Three (The Godslayer Cycle Book 3) (14 page)

“Tha's assumin',” put in Bracken, “tha' she was here wit' the sword's magic, an' no' on her own.”

Avery snapped his fingers.  “
Three
hasn't woken up yet.”

Bracken's face tightened.  “Wha' do ya mean by tha'?”

“I mean,” explained the tall man, “that I know when the third sword is
supposed
to wake up.  The Nine told me when
all
the swords would.  Nothing exact or precise, but close enough.  That's why I came here when I did - to get the Godslayer's...”  The man broke off, looking to Brea.  “I mean,
Master Goodsmith's
...  help.  To find it when it did.”

“So you're saying...”  Brea paused, visibly working out the problem in her mind.  “You're saying the sword could
only
have come from some time that has not yet passed, because it hasn't been found yet in the normal sense of time?”

“Precisely.”  Avery beamed with his accomplishment.  “So all we need to do is wait for her to appear in her
own
time.  She will have to appear here, where she vanished.  And once she does, we can take the sword from her.”

“That's assuming she
is
from the future and you're right about the third sword not being awake yet,” rebuffed Brea.  The woman pinched her brow.  “All this talk about now and not-now is making my head hurt.”

“Nate sai' tha' the swor' was in'n out o' his...  wha'ever he has wit' the swords.”  Bracken interrupted.  The dwarf had hefted his axe over his shoulder now, creating an even more imposing visage than before.  “He sai' 'e had'n' felt i' wake, only tha' i' was abou', then i' would go 'way.”

“The Godslayer could find the swords then?”  Avery caught himself on the use of the name, but decided not to amend it this time.  “I thought he must have a way of finding them.”

“Nathan could...” Brea's voice choked for a moment, and her hand darted over her mouth.  In a moment, she pushed down her emotion and continued.  “He could feel the swords when they woke up, something like living through it himself.”

Bracken gave an evil glower to Brea, but she turned her head away.  “He's dead, Bracken.  There's no point in keeping this a secret now.  The Old Gods will have a new Avatar soon enough, and we'll need to know how
he
finds the swords if we're going to be involved.”

“A new
what?
”  Hamil's outburst was felt as much as heard, once more drawing Avery's mind to the mystery of exactly who or what his scribe truly was under his disguise.  But it was not Avery alone who noticed the slip.

“Who
are
you?” demanded Brea, her stance becoming rigid in a moment.  “You're not really just a scribe, are you?”

Hamil's eyes darted to Avery for a moment, as if the self-proclaimed God could provide him some relief.  Then, as if his will were broken, his face broke in a snarl and his form shifted.  No more was there a smallish man standing before the group - now there stood a being that none could mistake. They were in the presence of a true God.

“I am Ankor, God of Mischief,” said the newly-exposed God, a look of disdain upon his face.

Avery leaped back, his sword drawn in a moment.  “You're a
God
?!”

“Damnable rules,” spat Ankor.  In a moment however his features changed, his hands going up in a pleading manner before him.  “Please, I mean no harm.  Not to you.”  Ankor swung his left arm out to the others.  “To any of you.”

Avery could feel
One
ebbing in his hands, the power of the sword compelling him to strike.  Before, he might have succumbed, but the man had gained a new level of authority over his sword now that permitted him to resist the sword's commands. 

“How long--”  The would-be-God stopped himself, shaking his head in self-rebuke.  “Stupid question.  You've always been Ankor, haven't you?”

“I have,” admitted the God, surprising all by taking a knee in front of the man to whom he had pretended to serve.  “But I have helped you.  Always helped you.  You know this.”

It was genuinely something Avery could not deny.  “But why?”  The man's eyes darted to his sword. “I carry a sword designed to
kill
you and your kind.  Why would you help me?”

“Because you
do
have such a sword,” responded the kneeling God.  “Because you
can
kill Gods.”

“That makes no sense,” said the man.

“Actually,” inserted Brea, “it does make an odd sort of sense.”

Avery turned to the former priestess.  “How do you reason that?”

Brea walked straight up to the God and stood between him and Avery.  “Ankor is also known by another name.  The Prankster.  But not because he plays games with mortals - though many a legend tells of times that he has.  Because of the tricks he plays on the other Gods.  I cannot believe that centuries upon centuries of these kinds of antics has made Ankor very popular with his fellow Gods.”

