The GodSpill: Threadweavers, Book 2

by Todd Fahnestock

  “I’m in disguise,” he said, smirking at the mirror, trying to lighten the mood.

  She raised a dubious eyebrow.

  “You don’t like it? I’m thinking this may be my new haircut,” he said.

  “I’d love you even if you looked like a scaly-headed dragon,” she said.

  Her analogy struck him, reminded him that she was on his side. She was a dragon. He was a human.

  He turned and stood, looking down into her emerald eyes. “I keep seeing that quicksilver woman.... I keep seeing her with your face.”

  “I know. And if it had been me—”

  “I’d punish every single one of them. I’d kill them all. The king and anyone who stood by and let it happen.”

  “Medophae—”

  He kissed her, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. She smelled like rose petals. Her dove-blond hair was like running his fingers through silken strands.

  “It’s time to go,” she said.

  They left the inn and started up the sparkling clean street. One of the temporary benefits of having such strict laws was an orderly, clean city. There were no crooked signs or grimy windows in Korvander. Every shop was tidy, with perfectly arranged wares set out to purchase.

  They strode up the street until they reached the palace. The guards nodded at them, and let them in.

  Korvander’s throne room was an open-air arcade, with two galleries on either side filled with nobles. Tall columns supported the square gallery roofs, and at the end of the long aisle was a circular dais, four steps high. In the center of the dais, underneath a huge stone awning that looked like a clamshell, was a large throne, upon which was King Horonid. He sat ramrod straight, eyes cold as he surveyed the assemblage. His royal threadweaver sat to his left, and two advisors sat to his right. At the base of the steps was Horonid’s champion of justice. He was big in every way. He was probably the same height as Medophae, but his arms were tree trunks and his legs even larger. He was encased in plate armor, head to toe, and stared forward.

  “So that’s him, huh?” Medophae said.

  “Wyrn Korvander,” Bands said. “The champion of justice.”

  “He named himself after the kingdom?”

  “Maybe he couldn’t think of anything else.”

  “He looks twice my weight.”

  “Scared?”

  He let out a breath. “How can this king believe that who a person chooses to love makes them lower somehow? What has to twist in your mind to think that a human loving a quicksilver is wrong?”

  “You see it,” she said. “And you shine brightly enough to show it to everyone else.”

  “All I want to do is kill him.”

  “I know.”

  He looked at the Den of the Accused, a ten-foot-square spot underneath the edge of the left-hand gallery, closest to the royal dais. There were no bars for the accused, but four executioners surrounded the man who had been caught in bed with a quicksilver woman, spears pointed at him. He sat forlornly on the cobblestone floor, his left leg bent at the knee, his right leg twisted and broken. He looked like he was clenching his teeth to keep from crying out, and his cheeks were stained with tears.

  Medophae felt his anger rising, and Oedandus rose with it. He pushed it down.

  “Gorvun Dandere,” he said.

  “Grovun Deneer,” Bands corrected him. “Like Meetris Deneer, with the floating sword from the legends.”

  “Grovun Deneer,” Medophae repeated. “Look what they’ve done to him.”

  “He was caught by the king’s justicers. His lover, Estakketh, used her flashpowers to attack them. They stabbed her to death and broke Grovun’s knee.”

  Medophae started toward him, but Bands put a cool hand on his arm.

  “Why are you here?” she reminded him.

  “Justice.”

  “They’ll make a call for final words to the accused,” she said. “Wait for it.”

  As though the king had heard Bands, he stood up.

  “Loyal subjects of Korvander,” he said, his voice booming down the wide aisle. “This man, Grovun Deneer, is accused of filth and consorting with a female below his caste. He has been sentenced to death. Before the sentence is passed, are there any who wish to speak their last words to the accused?”

  “I will have words with the accused,” Medophae replied. A rush of quiet discussion rippled through the assemblage as Medophae made his way to the Den of the Accused. The two front executioners stepped aside, stone-faced, and Medophae knelt next to Grovun.

