Three (The Godslayer Cycle Book 3) (25 page)

Out of the corner of his eye - and barely within the realm of understanding - the man saw Bracken rushing from the Wyrm's Fang tavern, a great stick swinging in his arms.  More than one person fell under his immense charge before he reached Maribel's side, swinging the great stick all around him.

Nathaniel's attention was drawn away again as more men tried to rush at him, yet he could not be overcome.  Each man who came at him was either thrown aside or outright killed with his bare hands. No moral reservation existed in him against taking a life.  All he cared about was hurting others the way he had been hurt, to deliver the pain he had burning in his chest to anyone who dared oppose him.

After the attacks against him finally abated, he turned to look at his mother's form.  He could see Bracken facing the younger Nathaniel, the one who had rushed out of the inn against the dwarf's specific instructions.  Nathaniel called out, his grief suddenly replacing the rage as he tried to push through the crowd to stand at his mother's side as well.  People no longer stood against him, but they were now too senseless to move, either.  As he struggled to move through them, another voice rose above the crowd.

“The infidel is defeated!” yelled Erias over the crowd.  Nathaniel caught sight of her, trying to draw the crowd's attention back to herself.  “You are blessed, citizens!  But do not lose faith now.  You have struck down one infidel - let not some dirty dwarf--”

The woman's words stopped as a small form hurtled at her.  She fell out of Nathaniel's view, people moving back and away form the new conflict in their midst.  Where they would not have let Nathaniel approach his mother's body, they readily yielded as he moved to confront the priestess. 

There was little surprise for Nathaniel as he at last caught sight of the woman again, lying on her back, screaming for mercy.  The young man on top of her was bloodied - but Nathaniel knew that none of it was his own.  The younger Nathaniel Goodsmith flailed on the woman with his fists, cutting and scratching at the priestess.  And in one of his clutched fists, the elder Nathaniel knew the young man actually held one of the woman's ears, torn away in the initial attack.

Nathaniel moved forward and pulled his younger self away from his victim.  The young man screamed and yelled, his words guttural and incomprehensible.  Nathaniel held him tightly from behind, holding the young Nathaniel with all the pain and grief that he felt for their mutual loss.  Even after all these years, the pain was just as raw as it had been that day a decade gone, and he found himself surrendering to it as well, blubbering like a babe as he held onto the version of himself that had lived through the day the first time.

Rage and fury could only hold the young Nathaniel's heart for a short time however, and the boy finally passed out.  Nathaniel continued to hold onto the smaller frame though, unable to release the boy he knew would forevermore be alone in the world - an orphan.

“I'll take th' lad,” came a gruff voice from behind the man.  “I...  I'll do i'.”

Nathaniel woodenly released his hold on the young Nathaniel, his eyes looking away from Bracken and his new young charge.  Nathaniel knew where this tale went from here.  The young man would wake up and spend the evening with his dwarven friend, who would become the young man's guardian.  His younger self would be raised here in town until he was ready to return to his mother's home in a few years, and even later he would marry the woman of his heart - the woman he now knew had been ironically named after his own mother. 

The young man would suffer beyond measure - but he
would
grow and live.  And he would become the very man who even now walked as one of the dead to the still form of his mother, still lying in the street.  The townspeople had begun to disperse, none even having the dignity to care for their fallen victim.  On some mental level, Nathaniel felt he should have been enraged by their apathy, but at that moment, all he felt was numb. 

Nathaniel reached his mother's side and fell to his knees.  Somehow he had retrieved
Two
as he had made the trek to her side, but he had no recollection of doing so.  And he only knew that he had the sword because he needed to set it upon the ground in order to touch his mother once more.

New tears streamed down his cheeks as his hand delicately reached out toward the woman's still form.  Her soft, orange-gold hair was matted with blood and dirt, hiding every feature of his mother's face which would have made her recognizable as human.  Tenderly, he reached out and pushed aside the strands that covered her face, and new pain erupted in his heart at the disfigured features that met his gaze. His mother's beauty was gone, the mutilated features that met his gaze bearing no resemblance at all to the woman who had rivaled the Gods for her perfect features.

