Three (The Godslayer Cycle Book 3) (24 page)

The pulses of outward energy grew more powerful, doubling then tripling in strength.  Brea found herself having to brace herself against the force being cast out from the epicenter of Avery's attack. Then, with an inexplicably soft sigh, the form impaled upon the blade dissolved into a purplish smoke, which itself was drawn into Avery's blade.

Enuchek, Goddess of Mystery, was gone.  And Brea felt it as absolutely as she knew her own name.

Before any could react, Avery moved again, taking advantage of the deathly stillness that had fallen over the assembled mortals and Gods alike.  Without any show of hesitancy, his sword came around and decapitated the other God kneeling at his feet, severing Mastron's weeping face from his body.

Yet again, the pulse of power came, but this time it was as one large, harsh burst of thunder. Whether this was because Avery had already sapped energy from the God or it was representative of a different form of death, it seemed to matter little.  Mastron, God of the Storm, fell in an instant, his own body bursting into sparks great and small, most of which were equally absorbed into Avery's God-forged weapon.

The would-be God of Vengeance turned, fire burning in his eyes as he turned to face Galanor and the ebon Goddess.  But in doing so, he was unprepared as a silken strand wrapped suddenly about his neck and flung him forcefully into the air.  At the apex of its range, the man's body was released and he flew unceremoniously through the front wall of a nearby building.

Galanor bellowed in victory as he moved to take advantage of Avery's fall, but Brea acted first.  Her power had so far been a complete mystery to her, manifesting whatever form it needed to take.  Before now, it had always been instinct, yet this time, she had a specific idea in mind.  Calling upon the skill she had used to make her light physical, she combined it with the energy spear she had cast earlier, forming the image she desired in her mind before throwing her new construct at the Knight of the Fields.

Galanor's mad rush came to an abrupt halt as Brea's barbed energy construct pierced his chest.  And when the priestess hauled back upon the tether she had created, the great God was pulled off his feet and fell abruptly on his backside.  In moments, the tether took the form of a great rope of power that twisted and bound the God to the very dirt from which his power was drawn.

“Release me, witch!” yelled the felled God, but Brea only laughed, tying off her power so that it remained solid without connection to her own body. 

“Defy her will, and feel Imery's wrath,” Brea heard herself say.

“Imery is dead!  You cannot speak for her!”

“Then perhaps,” said a man's voice from beside the priestess, “what you are witnessing is a new Goddess of Truth?”

Brea's heart missed a beat as she looked to her side to see another deity - but one unlike any she had ever seen.  The being's divinity was unmistakable, but the entity's raven black head defied any image she had ever held of a God.  In response to Brea's unspoken befuddlement, the creature cocked his head in an amazing imitation of an actual bird, while his beak twisted in an uncharacteristic smile.

“But what does the lowly Opopu know of such things?”  Without another word, the being vanished in a burst of foul-smelling smoke, leaving only a dark feather to flutter to the ground where he had stood.

Galanor howled in rage.  “Release me!”

“I think not,” came another voice, this one familiar.  From the front of the building, Avery approached, his left arm clearly shattered as it lay twisted at his side.  A large gash on his forehead had left a flap of flesh laying exposed against his skull, blood pouring profusely from the wound.  Somehow, though his strength was visibly failing him, he still held the sword, its weight dragging in the dirt behind the man.  “You would only return... to do more harm,” he managed.

Ankor stepped out of the air behind Avery.  “Use your power to heal,” whispered the God.  Though the words had been intended for Avery alone, Brea found herself able to hear them as plainly as though they were spoken for all to hear.

“I...”  Avery turned, confused at the God beside him.  Still holding
One
, he raised his hand out towards the Trickster.  “I like you better as Hamil...” he said.  Then his eyes rolled up into his head and he pitched forward, falling into the God's arms.

“You have one chance at redemption here, traitor,” came the voice of the ebon Goddess, appearing out of a dark swirl in the air before Avery and Ankor.  “Step away from the Godslayer.”

“I...”  Ankor looked helplessly between his sister and the unconscious body he held in his arms.  “Belask, please...”  The God visibly struggled with what to do, but the decision was taken from him in the next instant.