Ankor nodded fervently.  “True.  Very true.  They don't like me, at all.”

“So what better way to get back at the other Gods than to play the biggest possible prank of all - to help
kill
the other Gods.  After all, the enemy of my enemy is my friend, right?”

Ankor's face twisted in a smirk of satisfaction.  “A woman after my own heart!  Ah, if only you weren't mortal, we could be doing things right now that--”

“So wha'?” interjected Bracken.  “'E goes 'bout helpin' Avery think 'e's some God 'imself, so's 'e ken help ge' rid o' the others?”

“Something like that,” agreed Brea.  “It's why only the New Order Gods have fallen so far.  He wants to get back at the Gods who haven't much appreciated him.”  The former priestess' eyebrows rose.  “Am I wrong?”

“Not in the slightest,” agreed Ankor.

“Except,” put in Avery, “you have been telling me that
I'm
a God.  How does that fit into your plan? Were you planning to kill me then?”

“Actually,” said the exposed God, “you came up with that on your own.  I was just going along with it.  I
am
the Prankster, after all.  What better prank than to keep everyone thinking
you're
a God, so the
real
Gods would have to put up with someone taking away their faithful?

“But,” said Ankor, raising a finger, “you're not
entirely
wrong, either.”

“What does that mean?” demanded Avery.

“It means,” said the God, “that you're not entirely
mortal
anymore.”

“What does
that
mean,” echoed Avery.

“It means,” said Brea, her eyes going wide as she turned to look at Avery, “that you're not a God. But you're...  not
not
a God, either.  You... 
We
...  You and I.  We've been changed.  I don't know how I could not have seen this sooner.”

“Seen what?” demanded Avery.

Brea held up her hand, lowering her head as she visibly considered what to say next.  “When Imery died, there was this... light.  Solid light.  It just...  fell.  When Imery died.”

“You were there?” asked Ankor, his eyes betraying his excitement at the prospect.

Brea nodded.  “Nathan stabbed her from behind.  With one of his swords.  She just...  dissolved, broke into hundreds of pieces of light.  And where they fell, I tried to grab them before they disappeared.”

“But you couldn't hold them,” offered Ankor, his body just short of shaking with anticipation over the coming revelation.

“No,” confirmed the woman.  “They fell through my hands, through my lap, and disappeared into the ground.”

“But it didn't
all
go,” the God supplied.  “A mortal who touches the divine can
absorb
the divine into their own bodies.  It is why we have our priests use arcanic runes to cast their magic - it keeps them from directly absorbing all the power they use for their spells.”

“Only some still stays behind in their bodies,” offered Avery, a sudden awareness coming over him. “When I killed that priest of Galentine, in Scollhaven.  When I killed him, I felt...”

Ankor leered.  “Yes.  You felt the old man's bond to the divine, and you drew power from it.  And then, when you killed my brother God, you drew even more.”

Avery looked to his hand, the one so recently restored.  “So this--”

“That was something else,” confessed Ankor.  “Your body was destroyed by the fishmonger.  When you were reformed, your hand came with it.  But,” Ankor once again held up his finger to emphasize his point, “it
was
how you kept yourself from bleeding to death when the Godslayer
took
the hand.  I told you then, do you remember?  I told you I could not heal you because you had taken in too much divine energy for me to do so.”

Avery's mind returned to that night, to the wild flight through the forest, clinging to the severed end of his arm.  He had collapsed and a voice had come to him, telling him...

“You
did
tell all of this to me before,” gasped the man.  “But when I saw you as Hamil, you denied doing so.”

Ankor bowed his head.  “To keep up the illusion that I was not a God myself, I needed you to believe that it was not a simple scribe who could tell you how to use your magic.”

Events of the last several months began to fall in place more and more.  All that had happened - so much of it made sense now.  All except for...

“If what you're saying is all true,” asked Avery, “then I still see no purpose in the illusion.  Why pretend to be my servant at all?  Why not simply come to me and offer your help?”

Ankor's head rose, a dark look of glee in his eyes.  “Because it is my nature.  You know this.  I exist to inspire mischief, and that by its very nature requires me to manipulate others.”

