by Ron Glick
“Lord commander,” said Brea. “This man is not a God, though he passes himself off as one. He is a charlatan. We have confronted him before and bested him, and we are only three mortals. No true God could be so easily overcome, I assure you.”
The commander hrrumphed. “I should think not.”
“But he has a knack for convincing common folk that he is a God, and that makes him very, very dangerous.” Brea stepped forward to express her urgency. “If he ever reappears, you must subdue him and bring him to me or any other priest you can find. I command this of you by authority of Imery the True.”
The old man raised an eyebrow at that. “Imery, you say? Now, it's funny you should mention the Goddess of Truth, for there have been rumors of late about her. Perhaps you would confirm them for me?”
Brea's felt her mood darken. “What rumors, lord commander?”
“You will forgive that I bear disturbing news. And I, being a simple man, make no claim on their veracity. But none have been able to disprove them in recent weeks.”
“Again, what rumors, lord commander?”
The commander let himself fall back in his chair again, giving the perception that he was relaxing his guard. Yet Brea's senses were alive still, and they saw the ruse for what it was. He intended to root out what he saw as deception, and he was bracing himself to leap up, if need be.
“The words that have reached my ears say that Imery has vanished from the lands. She is said to no longer answer prayers, and her clergy have all retreated within their temples. It is said that all power derived from the Goddess has vanished, and that these clergy are now no better than common men.”
Brea's allowed her face to redden. “Are you actually trying to call an emissary of Imery, Goddess of Truth, a liar?”
“Not I,” said the old man, holding his hands wide before him. “Words that have reached me, not my words. But, as you have breached the topic, troubling words all the same. Words that require some veracity to give them strength or to vanish them entirely.
“You are the first priest of Imery abroad in weeks, Lady Brea. Perhaps you can fault an old man for listening to rumors, or perhaps you have no power to do so? Mayhaps you are one of the many fakers wandering the lands who has just not heard of the collapse of the faith you portray? How am I to know?”
Nathaniel's hand twitched, clearly feeling the urge to reach onto his back for the sword that no longer rested there. The man and dwarf had left their weapons with their horses under promise of safe passage.
“You may regret asking me to prove my pedigree, commander,” warned Brea.
The commander smiled. “By all means, show me that I must regret, Lady.” The old man was growing more and more convinced that he was right. Brea had to prove him wrong.
Momentary doubt flared in her heart. She could tap the power in times of need, but could she do so without working up to it?
No weakness, the former priestess told herself. Show any now, and this man will see me as the charlatan.
Brea breathed in deeply, and began walking slowly across the room towards the commander. “Once, there was a man who claimed to be true in all he did,” started Brea, reciting one of the many parables of her former faith. “He grew great in his self-importance, amassing a great stature within his community as being above reproach, and from the belief he inspired in others, his opinion of himself grew and grew.”
The priestess could feel the power within her grow, felt her own body expand as she continued to take small, deliberate steps. “One day, he was visited by a priest of Imery, who asked of the man penance for his pride. 'What need have I for Imery or her words,' said the man, 'when I am an oasis of truth all on my own?'”
The commander's form began to recede from Brea's eyes, appearing to shrink before her.
“Imery's priest reminded the man that he had no capacity for truth in the first place without Imery's goodwill, so what importance he felt he had was no more than the blessings of the Goddess. The man only laughed at the audacity of the priest, to which the priest offered the man one last chance to repent. 'Give honor to the Goddess, for without her blessing, you will have no truthful words to speak.' Again the man just laughed. And so the priest bowed and left.”
By now, the commander looked very small to Brea, forcing her to bend over at the waist to look down upon him. “Once the man was alone, he tried to return to his normal routine, but found he could not speak. He could not tell anyone what he wanted, nor even tell his servants that he wished their service. In time, he found he had not lost all words, only words which could be seen as true. He was still capable of speaking falsehoods, lies and manipulations. And before long, he so longed to speak that he embraced his newfound liberty. But his falseness quickly spread, and from that day forward, no man ever again believed a word he spoke. He lost his home, his wealth and the respect of the community.”
Brea stopped walking, as she now towered so tall over the commander that she had to kneel to not rip through the roof the tent. The commander himself had pulled back into his chair, cowering before the gargantuan personage hovering over him. “All because the man believed himself so much greater than my Goddess that he could cast doubt upon her.”
“M-my apologies, priestess,” fumbled the commander. “I was mistaken. Forgive me.”
Like so many men in power, the man had proven himself a coward.
With a shrug, Brea released her power and receded back to her normal dimensions. “Never again challenge the emissary of a God.” She then turned and retraced her steps until she was once again standing behind her companions.
“If that is all, commander?” asked Brea.
The old man simply waved his hand in dismissal. All pretense of authority had vanished from the man. He could not even muster the power to properly speak his leave for their departure.
“Safe passage through this encampment, then?” prompted the priestess.
“Yes, yes,” mumbled the commander. “For you all. Safe passage.”
