Two (The Godslayer Cycle Book 2)

by Ron Glick

  I have to wonder if Hamil will be permitted to live to record anything if I fail, though.

  Avery looked back and forth along the street, giving all appearances that he was plotting the lay of the land. But the landscape had not changed since he first approached the unnamed tavern in the seaside warren of town.

  The only inhabitant of the street was a lone woman, lying pitiably in a heap beside the building. The way her body lay behind her, it was clear that she had no use of her lower extremities. She had pulled herself to the side of the structure, but that was as far as she could manage. If her intent had been to enter the building, she had fallen short by a dozen paces.

  Every subliminal instinct Avery screamed that the woman was a trap of some sort, some kind of bait left in an unseen snare. This was the real reason he hesitated, for why would one lone woman be lying in front of this structure like that if not as some kind of lure? When no other living thing moved within a hundred paces of the building?

  Yet by the same token, how could he ignore her plight? How could he enter the building without first seeing to her welfare? But if he did – if he sprung whatever trap this represented – would he be able to enter the tavern, at all?

  Hairs on the back of his neck bristled as Avery walked forward, heading for the woman lying to the side of the building. His original reasoning proved to be accurate, he noticed as he approached – both of her legs were twisted and deformed beneath the material of her skirt. But these were recent afflictions, the purple and black masses upon the skin's surface testifying to the brutal beating she must have endured.

  “I'm sorry,” Avery offered as he knelt by her side. His hand hovered over the woman's wounded legs, fearful that any touch of comfort would only bring more pain. “If it were within my power to heal you, I would. But I am God of Vengeance, not Mercy.”

  The woman opened pain-wracked eyes, apparently having been completely oblivious to Avery's approach until he had spoken. “Vengeance?” Her voice cracked, whether splintered from her beating or from what must have been hours of crying was impossible to determine. “Oh bless you, My Lord. For you have heard my prayers. It is not mercy I need from you, My Lord. Your vengeance is all I require.”

  The woman reached up to grasp the material of Avery's shirt, though in her weakness, it was at best a feeble brush against the fabric. “Avenge her, My Lord. Avenge my Therese. I beg of you. Avenge her...”

  “Therese?”

  “My daughter, My Lord God,” sobbed the woman, trying again to grasp his shirt. Avery reached out and took her hand in his own. “My daughter...” she cried again, this time breaking down in shudders of anguish.

  Avery felt a cold anger sweep over him. “How old, dear woman? How old was your child?”

  The woman was either unable to comprehend the question, or she could not form the words. All Avery could make out of her blubbery, incoherent speech was, “My little girl...”

  Avery squeezed the woman's hand, then lay it softly upon her bosom. An icy, dispassionate rage swept over him as he stood, ready now as he had never been before. He would have guessed the woman no older than mid-twenties, which would place the child at young indeed. And if the monster beyond those doors had done to the child what had been done to others, there was no forgiveness to be had for the man. Any thoughts of trying to reason with this Gravin were gone.

  The only thing left in Avery's heart was the exacting demand of vengeance.

  * * *

  “He's coming,” said Dart.

  Gravin raised his sword and liquid formed out of the air around him in a mad cyclone with himself in the center. Splintered fragments of chairs and tables were picked up in the maelstrom, swirling tighter and tighter around him. And yet there was never a moment when his physical form could not be fully seen.

  Everything was moving so fast that nothing could be focused on – not completely. It all became a blur, barely dimming the figure of the creature standing at the eye of the storm.

  All sound was sucked into the swirling mass in the middle of the room, air itself sucked away from the corners of the rooms. It was almost as if the weight of the world were increasing around the one artificial point in the room's center.

  Nothing changed for several minutes. The Witness and Dart huddled as far from the tempest as they could, while still keeping a clear line of sight to the front entryway. For the barest of moments, Dart wondered if her senses had fooled her, if it had been some kind of false labor of expectation. Perhaps the God's presence was so powerful that he was still far away?