Once again, Bracken appeared, swinging his great axe at the Goddess.  “We're no' done ye', ya harlo'!”  The Goddess turned, dodging the edge of the axe, plain insecurity visible upon her face. Inexplicably, that very blade had hurt her earlier, and she had no desire for another strike.  Yet the move to avoid one blade made her vulnerable for another.

Ankor let out a scream of agony, which acted as the only forewarning.  Brea and the Goddess alike turned at the sound to see Ankor rising, the sword known as
One
wielded in his hand.  But his arm was afire, the energy of the sword eating at his flesh.  With torment driving him, the God thrust the blade forward, aiming for Belask's chest.  The sword fell in its arc however, and it instead skewered the Goddess directly above her left hip.  Nevertheless, the sword remained embedded as the Trickster released his hold, falling to the ground in anguish, rolling back and forth crying, clutching at the scarred and twisted flesh of his arm.

Energy ebbed from where the sword remained lodged in Belask's body.  She reached down to pull it free, but shirked back at the spark of pain that met her at the slightest touch.  The ebon Goddess steeled herself, clutching her fists for some act of will that she might be able to exert, but Brea gave her no opportunity to act.

The priestess leaped forward and clutched the handle of the blade, twisting it firmly into the Goddess' body.  Instantly, the power held in check inside Belask's open wound burst along the steel of the blade and into Brea's body.  She found her hands bonded with the sword as the power of the Goddess flowed untamed into her body.  She wanted to scream herself as the power rebelled with that which was already within her frame, but a moment later whatever resistance existed fell away. 

The dark and terrible energy that represented that of the Goddess of the Unseen joined with the light of truth in her heart and the two forces found common ground, merging into a force greater than what had existed before.  Without Imery's gift, Brea was certain she would never have recognized any of this - but she
was
her Goddess' last vestige of power on this plane, and with that gift came understanding - and the ability to see beyond that which is unseen.

Brea realized at that moment that she had closed her eyes as she had observed the conflict within her body, and now opened them to fully take in what was happening around her.  She found herself staring into the disbelieving face of the Goddess of the Unseen, but the Goddess' eyes could not be seen. Where the Goddess' eyes had been, great plumes of smoke were invading her body.  Instantly, Brea understood that this energy represented the other incarnations of the Goddess from all over Na'Ril, joining to the form which was presently stabbed by the blade in her hand.

A moment later, the Goddess sighed and her body slacked.  As her muscles fell to their lowest point, the Goddess' body dissolved, black, sulphurous smoke falling away from where her body had been, dissolving into the ground at the priestess' feet.

A twinge at the edge of her awareness caused Brea to turn about, leveling the sword at the throat of the final Goddess, who had attempted to charge the priestess from behind.  The Goddess Brea now knew as Orlicia, Goddess of the Dream, swallowed as the edge of the sword fell just short of piercing her skin.  The Goddess scowled, hatred only a Goddess could possibly emote plain upon her face.  A moment later, the Goddess vanished, leaving no trace of her presence behind.

Suffused with new power, Brea leveled the sword at the God she had bound.  “Galanor,” she said simply.  “Give me reason why I should not slay you here and now.”

If the priestess had expected some form of capitulation, she was sorely disappointed.  “You are mortal.”  He lifted his head and spit at the ground by her feet.  “You have earned my wrath and I
will
see your soul burn for all eternity!”

A hand fell upon the woman's shoulder, and another reached for her hand that wielded the sword.  “This is my task,” said Avery's voice.  Brea was not greatly surprised to find that the man's wounds were now healed.  Once his senses had been restored, he had clearly utilized his own power to do precisely what Ankor had asked of him.

Brea offered no resistance as the man who had long called himself the God of Vengeance took back his blade.  Once in hand, he hesitated not a moment in driving the blade directly into the God's heart. Galanor's body ebbed in form, his skin becoming fluid.  From the earth around him, various versions of himself own rose up and joined with his body, the fluidity of his shape seeming to grow in size with each new form.  Within a heartbeat, the God's form was twice the size it had originally been, but he did not grow beyond this. 