“How could I lose her again?” he cried, falling across her body, his chest heaving with racking sobs. 

The man could not tell how long he had lain there, his grief pouring from him in great bellows of pain.  None disturbed him, none dared.  Either they feared what they had seen in his escape, or they simply could not face their own crimes in disturbing him - he could not say.  But he knew on a primal level that he would have killed
anyone
who tried to intrude.

After a time, the shuddering subsided and he was able to raise himself again.  Yet still, his eyes did not leave the fallen, broken body that lay cold before him.  Once more, he ran his shaking hand over his mother's blood-soaked hair, noting how it was now dried and crusted.  Thoughts of possibly hurting her more fluttered through his mind as his hand inadvertently pulled scabs away from raw wounds.  But the body was dead, the heart no longer beating.  Even open wounds no longer bled.  The woman was rightly and truly gone in every conceivable sense.

Maribel's still form still remained curled inward, clutching her midsection, sheltering herself from harm.  With as much gentleness as he could manage with her stiffening form, Nathaniel tried to lay the woman's body on her back, to straighten the limbs so that she could be cleaned, the final anointment made upon a body reposed respectfully rather than forever held in the figure made from violence that had forced the life from her body.

As he moved his mother's arms away from where they clutched her middle, he discovered the leather-bound object that she still clutched there.  He remembered it then, the object he had seen when he was younger, the nameday gift which had born his name upon a slip of paper.  When these events had all originally transpired, the fate of the gift had been lost.  He had seen it that one time, just before he had launched himself at the priestess, before he had passed out and been carried into the inn by his friend and future guardian.  But later, the gift had vanished and none could say what had happened to it.  And to be honest, the young Nathaniel had not cared.  All he wanted was his mother back, and no nameday gift would have given him that.

Delicately, Nathaniel moved his mother's hands, releasing their rigid hold on the object.  Below the leather, he could feel something long and solid, yet still concealed by the thickness of the material.  A piece of paper was tucked below the twine that bound the leather closed, with Nathaniel's name scrawled upon it.  But as Nathaniel fell back, allowing the present that he had never received to fall into his lap, his eye caught something else - there were other partial letters visible just below the edge of the paper.

His hands shaking, Nathaniel tugged at the paper, pulling it free of its constraints.  In truth, it had been a paper folded in quarters, not a simple tag attached to the package.  As he uncreased the first fold, the full name scrawled upon the paper came into view:

To my once and future son, Nathaniel

Once and future...  A shiver ran down Nathaniel's spine as he grasped the significance of the words.  The gift had never been intended for his younger self - it had
always
been meant for him as he was now, the
future
version of himself, the one who had moved back in time to bear witness for a second time to the greatest tragedy of his life.  His mother had never wanted his younger self to have this object - she had intended it for his
older
self.

The ramifications of this fact shook him to the core.  He had always been a part of this story.  He had always been meant to travel back, to be a catalyst for his mother's death, and - in the end - to be the recipient of the last act of kindness his mother would ever give.

Gently, he uncreased the last fold and turned the paper over to read his mother's final words.

My dearest Nathan,

You have given me a greater gift than any mother could ever have.  Please know that this is not my end.  Lendus will protect me.  Please take this with you when you return to where you belong, that I might live on at your side always.

I love you,

Mother

Nathaniel wiped at the tears in his eyes, re-reading the words.  Even at the end, knowing her fate, his mother's faith had never faltered.  She had faced the most impossible fear any mortal could, and she had done so with more dignity than any other person could.  The man was more than humbled, and his heart swelled with love and pride for the woman who had reared him and taught him the values of being the man he had grown to be.

Delicately, the man set aside the paper and pulled at the bow that tied the string in place.  Easily it released, and he was able to unfold the leather concealing the object beneath.  The gleam of silver reflected in the late day's light as soon as the first fold was released, and when the gift was finally revealed, it held more beauty than it might have, had it been anything less common.

Within the folds of leather rested a simple silver dagger, its slight curved blade sheathed in a bone case.  Nathaniel unfastened a leather strip that tied the dagger in place and pulled the blade perhaps an inch from its housing.  An odd golden light seemed to emanate from the blade itself, but it did nothing to detract from the simplistic, unmarred surface.