“So why reveal yourself now?” asked the man.

Ankor threw his head in Brea's direction.  “First rule of divinity: A deity must always name him or herself when asked.”

Brea laughed.  “And I asked who you were.”

Ankor shrugged.  “You trapped me.  I could not escape the direct question.”

The priestess stopped suddenly, her eyes going wide in surprise.  “Third rule...”

Ankor sighed.  “Yes.”

“Third rule?” asked Avery.

“A God is always bound by his or her word,” supplied Ankor grudgingly.  “I swore to serve you, Avery.  As a scribe, true, but as a scribe to a
God
.  It is why I could do nothing, even once I realized the truth of what you were becoming.”

Bracken let out a bellowing laugh.  “Trapped by yer own trick!  Yew could no' stop 'im 'cause you though' t' trick 'im by swearin' ta serve 'im.”

“Just that,” admitted Ankor.  “How was I to know that he would start gaining divine power?  I believed I could serve him in the role I assumed, and once he had served his purpose and his divinity be unproven, my oath would be undone.”

“But because he's gaining divine power -
Godly
power...”

“Then I am bound to his service,” confirmed Ankor.

“Oh, this is too rich for words,”  Brea snickered, raising her hand to cover her mirth.  “One of the New Order's Gods just tricked himself into working for the very people out to find the godslaying swords.”  The former priestess dropped her hand and smiled at the God.  “You have to see the irony here.”

Ankor could only scowl in response.

There was a strange dissociation for Nathaniel.  He was surrounded by buildings, people and scenery that felt like they belonged.  But the one person standing in front of him was so out of place here, that it gave a complete sense of unreality to the entire scene.

Like seeing the sun surrounded by night stars
, the man thought numbly.

The appearance of the Eternal left Nathaniel pointedly aware of exactly how
real
this afterlife had been to his senses.  In spite of the fact that he
knew
he now existed in a world without physical form, his mind had translated it all as very, very real.  Or so he had thought.

Now the Eternal was standing in front of him, casting doubt on every sense he had - including his own sanity.

The Eternal withdrew and looked past Nathaniel at the woman standing there.  “My apologies, but Nathan and I are old friends.  And we need to speak in private.”

Maribel smiled.  “It is good that you have found a friend, Nate,” she said.  “Perhaps he might shine some light upon the mystery of who you really are?”  When the Eternal did not react to this, the woman added.  “I found him suffering from some malady at the edge of town and his mind is now muddled. He believes himself to be my son, which is entirely impossible.”

The Eternal raised his hand and bowed.  “Perhaps.  But first, I must have a moment alone with my friend.”  Saying this, the man sometimes called a phoenix pulled upon Nathaniel's arm, drawing him a short distance away.

“You must listen,” began the immortal.  “As you know, this is not easy for me, since I do not move through time as you do.  But you have asked me to intercept you, and so I have.”

“I have asked...?”  Nathaniel's brows knit.  “When would I have--”

The Eternal raised his hand again, this time to forestall the argument.  “Nathan, please.  You know I move opposite to your time.  What for you has not yet happened has already happened for me.”

“Right,” Nathaniel rebuked himself.  “But--”  Nathaniel had only met the mysterious immortal once before, the guardian of a great city encased in amber.  The Eternal had explained then that he was moving back through time.  He could only interact with normal people because he could perceive a short time ahead of himself along the path he followed.  It gave him the ability to form conversations, but it had to have been an incredibly complicated task.  Every time Nathaniel gave thought to his encounter, he simply could not understand the complexity of not only learning to speak in reverse, but to also plan out every conversation you ever had.

But of course, by the Eternal's own accounts, he had had an eternity to master his skills.

“Nathan, more than ever, it is truly important that you listen and let me speak.  I cannot risk you asking something which might lead to change more than what already has been.”

“Okay, you
need
to explain that,” demanded Nathaniel.

“Of course.  Just listen.”  The Eternal closed his eyes, seeming to gather his thoughts.  When he opened his eyes again, they had an intensity to them that left no room for question.

“As I said, you are not dead.  You have said that was your belief when you first arrived here, but that is not what has happened.  You are indeed in the past, at a time when you were a young man.  Before your mother died.”