Throughout all of this, even though the God clearly suffered with what was happening to him, he did not cry out.  Instead his steely eyes continued to glare at Brea, the unspoken oath to see her tortured carried on the invisible daggers he shot at her through the force of his will.  Then, without any great expulsion of force, the God's body simply crumbled into dust and blew away.

Avery lifted the sword, raising it over his shoulder to sheath it into its scabbard.  “None of the Gods are safe to release,” he said as he bent down to the side of the one God who remained.  Ankor sat on his haunches, clutching at his blistered arm.  “All save this one.”  The man looked severe as he turned his gaze to Brea and Bracken, who had come to stand beside the priestess. “Ankor is under my protection.”

Neither the priestess nor the dwarf had any reason to challenge the man.

For the second time inside of a week, Nathaniel found himself waking to the feeling of absolute discordia.  This time around, it was not nearly as all consuming, but it certainly was not pleasant.  As his mind once again resumed taking mental accounts of his surroundings, the only thing he could be certain of was that he was not lying down - and he was only sure of this because he felt an overwhelming need to.

Voices filtered in through the man's ears, but his mind could not yet translate their meaning.  There were many - of that much he could be certain.  If there were only a few, he was confident he could have understood them.  It was in trying to gain perspective of dozens of voice at once that was confusing him.

Nathaniel tried to open his eyes, but found the effort made him nauseous.  A sharp pain in the back of his head reminded him that he had been struck, but the details of the incident would not come into focus.  He remembered dirt in his mouth, and someone squatting nearby, concerned that her dress not drag in the dirt...

All at once, the memory returned and the man forced his eyes open, ignoring the disorientation that suffused his body as he did so.  The illness would pass, he believed, but his safety in general might be another thing entirely.

Nathaniel found himself seated, looking up at a crowd of people mingling around him.  He recognized many of them - people he had grown up around in Oaken Wood.  Occasionally, one would look in his direction, but when they saw him looking back, to a man they all averted their eyes.

“We will move him to the altar,” came a woman's voice, and the man fixated on it with a cold certainty.  It was the priestess of Zantel, the one who had - or
would
- kill his mother.  And who now had him captive...

Rough hands reached down and hoisted the man to his feet.  He could feel his arms bound behind him, his scabbard pressed roughly against his arms.  The thought crossed his mind of whether they had still left him
Two
, there might be a way to command the sword even without drawing it. But he dismissed the thought almost immediately as he caught sight of the familiar steel shoved through the rope belt of a large man to his side, one of his escorts.

Walking out of the shade of wherever he had been held, Nathaniel gauged the time to be roughly before midday - which meant he had lost an entire day.  The sun was high in the sky, and the central road in town was filled with townsfolk who had clustered around the poorly constructed altar which Erias had had built in the centermost area of the community, just up the road from the Wyrm's Fang.  Clearly, some kind of word had been passed that the priestess intended to hold a ceremony, for the people had come out to hear. 

This had been why so many people had been flocked about - they were the fringes of the crowd gathered at the center of town, possibly people curious enough to scout out what Erias had arranged.

Nathaniel felt he must have passed out again since the next thing he knew, his back cried in pain as he was thrown against the base of the altar.  His body ached in agony from the wounds already inflicted, and he struggled to make sure he did not lose consciousness again.

“Citizens of Oaken Wood,” called Erias.  The woman was not immediately visible from where Nathaniel sat propped against the stone structure, but he could imagine her raising her hands for attention.  That was how so many people like her began their rhetoric, after all.  “Most of you have heard, I am quite certain, but let me speak to those who do not yet know.”

The woman appeared from the edge of the structure to Nathaniel's right, stepping forward so she could visibly stab her accusing finger at him.  “We have a blasphemer in our midst, someone who has suckled himself to your community without any care or concern for your welfare.”

“I didn't--” Something solid struck the side of Nathaniel's face, forcing blood to fly free in the opposite direction.

“I'll break your jaw next time,” came a menacing voice. 