The man re-sheathed the blade and rewrapped the gift.  He placed the package in the side of his boot, picking up
Two
and returning it to its own scabbard.  Only then did he stand, looking down at the body of his mother one last time.  When he looked up, he was not surprised to see Bracken standing there, waiting patiently for the man to finish whatever he was about.

“She tol' me, ya know,” he said.  “Tha' the dagger was fer yew.  No' sure why, bu' she tol' me.”

Nathaniel took a deep breath and nodded.  “I have to go.  A friend told me I would have to, and now I know he was right.”

The dwarf squinted his eyes.  “Yew knew this woul' 'appen, di' ya no'?”

The man nodded again.  “But I couldn't save her.  I tried.  I wanted to.  But I couldn't.”

This time, it was Bracken who bobbed his head.  The dwarf looked to be about to say something more, but Nathaniel stopped him. 

“Look after Nate,” the man said simply. 

Nathaniel took one last look at his mother, choking back a sob.  His hand reached out towards her in one last gesture, then he turned and walked away. 

The dwarf would never have known, but the man walked with his eyes closed for the first dozen steps, fearful that if he opened them, he would lose his courage to leave his mother to her final rest.  And he had already done more harm in this time than he could ever face without disturbing that as well.

Ankor continued to sit in the street of Oaken Wood, stunned at the pain he felt coursing through his arm.  Pain was a foreign concept to a God - they did not actually possess bodies in the commonly accepted sense.  Their bodies were constructs made manifest by their individual wills.  Consequently, they could assume any form they liked - though by covenant with the mortals, there were specific forms which they were bound to.  How else were mortals expected to recognize their Gods, after all?

Simply put, there were no pain receptors in the bodies which the Gods made for themselves.  They could be struck in a way that might engender discomfort if it affected the energy form of the God, but to feel actual
physical
pain from within their constructed bodies simply did not happen.

Well
, amended Ankor to himself
, it's not
supposed
to happen. 
Obviously, if he were feeling pain, it
was
possible and it
did
happen.

Avery knelt nearby.  He looked on the God curiously, looking from the scorched arm to the deity's face repeatedly before he spoke.  “Why have you not healed that?  It doesn't exactly look very Godly.”

Ankor smirked.  “Oh, I'm sorry I had not thought to do
that
.”  Letting out an exasperated sigh, the God shrugged his arm, rolling the extremity in its socket.  “It would appear your
sword
did something rather permanent to the arm and I cannot fix it.”

Avery looked puzzled, yet before he could speak again, Ankor continued.  “Your sword tried to
kill
me, Avery,” he explained.  “I picked it up to attack Belask, but it didn't like me holding it all that much, so it tried to
burn
me.”

“But...  But how did you even get the sword?  I though you couldn't see it?”

“I couldn't,” agreed the God of Mischief.  “I didn't.  Not even when I was holding it.  But when you lost consciousness, your hand still held the sword, so I was able to find where it was.”  Ankor flexed his hand, causing the skin to split and weep.  Flinching, he continued.  “Something like a blind man in the dark, but it worked.  I was able to pick it up to save
your
life, though the sword itself didn't take too kindly to my trying.”

Avery visibly wrestled with an internal thought.  “Gods can be in more places than once, right? That's why we usually see more than one shape being pulled back to where the God is when I kill one, right?”

Ankor nodded, tucking his arm into his middle protectively.  “Gods are able to exist in different aspects of themselves, splitting their awareness between different forms.”

“So why not call on one of your other bodies, one that isn't wounded?”

The God's face twitched.  “It would seem that whatever the sword has done has affected
all
of my forms.  Every single version of myself has the same wounds you see here.  And trying to create a new form does not erase the harm, either.  Whatever your sword did, it did it to my entire existence.”

“The swords are able to pull upon the tether that exists between all of your facets,” said Brea.  The priestess had left with Bracken for a time to search for anyone who might be wounded.  That she had returned so quickly did not speak well of what had been found.  “It is how the swords are able to draw in all forms of a God to a single place.  What it did to Ankor was simply a force sent backwards along that thread of existence.”