  Then a silhouette took shape in the doorway. A man's shape stood there for a moment, his hair flying madly in the wind. His dirty golden hair framed his face, giving it more shadow and depth than it would otherwise have had. Dart could see through the illusion, however. She could see the stark, angular face, the deep set eyes. She could imagine the face emaciated and more fearsome, but what her eyes saw instead was more solid definition granted to it solely by the force of power below the skin. But...

  The man took a step into the room, and a second figure stepped up behind him. This one was younger, more slight of frame. Initial appearances struck Dart's mind as that of a scholar of some sort, no muscle definition, and the close, scrutinous eyes common to someone who spends entirely too much time hunched over books or ledgers. And yet...

  The second man's eyes darted over to where the immortals huddled, and his eyes narrowed.

  “Not a word.” The man's mouth did not move, yet the words reached Dart's ears as plainly as if the man had been standing over her shoulder, speaking directly into her ear. “Don't you dare spoil my fun.”

  This was the God. Not the first man, for all his airs of greatness and confidence. The small, insignificant figure following the other man was the true power in this room. But of course, Gravin did not see it. The monstrosity of a man focused on the obvious threat, upon the man who presented himself as the one in charge.

  It was a confidence game, a scam of some sort. Gravin was meant to focus on the mortal while the God escaped all notice. But why?

  Dart cast her eyes towards her companion, who was already looking to her. Yes, she willed her eyes to say. I heard it, too.

  “You would be Gravin,” said the first man. He walked up to the edge of the tempest, fearless and confident. “I come in greetings, brother. Set aside your wrath and let us speak.”

  Gravin faltered, his artificial typhoon's perfect rhythm falling out of sync. Debris began to fly free of the storm, then the wind started blowing outward from the center of the room instead of being sucked inward. Then, without warning, the water in the air simply fell to the ground, harmless.

  “Brother?” Though he had released his hold upon the sword's power, Gravin had not lowered the blade from its defensive position. “Wha' are ya sayin'?”

  The great man nodded his understanding. “You do not know yet, which is to be expected.” With either directness that was either courage or complete incomprehension of the real threat posed to him, the man took another step forward, spreading his arms wide. Dart saw for the first time that he only had one hand – his left. “I am Avery, God of Vengeance. You are Gravin, the newly born God of Tempest. And I would embrace you as the brother you are.”

  Avery?! Dart knew that name – it was the false God who had so ensorcelled Scollhaven, the one who had unsettled the Witness so much that it permitted their paths to cross in the first place. This was Avery?

  “God?” blurted Gravin. “God?! Wha' kind of fool does ya take me fer?”

  The man calling himself Avery pointed to the sword in the maniac's hand. “That sword. Its name is Two, is it not? It told you it's name when you first took it?”

  Gravin looked to the sword. “Ya said you were Two,” he said to the sword. “You said tha'.”

  Avery bowed his head in acknowledgment. “You are the bearer of this sword, and that sword has gifted you with divinity. I have come here to join you, for we are the first in a new race of Gods.
This is how we are made, how we come to be. These swords are our birthright, and you have been chosen to be the second God in our new order.”

  In spite of the words spoken, Dart could not avoid the complete absence of warmth in them. Avery's words suggested companionship, friendship, welcome. But his words lacked any such emotion. In fact, they were cold and dry, like the spirit of the power he claimed to represent. Revenge is best served cold...

  Gravin looked up at Avery, momentary confusion in his eyes. “Where's yer sword then?”

  Avery's face flickered, a crack showing in his perfected stoicism. “That is a long story. And it involves our mutual enemy, known as the Godslayer.”

  “We're Gods, yet there's somethin' tha' kin kill us? Gods canna die, ya fool!”

  “Oh, they can,” said Avery, his face beginning to reflect the cold of his heart. “Our sires – the ones who came before us, the Old Gods – were killed by the Godslayer. Our power slept for countless years, waiting for the chance for the likes of us to be reborn. But the Godslayer also survived, and we must unite in common cause to defeat him lest we share our parents' fates.”