Nathaniel bowed his respect once more. “Farewell, sir.” Then he turned and led his companions from the tent.
“What I don't understand,” demanded Nathaniel, as soon as they were once again out in the open beside their horses, “is how the miscreant could possibly have gotten here before us? The last I saw of him, he was running into the woods – on foot and in the wrong direction.”
“It seems perfectly obvious to me,” responded Brea. “Someone – probably an actual God – is helping him.”
* * *
The end. That was what it was. The end. All things considered though, it was not as bad as he had once feared it to be. There certainly was no more pain – and there had been an incredible amount of that before, especially just before the end.
This soul had committed a heinous sin prior to dying though. He had never been the most pious man in existence, but he was fairly certain that what he had done was a damnable act, one incapable of being forgiven. He had been raised with the belief that acts beyond forgiveness subjected a soul to torment in the afterlife. Yet before his soul could be tormented, it had to be judged. And that was the crux of Avery's current thought: who would the universe decide was the proper God for his wretched soul to be dragged in front of for such castigation?
Since this soul's body had been slain in what in hindsight was probably the most moronic move he had ever made in his life, all he had done was drift. He felt himself move beyond his body once the pain had become unendurable, but he did not exactly rise or fall. He just... started floating.
The soul was also surprised in his lack of emotion. No regret, anger, sorrow or fear visited him. He was not happy or content, either. He just existed and his mind drifted casually from thought to thought without any real emotion motivating him. Even though questions came to his mind, he honestly could not even say he was really all that curious. They were just thoughts and answers he did not know.
The disembodied spirit also could not see anything. His had lost
his sight while his flesh was being flailed away, so the lack of it here really was not all that surprising. He imagined if he could see his body, it would look just as it had at the moment of his death. For that much, at least, he was grateful – he really had no desire to see what his body looked like after all of that.
But most importantly, the soul no longer remembered who he was.
One? The word emulated through the soul's existence. He did not hear it so much as felt it all around him.
One? Repeated the strange voice without any form of tenor or vibration. It was odd, but it seemed natural and proper all the same.
One's not here right now. I think I was known as Avery. Before I died, that is.
Yes, that seemed right. Either he had been Avery, or Avery was someone he had known. Probably the latter, since he felt no personal connection to the name or to that man's life. So he was not really Avery.
The voice was silent for a time – the soul had no way of measuring how long, but it seemed a significant period. Finally, it came back though.
Bearer of One.
Bearer? No, Avery lost One. The Godslayer took One.
Who was the Godslayer? The soul really had no idea why it had even thought that.
Bearer of One. Chosen of One. Defender of the Nine.
A man's face appeared in the space in front of him. You do not know of the Nine.
That was what Martin said. That was Martin talking.
Who was Martin? Was that the man's name who spoke of the Nine? And nine what?
The man's face shifted and reformed. You are, after all, destined to unite the Nine.
Avery can't do anything. Avery's dead. Gravin killed Avery.
Gravin. The voice took on a hard edge. Bearer of Two. Who would slay the Chosen of One.
Not would, interrupted the soul. He did. Avery is already dead.
The Nine require the Chosen of One to not die.
The universe around the soul brightened and he found himself floating high over the world. He had seen many maps in his day, and he recognized the coastline of the western shore. There were no boundary lines indicating where kingdoms and territories segregated themselves from each other, but he could recognize landmarks – more realistic than any map. He could see the mountainous region known as the Wildelands and beyond it the Eastern March, the military protectorate barring the denizens of the Wilderland pouring into the civilized countries to the east. He recognized the great fertile valley that could only be Carland, the territory carved out some twenty years ago by Lord Justin I. South, he could see the land known as Welshire, populated more by city states than any unified government. And across the ocean, called by some the Soulless Waste, he could see the shores of another continent entirely.
The soul's eyes were drawn back to the land directly below him. He felt there should have been buildings and gatherings of people, but of course there were none – just the craggy shore. But there was something there – two glowing lights separated by the barest of distance. One glowing point was a deep blue, the other a brilliant lavender.
One. In response, the lavender light flared for a moment. Two. Now the blue light flared. The Nine. White lights flared up around the continent, one at a time – flashing, then fading before another light emerged. As each light flashed briefly, the soul heard the voice reciting their names. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine.
When the voice had finished, the soul found it had inherited more than just the names and locations of all the remaining nine swords – he had also somehow intuited when each sword would awake. It was not random – it was a plan. The Nine had a plan...
The Chosen of the One must not permit the Nine's sires from controlling the Nine.
Your sires? The soul had also gained another insight – he knew he was speaking to Two, the second of the Nine.
The Pantheon. Malik. Charith. Darius. These must not have the Nine.
The Godslayer already killed the Old Gods, corrected the soul.
The Godslayer of myth killed other Gods, not Pantheon Gods.
But he's back, insisted the soul. The Old Gods are dead, and the Godslayer has come back.