Nathaniel felt his chest tighten. 
Before...?

The Eternal reached out and took Nathaniel by the shoulder.  “You need to understand that you
must
not
try to change the past.  You are aware of things that have not yet come, and you
will
want to change things--”

“My mother,” said the younger man, looking across the short distance to the woman standing patiently in front of the tavern.  His mind raced with opportunities, the imagined future he could share with his mother if he could only save her from the priestess...  “I could save her...”

“What has passed must remain undisturbed, Nathaniel,” urged the Eternal.  “I know you will ignore my words.  You have told me as much.  But Fate will step in and stop you.  For if you were to succeed, you would be undone.  I warn you all the same, because once you realize my words are true, you will need to rely upon them.”

“But you've come to warn me,” rebutted Nathaniel.  “If you only tell me what is supposed to stop me--”

“I do not know, for you did not tell me.  You have only sent me here to advise you.  I do not know what you have done
specifically
, nor why you would not speak of precisely what happens next for you.”

“But...  You've
warned
me now,” repeated Nathaniel.  “I can do something different.  I can--”

“Nathan, you are as much a part of this time and what happens as you always will be.  You must believe in me on this - what happens in this town is
predestined
to happen.  There are forces beyond our understanding, beyond even the Gods themselves, that prevent the very thing you seek to do from happening.  Some call it Fate - it is what I feel most at ease calling it - but Fate is so much more than simply one source.”

The Eternal took a step back.  “Before I became what I am - in order to
become
what I am - I had to understand time, how it works, how it
doesn't
.  I needed to know how to escape an inescapable prison, and to do so, I needed to find a way to overturn time.  In the end, I succeeded in doing what would have been impossible anywhere else than where I was - but it was not without first coming to understand the components of time
implicitly
.  You would not understand terms such as paradox or causality loop, but these are real things and you are very much trapped by them.  You will have to trust me--”

“You will forgive me if I do not take you completely at your word,” said Nathaniel, his back stiffening.  “I have been the plaything of Gods in recent months, and no matter what your power might be, I somehow think you fall woefully short of their power.  And if I can find ways to defy them, then your dark predictions will not prevent me.  I
will
find a way.  Now that you have told me where I am, I cannot
not
try.”

The immortal man nodded.  “I understand.  As I said, you have told me that you would not listen. But the warning is there, and you
will
act upon it.  But you must learn the lessons Fate would provide for you first.”

Nathaniel tried to speak further, but the Eternal shook his head.  “I am at my limit for what I can foresee, and by your perception, I must go.  Mind my words, Nathan.  But also remember.”  The Eternal raised a single finger.  “I have already lived through what has happened.  You will be seeing me again soon enough.”

Without another word, the Eternal turned and walked away briskly, turning and disappearing around the edge of a nearby building within moments.  Nathaniel could only stand in silence watching the immortal leave.

“Did he say something of import?”  Nathaniel started at his mother's words.  The woman had walked up to his side as he had watched after the Eternal.

“He...  he did have a lot to say,” admitted Nathaniel.  “Though I would not know where to begin...”

The woman laid a gentle hand upon Nathaniel's arm, looking after where the Eternal had disappeared.  “I will admit to some disappointment that he did not stay.  Yet perhaps he clarified yourself to you before he left?”

Nathaniel turned and looked into the woman's eyes.  All he found there was an absolute trust, something of a surprise to the man knowing what he did of her near future.  “If
I
am to be honest, I do not know what answer to give you that you will accept.”

Maribel gripped Nathaniel's arm reassuringly.  “All things come in their own time.  For now, let us take you inside so that you might rest.”

“Mar'bel!” called Bracken from the door of the tavern.  “Ya comin' 'r ya 'cided to stay out'n the street?”

Maribel leaned in conspiratorially.  “It's the dwarf's way of saying he cares,” she whispered.  Aloud, she called, “Coming now, Good Dwarf.”

As the two mounted the steps, Nathaniel could not help but jibe his old friend - the one who did not yet know that he was.  “I thought dwarves were as patient as a stone in the ground.”

The dwarf stiffened.  “Ya tryin' ta call me ou', boy?”