  Gravin's face registered indecision. He was not as dim as Dart would have initially believed him, or maybe he just never believed anything anyone ever told him. Dart herself might have believed this story if she had not known that Avery was no true God, if her own demi-God talents had not seen through the farce. But Avery's rendition was compelling, sound – and the confidence with which it was delivered was unparalleled. If the man did not believe what he said, then he was possibly the greatest grifter Dart had ever had the fortune to encounter.

  Avery closed the distance between himself and the horror of Levitz, resting his good hand upon the shoulder of his declared patriot. Absolutely no fear registered in Avery. The man was in complete control of himself, so confident that he would not – or possible could not – be harmed, that he dared put his last remaining hand into the mouth of the viper...

  ...and had it torn off!

  With silent alarm, Avery leaped back, clutching at a large gash that had appeared in his hand. The silent water rose again at Gravin's command, slicing through the air with razor precision, striking again and again at Avery's body, his legs, his face.

  “What kind o' God bleeds, ya fool?”laughed Gravin maniacally. “Ya play a good game, that ya do, but I was a pirate, an' I know how ta see a man's true purpose.”

  Avery finally screamed as Gravin swept upwards with the physical blade itself, cutting a deep wound through the self-proclaimed God of Vengeance. Avery's hand flew to his midsection, attempting to hold his innards in place, blood pouring from his wounds without any restraint. But as it flowed from his body, it did not fall – it mixed with the water in the air, joining in the assault upon its former home.

  “Ya wanted my sword, ta replace the one ya lost!” screamed Gravin. “I' was in yer eyes, how ya could no' help lookin' at it, plannin' wha' ta do with it. Yer no God, ya fool! Bu' maybe, jus' maybe, after I kill ya and take yer power, maybe I will be!”

  By now, Avery's clothes were shredded and the skin of his body fell away in several places. There was little to recognize of the greatness he had tried to project, the confidence of the man disintegrated into the bloody circle of mixed bodily fluids and water that flailed, cut and pierced his body.

  It appeared that the man – the clearly mortal man – was already dead, that only the force of the liquids assailing his body alone kept him standing.

  And then as he was released, Dart watched Avery, would-be-God of Vengeance, fall to the floor as a bloody husk.

  Chapter 19

  Nathaniel, Bracken and Brea had ridden into the shanty town just after dark the night before. They had been cursorily met by liveried soldiers at the border, their horses having attracted attention. Their weapons had drawn some attention, but when they appeared as nothing more than travelers with weapons designed for defense only, they were permitted to make camp for the night without molestation. In the morning, they were assured, they could seek out the commander of the guard.

  Clearly, the nightwatch had not been too threatened by strangers. Bracken explained that it was common for military enforcers in Carland to display a presence without being overly intrusive, and Brea was able to confirm what the dwarf said.

  “Met much worse'n my time on th' road,” had remarked the dwarf. “Almos' nice 'nough ta be worthless by 'perances, though tha's all fakin'. They's a rough bunch'n what's can back thereselves up, they can.”

  Also, since this lot apparently bore the crest of the king, Lord Justin I (“Glory ta 'is name,” had muttered Bracken under his breath), they were the marshals of the realm, the personal military force directly under command of the sovereign. If they were here, insisted Bracken, then there was some serious concern about what was going on. And they most certainly did not want to still be here if Lord Justin uprooted himself from his throne in his self-named port to come inspect the situation personally.

  Following the protocol set for them, the trio had searched out the commander's tent in the morning. They found it easily enough, and were fortunate, it seemed, to find the commander in his own tent rather than out on patrol. The young soldier who showed them into the commander's tent was full of pride at how their lord commander never asked a man under his command to do what he himself was not willing to do, including actively taking his own rounds alongside his men on patrol.

  Brea chose to follow the other two as they were escorted into a command tent. As a priestess, she was expected to be aloof, not noticeably in a position of authority, even if everyone in the room would know where the true power rested.