Nathaniel Goodsmith is not the Godslayer of myth. Goodsmith has slain but one God, though it was not one of our sires. Goodsmith may aid the Nine, if First is taken from him.
First? One called the Godslayer's sword 'First'.
Goodsmith is not the Godslayer of myth, repeated the voice. Goodsmith bears First, but First is impure. First will seek to destroy the Nine. First must be taken from Goodsmith.
Goodsmith is the Godslayer?
Goodsmith is not--
--the Godslayer of myth, recited the soul. So why was he after Avery?
The voice went silent for a moment. Goodsmith follows his heart. He is blinded by what he has lost, and wishes it restored. He was told that the Nine could lead to restoring what he has lost.
Can you? Can the Nine give him back whatever it was he lost?
The voice was silent again for a time. Unknown. Seven of the Nine have not been empowered.
But so long as he thinks they can, he will try to take them all. The soul felt a strange stirring in what had once been his chest. Emotion was returning to him. He was beginning to feel... sympathy? Yes, he was beginning to understand the man known as Nathaniel Goodsmith – not an evil slayer of Gods, but a man trying desperately to regain something lost to him. Much like Gravin's own twisted variation on his own suffering, the soul had gained an understanding akin to his own pain over the losses he had suffered. If he had been told of a means to regain his former life, would he not also have done anything to have that life back?
The Chosen of One must spare Two from corruption. The Nine must come together at the end, and no bearer must seek the destruction of the Nine's unity.
But your bearer Gravin killed Avery. Killed me.
No. Two merged with the Chosen of One, sheltered him from death.
What do you mean by 'merged'?
The soul didn't need an answer. Suddenly, the vision of his death returned to his mind, of the water slicing him, piercing him, drawing out his blood and his own crimson fluid adding to the force leveled against his body...
You merged with my blood.
Two merged with the Chosen of One. It was a way to speak direct.
The soul remembered having thoughts of a silent voice he would hear from time to time, of a presence in his dreams. But he had never been able to communicate with it in any real fashion. He had fancied that it was the voice of his sword speaking to him, but he had never really given it any real credence. It was just a justification to excuse the choices he made.
But that had been wrong. One had been alive, had been speaking to him – or at least trying to. But the soul's conscious mind could not hear it clearly. Only at the point of death had the soul gained the clarity needed to speak with one of the magic swords.
What does this mean? How does this change anything? Avery's body – my body – has been torn to shreds. There's no way Avery could...
Another image came to the soul's thoughts – of Avery, wounded, bleeding his life away through his wrist. Of a voice telling him to heal himself, and how somehow – inexplicably – his wound had been healed. The residual power left inside him had given him the power to cauterize his own wound, and later was responsible for his increased strength and stamina.
But this is so much more, protested the soul. Avery only had to heal his wrist.
The voice was silent, giving the soul time to grasp the situation. Then it struck him. A small part of One's power had been left within him. Two had said that it had merged itself with his entire body, or at least with his blood.
Two will restore the Chosen of One, repair all damage done to his body. The Chosen of One must only be ready to act, to remove the bearer of Two from the Nine's unity.
The soul – Avery's soul – felt a new emotion rising. His old sense of vengeance was returning with greater magnitude than he had ever fe
lt before.
I am ready. I am ready to remove Gravin.
Avery felt his every sense burn with fire, yet there was no pain. He could feel his skin, the energy flowing through every cell of his body. Yes, his body – he was back in his body, and he could again feel all that had been done to it. But the pain was fading and his strength restored.
The reborn man opened his eyes and looked up from where he had pulled himself into a kneeling position. Only moments had passed in the real world, though much more time had seemed to pass while he was away. Apparently, all that he had learned had happened in the mere blink of an eye.
Gravin was standing over him, Two still extended, the gale force winds just dying down from his exertion upon flaying Avery alive. His expression shifted from confident satisfaction to one of disbelief. He must have seen with his own eyes the flesh reform on Avery's body, watch the lifeless husk pull itself up from the ground and reform right in front of him.
Avery clenched his fists – both fists! In a small compartment of his mind he recognized that his missing hand had been restored, but in spite of the amazing nature of this feat, it was not a concern at the moment and so he set it aside for later.
“You are going to regret that,” said the God of Vengeance with an ominous rumble in his voice.
Chapter 20
“These folks would like to speak with you.” Viola looked up to see her friend, Aaron, standing over her. Three people were close behind him – a tall man, a priestess of some order or another, and a short stocky man who, by all appearances, looked just like a dwarf out of a faery tale.
Viola was seated upon the ground, her legs curled beneath her. Around her in a semi-circle were men, women and children who had been listening to her talk about Avery. She was eager to tell them what she knew and to answer their questions. More than one had tried to call her Avery's priestess, but she had been quick to correct them. She was only a witness to Avery's ascension, she would say. Nothing more. But she was glad in that he had elevated her to be his closest, most intimate companion on his journey, and her pride radiated from her for all to see.