and I would seek some clarity from the Gods, if I may.”

“Please, say a prayer to Dariel over Lendus or Charith, for I feel only he could bring truth to your heart over this.”  The words shocked Nathaniel himself.  He had never ascribed to any genuine faith in the Old Gods, even though he had been raised to believe in them.  He had even scorned the Pantheon for their invasion of his peaceful life in order to drag him into their divine war with the New Order.  Yet his words to his mother this day were as sincere and genuine as he had ever been.  In this moment, at least, he had absolute faith that Dariel would share the truth with his mother's soul.

Maribel's eyes darted to Nathaniel's once more, but this time there was a registered look of alarm in them.  “As comforting as it is that you would offer respect to the Old Gods,” she said, “why would you even suggest that I would offer prayer to the Master and Mistress of Mortality for this kind of dilemma?  What is it you know, strange Nate, that would inspire you to even mention Charith?”

Nathaniel cursed at himself inwardly.  His mother did know she was dead, and so she would not know that her spirit dwelled within Charith's domain.  To mention the God and Goddess of Life and Death
would
only upset someone who was a devoutly faithful person, live or dead.  But to suggest to a druidess of Lendus, God and Goddess of Bounty and Famine, who was the deity who oversaw the natural order within the realm of the
living
, that she would have even considered praying to the deity of life and death was near blasphemous.

“This...”  Nathaniel let go of Maribel and swept his left arm out across the whole of Oaken Wood. “This...  world.  It's not all it appears.  I don't know how else to say it.  But I thought...  with what I know...  well, I thought perhaps you would pray to Charith under the circumstances.  It was a foolish thought.”

Concern flashed in Maribel's eyes.  “You know something, Nate.  You know something dreadful, don't you?”

The man could not form the words.  Yes, he knew something dreadful - he knew his mother would die in a mere handful of days.  He knew that though she had no memory of her death, he knew she walked the path which would lead her there and she was likely to live through the terror of dying once again so very, very soon.

Nathaniel's need to speak was taken from him however by a hand that fell upon his shoulder.  He shrugged it away instinctively, not wishing to look away from the woman he cherished more than life itself.  The hand fell again on him, this time more firmly, though still not with enough force to be a threat.

Nathaniel turned on the new arrival, ready to scream, to drive away the intruder so that he could have this one last moment with his mother before he would be forced to tell her what he knew.  For how did one refuse the wish of one's deceased mother?

But what Nathaniel saw froze him in place instead.  He knew this man standing before him.  The other man was certainly not someone who was dead - for this man could not possibly have died.  He was a man who could not possibly be dead - for he did not live as normal men did, he lived in
reverse.
  Which meant whatever death awaited
him
...  Nathaniel's head began to hurt trying to imagine how death would affect such a man.

“You are not dead,” whispered the man Nathaniel knew only as the Eternal, leaning in close enough that only the other man himself could hear.  “But we must speak.  If we do not, everyone you have ever known may well be very soon.”

Chaos.  That was the only word that came to Avery's mind.  Utter and pure chaos.

Goodsmith was gone, obliterated along with
Two
.  The girl who had been his murderer was gone as well, vanished as though she had never been.  That should have been enough - but then the dwarf had gone insane, swinging at the crowd with his great axe.  Avery had stepped in between the stout demi-human with his own sword, but it had done little but slow the enraged dwarf.  It had not been until Brea - the priestess-who-was-not-a-priestess - had stepped forward with her own magic that Bracken had finally been overcome.  But even with the threats gone, the people of Oaken Wood had gone into panic.

Surprisingly, the swordplay had not been what had set everyone off.  One would think that if anything would send the crowds screaming in fear, it would have been three swords and a great cleaving axe swinging about in their midst.  Avery was sure that in his former life, he would have been leading the charge to get away from it all.

The crowd mingling here however had only stood around gawking at the display of power.  They had not run - at best, they had just stepped back a little to make room.  One would think they saw these kinds of fights every day.

No, it was not the death-by-steel flinging about madly that had set them off - it was Brea's magic. Once the woman had demonstrated she could still wield it, the crowd had flown into a panic.  All about his head, Avery could hear the caterwauling of fearfully small minds rushing all about.  One flex of magical muscle, and the people had been reduced to mewling babes, fearful that the bottle they had been nursing from had inexplicably run dry.

Everyone knew that Brea was a former priestess of Imery, a woman made powerless by her Goddess abandoning her and all of her fellow clerics.  Brea's downfall had become incorporated into the myths that had begun to spring up around the so-called divine woman, the one whose body was spared by the Old Gods.  Brea's lack of magic had become a symbol that the various versions of the tale were held up against for truth - if Imery were not overcome by the Old Gods, the people would say, why then is her servant made powerless and forced to live among them?