Nathaniel only smiled, walking past the shorter man, allowing himself to fall into the familiarity of the place.  He had grown up around the Wyrm's Fang, even lived here for several years.  His feet upon the ground here felt as natural as breathing.  In his own time, this place had burned to the ground, but now - in the past, if the Eternal was to be believed - the building still stood.  The rustic smell of wood and smoke, the tinted scent of whatever it was Bracken used to polish the floors - which also served to clean any surface the dwarf felt needed it.  Even the slightly sour smell of the ale that had seeped into the wood from so many spills through the years.  Every odor was precisely as he remembered.

“Dwarf, your boy's cheating, I say!” called a loud voice from across the room. 

Bracken barreled past Nathaniel in his rush to answer the charge.  “Nat'anyel's ne'er chea'ed a day'n 'is life, ya Kafer!”

The time-lost man's skin tingled at the exchange. 
Nat'anyel?
  His breath stuck in his chest as his eyes followed the path that Bracken had taken, though in truth he had not needed to know where the dwarf was heading.  There was a place in the tavern reserved for players of the Game, and Nathaniel remembered the exchange.  The world around the man quickly became surreal as he found himself watching from outside the details of his own memory.

At a table against the far wall, a lanky young man sat across the table from a portly older one.  The young man had sat back in his chair, his hands clutching to three cards far tighter than they had been a moment before.  As Bracken walked up, the portly man stood and towered over the younger man, his arm raised, ready to strike.

“I'll not be cheated, dwarf!  I won't!” bellowed the man, his words accompanied by spittle on every syllable. 

The heavy man cocked his arm a second time, as if somehow building up greater force for his swing.  But Bracken reached the table before the obese man could set his arm in motion.  With a shove that sent the young man sprawling, the dwarf inserted himself into the arc of the large man's intended blow.

“Go 'head,” growled the dwarf.  “Take th' swing'n see how long ya still 'as an arm.”

The large man flushed, lowering his arm, though his anger did not relent.  “This
child
cheated.  I want my wager reimbursed by the house!”

The dwarf snarled, the effect squinting his left eye, giving the right a piercing look.  “So's tha's yer kind, is't?”

“Now
yer
gonna slur me, too?”  The obese man's words remained just as harsh, but even at a distance Nathaniel could see his features waver.  He was shifting from attacking to defending now that he had been accused of something.

“Ya go af'er the weak, figurin' they's easy marks, then bellow when ya canno' win, so's ya win no ma'er wha'?  Well, no' 'ere ya don'.  No' 'ere.”

A dagger appeared embedded in the table between the two men, Bracken's movement so quick that even when he knew it was coming, Nathaniel only saw the dwarf's hand fall away.  The strike itself had been at best a blur. 

“The Game 'as rules fer yer kin'.”  The dwarf's tone was low and guttural, yet it held all the force of one of his loudest bellows.  “Yer deck is forfei'.  I' goes to the 'ouse as pen'lty fer foul play.”

The offended man blustered.  “You're going to side with this
child
?  Why, I've never been so offended in my life!  Do you even know who I am?  I am Ferdinand Lurion!  I've played in all the great contests!  I am a
champion
in--”

“If'n yew 'ere a champyen, yew'd be in Carland 'r some ot'er nation playin' fer a mastershi', no' wanderin' the Wildelan's.”

The man puffed up his chest.  “Just so.  It was where I was on my way to when I came across your quaint little village.  Why, I've played Lord Justin himself--”

“An' been banished, mos' like,” interrupted the dwarf.  “Yer a scoun'rel an' yer no' welcome here. Go pester Lor' Justin, if'n tha's who ya really be.”

The large man stared blankly at the dwarf a moment longer, then made to reach for his cards. Bracken's hand was immediately upon the hilt of the dagger.

“I sed,” growled the dwarf, “tha' yer deck be forfei'.”

The portly man's hand held tightly to his cards, but he did not make an effort to take them from the table.  “You can't be serious.”

Bracken's only response was to glare menacingly.

The large man had begun to sweat profusely at some point, and now sweat dripped upon the table as he tried to stand off against the inn's proprietor.  “You call me a scoundrel, but you are the thief.  These are mine and you have no claim to them.”

“They be forefei' fer foul play,” repeated Bracken.  “Tha's claim 'nough.”