“And you would know this how?” asked Ankor, raising an eyebrow.

Brea's face took on a distant look.  “I just know,” she responded.  “Ever since I struck down Belask, my skills have expanded immeasurably.  Before, I had Imery's aspects to see truth.  Now, I also have the ability to see what is not otherwise known.  I feel as though there are no secrets in the universe from me now if I don't wish there to be.”

“Would that not be a bit overwhelming?” asked Avery.  “To know everything all at once?”

Brea smiled.  “I don't know everything all at once.  I know what I need to know when I think upon it.  No more than that.”

“That is going to get annoying very quickly,” mumbled Ankor.  “Don't plan on having sex anytime soon unless you want a cosmic peeper, then.”

Brea walked over and gently laid her hand upon where
One
rested in its sheath on Avery's back. “These swords are amazing,” she said, almost to herself.  “They are indeed changing us.  They are changing us into that which we are killing.  Each time we kill one, we gain aspects of its being.  But we are not all changing in the same way.  I am now the repository for both Truth and the Unseen, while Avery seems to be drawing mostly power rather than specific talents.”

“You said Nathaniel killed Imery,” corrected Avery.  “So how do you have Imery's talents?”

“Because I basked in her form as it dissolved,” shrugged the priestess, lifting her hand from where it caressed the black leather.  “I had already been gifted with talents by Imery, and when I touched her essence, it bonded with me in a way that allowed me to absorb her divine energy.”

Brea looked into the distance, as though she were looking for someone specifically.  “There were things I instantly knew when I absorbed Belask's essence through
One
, two things which were of significant importance to us all.  First, I learned that Nathan is not dead.” 

Avery's eyes flew wide at this admission.  His head swiveled to look to Ankor, asking without words whether the God of Mischief had known this.  The God could only shake his head.  He certainly had not known that Goodsmith had somehow survived being obliterated.  He was not even sure how such a thing was even possible.

“He is alive,” continued the priestess, “and I know where we must go to rescue him.”  The look on Brea's face was one of serene happiness.  Clearly, the knowledge that the man she so obviously loved was safe had soothed her deeply.

“Well that's fine,” said Avery.  “But what of my men?  The ones you went looking for?”

“There was nothing which could be done for Loris or Nalen,” sighed Brea.  “Bracken has gone to find a wagon to carry away their remains.  Lartien is nowhere to be found.  I assume he fled during the fight.”

Avery scoffed.  “Of the three, he would be the least likely to run.”

“One can never know how another will react when faced with the impossible,” offered the priestess.  “Lartien may have been a veteran of many wars, but he was a neophyte in a war between Gods.  Even his brave heart could not have been tempered for such an overwhelming battle.”

“You said there were two things?” prompted Ankor, interrupting the vein of conversation.  “Two things you knew once you had absorbed Belask's energy?”

The woman turned back to look at the God, then past him.  “I believe that issue needs to present itself.”

Avery followed the priestess' line of sight, looking for something to appear.  All that existed in the direction she looked however was the farthest-most building, representing the edge of the town's construction.  Except...

At the edge of the building, there was a wood shed that rose only three feet off the ground.  Pieces of bark lay scattered about the ground around the edge, the lumber that had been stored there depleted by the demands of winter.  But the small shed was just tall enough to hide something behind it.  And as the figure rose from behind the little structure, it was apparent that this was what Brea had been watching for.

Alisia stood up sheepishly, only her head and shoulders visible over the edge of the wood shed. Avery knew she must still possess the sword, but if she did, it was still concealed.  She looked between the three people in front of her, then looked behind her, as well.

“Bracken won't sneak up on you this time,” said the priestess, raising her hand in welcome.  “I know you saw what just happened.  You saw what the Gods are
really
like.  Do you truly want to entrust yourself in their care?”

“Hey!” grumbled Ankor.  “I resent that.”

Avery and Brea both ignored the God as they stood together facing their visitor.  Avery had reasoned out the sword's power, and they all knew how skittish the girl was.  None wanted to send her careening off to some other point in time.  And so Ankor decided to remain silent - after all, if the girl now distrusted the Gods, anything he said would not likely help.