Nathaniel turned to see the glint of
Two
hanging inches from his face and knew the identity of his assailant.  He wanted to rage against his bonds, but his anger was cold, forcing his rage down, tempering it for something more useful.

“He accuses the New Order of atrocities which cannot be permitted,” the woman continued.  “I thought I could pass this by, for I was assured this man was simply sick of the mind.  Yet I prayed upon this, and Zantel himself appeared before me and blessed me with the wisdom needed to see the error in this thinking.  This
heretic
would slur the goodwill of the New Order to keep you all rooted in the old ways, to deny you the prosperity which is your right under the blessings of Zantel.”

The priestess paced a moment, taking in the mood of the crowd.  “I asked my God, asked what I should do.  I spoke on behalf of this man and the fever which had robbed him of his rational mind, but Zantel informed me that none of this was true - that this man was a mockery, who knew entirely who he was and what he spoke of.  This man is not suffering from an illness of the mind - he speaks
deliberately
, and he speaks
knowing
that what he says are
lies
.”

Gasps arose from members of the crowd at this.  Nathaniel could see a slight smile twist the corner of the woman's mouth, though he was certain that none in the crowd would have noticed.  The people were reacting just as she wished them to, and she was pleased.

Nathaniel felt the urge to rise up, to slap aside that look of self-satisfaction, but he remembered at the same time that he had a warden.  Instead, he cast his eye upon the sword that dangled so tantalizingly close, and began calculating how he could move in order to lay his hands upon it.  This guard knew nothing of the sword's true power - and all Nathaniel needed was to grip the handle to invoke it.  But it would require precision and timing, so he could not act on an impulse - he needed to wait out the woman and her rants, to wait for an opportunity.

“Zantel is wise beyond our comprehension and he told me who and what this man truly was.  He is not simply a liar, or a cheater, or a blasphemer.  Oh no.  He is far, far worse.”  The woman paused for effect, plainly gauging the level of anticipation in the crowd.  “He is a false prophet!”  Erias threw her arms to the skies as though the declaration represented some kind of rapture, lifting and casting aside some invisible shackle from the people.

Again, the priestess had stirred the crowd.  Gasps were replaced with cries of disbelief and outrage. Angry murmurs began to filter to Nathaniel's ears and he began to fear that he had misjudged the woman's intent.  She was not simply trying to draw them to her side, to make them believe him some form of monstrous person in their midst deserving of being branded and cast out.  No, she was not trying to convert these people - she was trying to incite them into rage.  She was actively trying to raise a mob to do her bidding for her...

Knowing this, the woman's next words came as less of a surprise to the man.  “Zantel made clear to me that this man does not deserve the honor of being branded as a heretic and thrown out to wander without home nor shelter.  No, this man cannot be permitted to continue in this life, even as an outcast. For crimes far more grievous than any that could be committed against the Gods, this man's punishment can only be one thing.”  Again, she paused for effect.  “Death!”

Calls of support rose from the crowd, angry shouts for Nathaniel's head.  One person called for him to be rent limb from limb.  The priestess permitted the crowd to call out for nearly a minute before she raised her hand, taking on the false pose of someone being a lone voice of calm amidst the irrationality of the masses.

“Please, good people,” she called.  “This man's death has been divinely sanctioned and it must fall upon me to first pass sentence before his life may be sacrificed.”  From somewhere on her person, Erias produced a twisted dagger, raising it high over her head.  “Only by abandoning the old ways can this town reap its true prosperity.  Oaken Wood can be a great city, but only if it casts out false prophets, only if you embrace fully the will of the Gods!”

In the middle of the woman's speech, murmurs had begun from within the crowd, voices of uncertainty mixed with the angry retorts which the priestess had inspired.  Nathaniel began seeing people pause in their outrage and turn uncertainly behind them, quickly falling silent as they did so. Many took a step back, as though doing so would move them away from whatever offense they had just been caught at. 

The crowd's shift did not escape Erias' attention either, who lowered her dagger to gaze curiously into the crowd, seeking out what had disrupted her grand performance. 