  The pain in the man’s eyes drove a dagger into Medophae’s heart. Both of Grovun’s hands held his leg above the knee.

  “I’m so sorry,” Medophae said.

  “Who are you?” Grovun asked through clenched teeth.

  “Your champion, if you’ll have me.”

  “What?”

  “I’m going to fight for you.”

  Grovun looked at Wyrn Korvander in his shining steel plate, then back at Medophae. “Why?”

  “Because it’s what I do. Because I can.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Will you take me as your champion?”

  “That man will kill you.”

  “No. I don’t think so.” Medophae smiled grimly. “Say you’ll accept me as your champion, and I will make things right here.”

  “How can you?” the man asked, his face twisted up. “They killed Estey.” He began to cry, big, quiet sobs that wracked his bent back. “She’s gone.”

  “Then I will make sure it doesn’t happen to anyone else,” he said. “Help me.”

  “How?”

  “When they ask you, just say I’m your champion.”

  The man held his hands up helplessly. “Okay.”

  Medophae stood up.

  “Is there anyone else who wishes to speak with the accused?” King Horonid demanded. None other came forward. “Very well,” he said. “Grovun Deneer, you may choose a champion now to face Korvandish justice. Should your champion prevail, it will show Thalius’s favor and prove your innocence. Do you have a champion?”

  Grovun looked at Medophae, still confused, still in excruciating pain, then back at the king. “I...I do. He is my champion.” He pointed at Medophae.

  Gasps went up from the assemblage. King Horonid’s eyes widened. Even the stoic form of Wyrn Korvander shifted, his armor creaking.

  King Horonid looked Medophae up and down. “Do you accept this burden, stranger?”

  “I do,” Medophae said.

  “And do you realize that this is a fight to the death?”

  “I do.”

  King Horonid spoke quietly with his two advisors. The closest replied, still in a voice too low to hear, and she made small gestures with her hands. The king looked back at Medophae.

  “As you wish, stranger.” King Horonid nodded to Wyrn Korvander. The king’s champion drew his sword and started toward Medophae. No preamble. No further ceremony.

  Good. Medophae drew his own sword and moved forward, stopping just out of range of Wyrn’s enormous blade.

  “How many people have you killed for that man?” Medophae asked Wyrn.

  “One more than before, in a moment,” Wyrn replied in a low, gravelly voice.

  “Did you give a thought to it? To all this killing? To those you slay? Do you have remorse for any of them?” Medophae asked.

  “No,” Wyrn said. “They were destined to die. As are you.” He charged, sweeping his sword so fast it was a blur. He was a smart fighter. His lunge was so quick he crossed the distance in a blink, and his blade was too long for a normal man to leap back out of range. It was a lateral swing, placed just high enough it could not be jumped—even if an opponent were fast enough to try—and too low for an opponent to crouch beneath.

  The godsword erupted, sheathing Medophae’s blade in fire. With Oedandus’s strength, he met the blinding charge, slamming the godsword against Wyrn’s sword, shearing through it. Still, the broken blade sliced into Medophae’s belly.
Oedandus’s golden fire went to work on the ghastly wound even as Medophae sidestepped and thrust the godsword through the side of Wyrn’s chest.

  Wyrn clattered to the ground, steel ringing as he tried to suck a breath through two punctured lungs. Medophae wrenched him onto his back and yanked the helm off the man’s head. His eyes were wide, and he gaped like a fish on land.

  “Good,” Medophae said. “Then I will have no remorse for you, either.”

  King Horonid’s champion of justice died, his last breath leaking out through his teeth. His eyes went glassy.

  Medophae yanked his sword out, turned, and walked toward the dais, blade dripping blood.

  “King Horonid,” he said in a loud voice. “I accuse you of murdering an innocent woman.” He pointed at Grovun. “By the laws of Korvander, Thalius has decreed that Grovun Deneer is innocent through trial by combat. As this is true, then you killed the quicksilver woman Estakketh outside the law. That makes you a murderer. Do you deny it?”