  An older man sat reclined in a wooden chair within the spacious interior. The chair itself was positioned to the rear of the room, providing the man a clear view of anyone who entered. His left leg was held rigidly in front of him, covered by a rough blanket.

  The commander's mustache twitched as he noted Brea's glance at his leg. “Fell off my horse,” he grumbled as way of explanation. “So forgive if I don't rise to greet you, as honor dictates.”

  Nathaniel took the lead, bowing in respect. “No offense taken, m'lord. May I introduce to you the priestess, Lady Brea, the dwarf Bracken Hillsfire, and myself, Nathaniel Goodsmith, formerly of Oaken Wood.”

  The commander grunted. “Country lad, I see. You don't know your ranks. I'm no lord, young master. I am merely a field commander in Lord Justin's service, no more.”

  The older man raised an eyebrow as he looked over the company standing before him. “You're a motley crew, if I ever did see one though. A commoner is no surprise, but standing with a dwarf and a priestess, no less? You two,” he waved his finger between Brea and Bracken, “should be at each other's throats. How can it be you stand together, at all?”

  Brea blushed. “Though it's true the New Order has little tolerance for demi-humans--” to which Bracken snorted, “--and they have little respect for us in return, these are unique times. Besides, it is not so much that the dwarf and I travel together, so much it is as we both travel with our mutual friend, Nathan.”

  The commander snickered. “The glue holding the ragtag together then, lad?”

  Nathaniel smiled. “Something like that, I suppose.”

  The old man squirmed in his seat to position himself straighter. “So what brings you to the great wall of water, formerly known as the fishing port of Levitz?”

  “So this is Levitz then?” asked Nathaniel. There had been some concern that they had been lost in the dark and missed the village.

  “What used to be, sure. 'Course, if what Avery says is true--”

  “Avery!?” exclaimed all three of the visitors in unison.

  Nathaniel held up his hand to silence his friends. “Perhaps it's not the same Avery...”

  The commander had leaned forward earnestly now. “Wiry fellow, claims to be a God of some sort?”

  Brea felt a pit open wide in her stomach.

  “Same person,” Na
thaniel admitted with a groan. “Is he here? Can we see him?”

  “No, sorry. He went through the wall yesterday.”

  “Through it?” Nathaniel looked to Brea, who only shrugged her response.

  During the night, Brea had wandered around, using her status as a priestess to pass amongst the campfires, gleaning what information she could about where they were. The story of the massive liquid wall had been abundant in the tales she had heard – the barrier itself was hard to avoid, even in the dark, with the fires reflecting off its surface closer to shore – but people had been oddly quiet about the specifics.

  Now that much made sense – no one would wish to proclaim the presence of another God to a priestess of the New Order. Her sect was well known for harsh treatment of pagan faiths, after all. So the people avoided any discussion about the town itself or – it would seem – anyone who had presented himself as the town's savior.

  Apparently, the lord commander did not share the superstitious fears of the common people. His attitude suggested he had no tolerance for anything other than strict truth, regardless of how unpleasant it might seem.

  “I will admit, my lady,” said the commander, addressing Brea directly, “that I was confounded by his use of magic. He called himself a God – slew my best steed with his bare hands, even – and then started telling people that Levitz had not been destroyed, but was safe beyond a wall of water. Up until that point, we had believed the funnel to be a solid pillar, you see.

  “Then, yesterday I am told he just walked up to the wall and it parted in front of him. He just walked through and the wall closed behind him.”

  Parted the water? But Avery had never displayed that kind of power. For all intents and purposes, his power had come from his sword – from One. But Nathaniel had stripped him of the weapon – along with his hand. Even assuming he would have survived being maimed, where had he gained the power to walk through a massive wall of water? By all reports that Brea had gathered, the wall had resisted all forms of assault. It was seen as indestructible. Yet Avery had just waved his hand and walked right through it?