Of course, none of these false prophets even considered that the former priestess' reasons for being here in Oaken Wood had nothing to do with the divine woman.  Well, at least not directly.  Avery may not have been the all-knowing person he would have others believe him to be, but he was not blind to love when he saw it.  Brea loved Nathaniel Goodsmith, and whether he returned her affections of not, she intended to stay wherever he might be.  And for the moment, that place was Oaken Wood.

Well, it
had
been Oaken Wood, Avery amended.

Yet here - in the presence of everyone - Brea had wielded magic. Magic powerful enough to fell a berserk dwarf at the height of his rage.  To the masses of people milling about, these people who made up their own versions of events to satisfy their own self-serving whims, this could really only mean one thing.

It just took one person in the crowd to shout, “Imery has returned!”  That was all it took to send the crowd rushing about in panic.  It seemed every person had drawn the same conclusion: If Imery were back from her self-imposed exile, she would not be happy with anyone who had taken advantage of her absence.  In effect, woe be it to anyone who had reveled in the Goddess' absence!

Avery was fairly certain that was not what was going on.  He had not had a great deal of associations with priests in general, but he had seen a fair amount of clerical magic.  Especially in the last several months as he attempted to move about the countryside unnoticed, he had made a point of seeking out healers and other worldly messengers of the New Order who practiced their magic openly.  And there was one critical element missing from this display of power: Brea had not used any arcane words.

To a man, each and every individual Avery had ever witnessed using magic in their Gods' name had used some kind of cantation before their magic had effect.  Whether it was the laying on of hands to heal, or a fireworks display to prove a preacher's connection to the divine, each and every one of them had spoken some form of indecipherable language before they used their magic.  Most masked this by claiming it to be a form of prayer to the Gods, but Avery sensed there was more to it. 

Since Avery had become an instrument of the Nine, he had an affinity for magic that went beyond his simple mortal understanding.  Somehow, he could now feel when magic potential existed.  It had always been a point of curiosity for him that he could never feel potential for magic before these mysterious words, but afterwards it would be akin to lightning crackling through the air.  The words provided access to the magic - of that much, Avery was certain.  Whatever they were, they were how these mortals accessed divine power.  Without those words, the power simply did not reside within the mortals wielding it.

Brea did not use any arcane words.  Avery had spent all morning with the former priestess, and he was certain that she had not had any potential magic dwelling in her breast, either.  And yet, when it was needed, it had manifested around the woman.  It had not been instant - she drew the power to her, and it built upon itself over several seconds.  But there had been no words, no arcane utterance, nothing.  Brea was somehow a natural conduit for magic, and this was one detail of what had just transpired that shook the man's beliefs to the core.

Just when he thought he was beginning to understand magic, something new had come along to prove he did not.

The other detail was equally as disturbing, but admittedly held less presence in the man's mind as he numbly watched people's ankles clamoring all around him.  Still, the question that had arisen in the heat of battle nagged at the back of his mind all the same:

How had the dwarf's axe survived against
One
?

Avery had been through many challenges in the last several months.  He had witnessed
One
slicing through even the most finely crafted steel he could imagine.  His sword was capable of felling trees and slicing any solid object in twain.  And yet... Bracken's sword had not only withstood
One
's edge, it had pushed both he and the sword away.

Avery realized then that he was still lying on the ground looking up at everyone panicking all around him.  It had been a miracle that he had not been stepped on.  He quickly picked himself up, feeling the weight of
One
still in his grip.  Almost instinctively, the man reached over his shoulder and sheathed the blade. 
No sense in further panic.

The man's eyes darted about, looking for any sign of the dwarf, or - certainly of more importance - his axe. 
Is it possible that the axe is another divine weapon?  And if so, who created
that
one?

At last, Avery spotted Brea through a break in the racing crowd.  She was kneeling beside someone, and though Avery's brief glimpse could not discern who, he had to reason that it was most likely the dwarf.  Without hesitation, the would-be-God began tracing his way through the finally thinning crowd.  It seemed more people wanted away from where the priestess knelt than towards.  Once Avery began moving in that direction, he found his movements far easier.

Within a few minutes, the man found himself standing over the priestess and dwarf, and the crowd was mostly a memory as the people disappeared into whatever forms of shelter they could manage.  The streets were all but empty as Avery stopped at the pair before him.  Bracken knelt, holding tightly to the handle of his axe, while Brea whispered into his ear.  Even with his heightened senses though, he could not make out what was being said.  He was startled though when Brea turned to look at him, as though she had known he was coming.  The knit to her brow however did nothing to inspire welcome.