“Maribel,” came a voice from somewhere in the crowd, the name echoed from several places. Nathaniel's heart froze in an instant as he realized what was happening.  As more voices echoed his mother's name, he knew what he was witnessing - the confrontation that would end with his mother's death.

The crowd parted and the local priestess of Lendus stepped through the parted crowd.  Many people lowered their heads in shame and reverence, the word, “Priestess,” and “Lendus” now echoing alongside the woman's name in the murmurs of the crowd.  Maribel appeared as she always did, in the simplest of clothing and in as unassuming a manner as she could manage.  Only the small satchel tucked into her waist bore any difference to Nathaniel's eyes.

“Another example of a false prophet in your midst,” cried Erias, stabbing her dagger directly in Maribel's direction.  “It was she who brought this false prophet into your midst.  This woman has kept the world's wealth from you for years, and now you would revere her?  Honor her?  Are you so blind as to not see that the reason you have never prospered was because you sheltered her kind in your midst?”

Maribel smiled softly.  “I have never taken a single coin from these good people,” she said, spreading her arms wide.  “Yet you demand all they can give.  It would seem that of the two Gods at issue, Zantel is more likely to impoverish these good people than anything I could do.”

Nathaniel recalled the story from his youth, how he had been told of his mother echoing these precise words.  The only thing missing from the story had been his own presence.  How could it be that he had not realized that someone else had been at risk of harm, that this had been the reason his mother had even spoken that day, that she had stepped forth to protect a stranger in their midst - a stranger who had, in fact, been himself!  He could not help asking himself, would she have said anything if he had not insisted upon trying to convince her of who he was?  But of course he knew the answer - his mother would never have let an innocent come to harm...

Erias' face grew livid, turning crimson with her own rage.  “People of Oaken Wood,” she said, her face twitching visibly, “you have one chance.  You have one chance to
cleanse
this town of the corruption of the Old Gods.  If you do not, if you do not act
now
, you
will
face the wrath of Zantel.  Not only will his prosperity be denied you from this day forth, but you will be visited by a pestilence of the like you could never begin to comprehend!”

Silence fell as Maribel calmly stood at the edge of the crowd.  A tension hung in the air between the women, one standing alone in an eye of calm, the other seeking to press down the calm with her will alone.

The rock came out of nowhere, striking Maribel sharply in the temple.  Even casting his eyes about desperately, knowing what was coming, Nathaniel could not see who had thrown it.  But it sailed across the space between Maribel and the crowd with a directness that left no room for doubt - it had been aimed at his mother.

Nathaniel felt his throat constrict and his chest seized up, unable to draw a breath to scream.  He watched helplessly as his mother's hand flew to the point of impact, her head bowing, her eyes closing. An instant later, her legs failed her and she fell into a seated position.  Her eyes were still closed when the second rock struck the back of her head and she keeled forward onto her face. 

After this, the stoning became a barrage.  Rocks, sticks and other debris were flung at the fallen woman from all directions.  All the while, Nathaniel's eyes burned with tears as his soundless cries creaked out of his throat.  He found himself standing, felt rough hands upon his shoulders trying to pull him back. 

Nathaniel turned to face his tormentor and cracked his forehead against the man's face.  His warden stumbled back, clutching at his face, blood spewing from between his fingers.  Strength flooded his body and he tore at his bonds, shredding the heavy course ropes that had bound him.  He found one of his hands on his guard's neck, felt the crunch of bone as he crushed the man's larynx.  The bully's hands left his face to clutch at his throat, choking and spitting blood.

Another body came from behind Nathaniel, but the former captive did not even need to turn.  His other hand reached out, clutching at the cloth of his assailant's shirt.  With barely a thought, he twisted around, wrapping his arm about the man's neck.  With a violent wrench, Nathaniel forced the man's head from his shoulders, severing the man's spine.  He did not even hesitate as he dropped the lifeless body to the ground.

No rationality existed in Nathaniel's mind, only cold, icy rage.  He was a beast acting on instinct, and it was this basic drive which compelled him to lash out at anyone who came near him.  Several others tried to subdue him, but none lasted more than a moment against his incomprehensible strength.