“I'm Brea,” said the priestess, placing her hand to her chest.  “Remember?”

The girl nodded, yet neither spoke nor moved from her place of concealment.

“I realize that for you, the fight for your sword just happened, but for us, it's been a full week,” offered Brea.  “We have all had time to calm down now.  Do you understand that?”

The girl avoided looking in the priestess' direction, but from the way she shifted her weight, it was clear that she heard what was said. 

“Your name was Alasia, wasn't it?” asked Avery from the priestess' side.  “I promise, no one will hurt you or try to take your sword.”

The girl looked up at the faux God.  “Alisia,” said the girl softly.  “My name's Alisia.”

Brea raised her hand again toward their visitor.  “I know what happened with Nathan.  I know you did not hurt him.”

The girl's eyes grew wide at that.  “You mean the man?  With the other sword?  But...  I saw what happened.  I saw--”

“You saw him sent to another time,” said Brea.  “He is safe, I promise.”

Another time?
thought Ankor.  Well, that
did
make sense - a sword able to control time could just as easily move someone...  where?  To the past, perhaps?  Certainly not to the future, or if so, not to a future point that had yet arrived.  But if so, how far out of time had this girl sent Nathaniel Goodsmith?

The girl looked up, reflecting back on her own memories, but it was Brea who provided the details.

“You told Nathan to see to his own mother,” provided the priestess.  “You sent him to a time where his mother still lived.  You sent him to his own past.”

The girl's face brightened at this, but clouded over just as quickly.  “I don't know how to bring him back...”

Brea smiled softly.  “There is no need,” she said.  “I know where he is.  We'll go rescue him. You could come with us, if you like?”

“Really?”  The girl took a tentative step from behind the shed, the dark scabbard of
Three
coming into view for the first time.

“Truly,” said Avery.  “You do not realize how special you are.  We--”

Brea reached out and put her arm in front of Avery, who had begun to walk toward Alisia.  “What Avery means to say is that the sword you have is very special, and we would do much to earn your trust.  We are not your enemies, but the Gods...”  The woman turned an eye to Ankor. “Well, let us say that you can't know which ones to trust on your own.  But we could help you learn.”

“I almost lost an arm, you know,” complained Ankor.  “You would think I'd deserve a bit more respect after that.”

“This one, for example” Brea indicated with a wave of her arm, “is also known as the Trickster, and you would do well to distrust almost anything he says.”

“Or at least check with one of us first,” added Avery, turning an aggrieved glare upon the woman.  If Brea noticed it, she did not respond however.

“Right here,” groused the God, stabbing his good thumb at his chest.  “I'm
right
here...”

Alisia took another tentative step from behind the shed.  “I wanted the Gods to bring back my mom,” said the girl.  “But these...”  she waved the hand holding onto the sword in a small circular pattern.  “They were scary...”

“It has been our experience,” said Brea, “that Gods are rarely what we expect them to be.”

“You said before...”  The girl stopped, rephrasing her words.  “You said your friend was special, that he could talk to Gods?”

“The
Old
Gods,” amended Brea.  “The Gods who were here were not of the Old Gods.  They were of the New Order.”  The priestess cocked her head slightly.  “Do you know much about the Gods?”

Alisia hesitated, then shook her head.  “The priests never bothered us much.  My dad used to say that we weren't worth noticing--”

“--Because there was no money in you,” finished the priestess.  “I am sorry for that.  But it is something many priests believe.  They focus on how much coin can be obtained rather than the good that can inspired through charity.  Sometimes the laws which the Gods bind us to are not so easily understood in their application in the real world.”

Brea's face clouded over, and she turned to Ankor.  “Which reminds me.  There is something that I have
not
been able to discern since acquiring Belask's power.  How did she kill Loris and Nalen?”

Ankor shirked at the question, but tried to deflect his answer.  “Like this,” he said, and swung his good arm in a cleaving action.

Brea scowled.  “You know what I mean, Trickster.  Second rule of divinity states that a God cannot take a mortal life.  And yet, Belask just killed two mortals.  How is that even possible?”