“Why aren't
you
leaving?” the priestess barked.  “Anything you could have wanted here is gone now.”

Avery felt the sting of the words as something physical, forcing him to stop in his tracks.  Could this have been some residual effect from the magic the woman had just displayed?

After a moment, Avery managed to speak.  “I'm not the enemy here.”

Brea's eyes narrowed menacingly.  “Can you honestly say that?  After all you've done, can you
honestly
say you are not our enemy?”

“You're the priestess of a Goddess of Truth,” spat Avery, his lip curling at the woman's insults. “Why don't you use your magic to prove me a liar?”

The woman's jaw set, then relaxed after a moment.  Her entire frame looked to have shrunk as whatever emotion she had held on to for strength abandoned her.  “I'm not a priestess of anyone. Imery's dead.”

Avery raised an eyebrow, taking a cautious step forward.  “Right.  So all of that was what then?”

The woman shrugged.  “I do not know.  Ever since Imery died, I have had...”  Brea held her arms wide, her palms held upward.  “...this.”  As she spoke the final words, the former priestess' hands began to pulse visibly.  There was no immediate glow of power; her hands literally appeared to expand and retract with a force that defied simple vision.

Avery was not entirely certain how to react.  Sans the swords themselves, he had no experience with anyone who could wield magic like this.  And Brea clearly had no sword.

“That is divine power,” came a familiar voice from behind Avery.  “That should not be possible.”

Brea's focus shifted towards the newcomer.  “And who might you be?”

Avery's scribe made a great production of bowing low.  “We have not been formerly introduced, but I am Hamil, scribe to Avery, God of Vengeance.”

Avery turned his head towards the scribe.  “I thought you were with the others.”

The small man stepped forward, stopping a bare step closer to Brea.  “I followed you.  Are you saying you are surprised?”

The would-be-God growled inwardly.  Of course he was not surprised - Hamil rarely did as he was told.  “Of course not.  I just wish that for once you would listen.”

The small man shrugged.  “How can I stand as witness to your greatness if I am always elsewhere when you are great?”

Brea made an exaggerated groan.  “I don't need Imery's gifts to know
that's
a lie.”

Hamil's head cocked to the side.  “Imery's, you say?  I thought she was dead.”

“And how would you know
that
?” demanded the woman.

Hamil bowed again.  “I serve a God.  Does it surprise you that I know of divine things?”

“Avery's not a God,” rebuked Brea, standing now to face off against the little man.  “He is a mortal man who has one of the Gods' swords.  That does not make him a God.”

“And you have no sword, but wield the power of a deceased Goddess,” rebuffed Hamil.  “Is that any more possible?”

Brea fell silent at that, glaring at Avery's scribe.  The silence held between the two for several minutes before Bracken broke the tension.

“'Nough posturin',” the dwarf growled, standing himself.  “We have'ta go aft'r the witch wha' killed Nate!”

“And where would you propose we go?” asked Avery.  “She's gone.  Vanished.”

“Vanished, yes,” mused Hamil.  “But I am thinking perhaps...  not gone?”

Avery raised an eyebrow.  “What are you meaning?”

“Think of it, my lord,” mewed the little man.  “This girl has
Three
.  And we
know
what
Three
is supposed to do.”

The taller man closed his eyes for a moment.  “Right, Martin had
Three
.  He said...”  Avery watched the scene unfold before his mind's eye, witnessing again what had happened the day after he had lost his hand to the Godslayer.  “He said it allowed him to travel back to speak with me.”

“Back from a
time
that had not yet come,” amended the scribe.

Avery's eyes burst open.  “Martin disappeared as well.  He went back to where he came from.”

“Back to his own time.”  Hamil had adopted a wicked sneer.  “
Three
appears to move a person from times that have not come to times that have.  If Martin is to be believed, of course.”

“So you're saying this girl is from our future?” asked Brea, taking her own interest in the conversation.

Avery bobbed his head in agreement.  “Martin came to us and then vanished when his message was delivered.  Though to be honest, he seemed to be fighting it.  I don't think he wanted to go back.  He wanted to tell me more.”

“I don't think that the girl wanted to be here,” suggested Brea.

“So she went back on her own,” said the would-be-God.

“Unless this
was
her time, and she escaped into the past,” suggested the woman.

Avery considered that for a moment before responding.  “I don't think so.  It's possible, yes.  But she came here looking for the Old Gods.  She
knew
to come here.  And if she was coming from the past, how could she have known about this?”