  King Horonid spluttered, still staring wide-eyed at his dead champion. Medophae leapt to the top of the dais before any of the king’s guard could react. “Stop!” Horonid shrieked.

  Medophae grabbed Horonid by the neck and lifted him into the air. His advisors shouted and fell over each other trying to get away from the flaming madman. The threadweaver on Horonid’s other side closed his eyes, hands weaving in front of him as he tried to attack Medophae with GodSpill. He opened his eyes a moment later in shock as he realized it wasn’t working.

  Medophae pulled the horrified Horonid close to his face. “By Thalius’s own decree, your champion has fallen, condemning you to death.”

  “No!” Horonid shrieked. “This is not the law! I make the law—”

  “I am Wildmane!” Medophae shouted over the blubbering king, his voice thundering across the assemblage. “And anywhere I see injustice like I have seen here today, I will come. Anywhere the lives of some are crushed by the whims of others, I will come. And I will leave the guilty as corpses in my wake.” He stared down at the guards; he stared down at the nobles. “So think well, any of you who would step up to take Horonid’s place. You may put yourself above the law, but you will never be above my vengeance.”

  Medophae walked down the dais, the king in hand. Two dozen royal guards surrounded him, but none attacked.

  Bands walked out of the Den of the Accused with Grovun, who was staring down at his leg, which she had just healed. Medophae threw the king into the spot that Grovun had recently occupied. The four executioners with their spears stared, open-mouthed.

  “Loyal subjects of Korvander,” Medophae repeated what King Horonid had said before. “This man, King Vinteer Horonid, is accused of murder beneath the eyes of Thalius. He has been sentenced to death. Before the sentence is passed, are there any who wish to speak their last words to the accused?”

  Whispers ran through the assemblage, but none stepped forward.

  “This is a farce!” King Horonid shrieked.

  “Very well,” Medophae spoke over him. “King Horonid, you may choose a champion now to face Korvandish justice. Should your champion prevail, it will show Thalius’s favor and prove your innocence. Do you have a champion?”

  The rattled king looked up at his threadweaver, standing on the dais. “Threadweaver Bemestis! You are my champion!” The threadweaver looked at Medophae, eyes wide, and shook his head.

  The king whirled, looking at the tallest of the spear-bearing executioners. “You will be—”

  “By the law,” Medophae said, “an executioner cannot be a champion.” He turned to the group of royal guards, fixing them with his stare. “Are there any who would champion the accused?”

  “Captain Felks!” King Horonid shouted, and spittle flecked his lips. “You will be my champion. I order you to be my champion!”

  Captain Felks looked at King Horonid, then at Medophae. He, too, shook his head.

  “This is an outrage!” the king shouted.

  “If there are no others,” Medophae boomed, “the judgment has been rendered.” He turned his gaze back to the executioners. “Do your duty.”

  “I’ll have you all killed for this!” Horonid said. “I’ll have you all—”

  The spear took him in the throat. King Horonid toppled backward. The other three executioners stepped forward, each with a fierce stab to the king’s chest.

  Medophae turned away and walked to where Bands stood. Next to her, Grovun kept feeling his knee, looking back and forth between it and Bands.

  “Nice speech,” she said. “They will remember you. They’ll remember what you said.”

  “If they don’t, we’ll come back,” he said.

  “And you didn’t kill the king.” She smiled. “Nicely done. How do you feel?”

  “Cheated.”

  She touched his arm, and he felt better. “Let’s go.”

  Together, they walked past the stunned assemblage.

  “Do it,” he said. “Come on.”

  She sighed.

  “Impressions make a difference,” he said. “One act can be buried and forgotten. A legend lives forever. Do it.”

  “You’re incorrigible.”

  “But I promise to love your scaly dragon head,” he said.

  As they walked, she transformed into her natural state, growing long, scaly arms. Her tail sprouted and slithered out behind her, and her sinuous neck rose into the air. She beat her wings, sending hurricane gusts at the people of Korvander. They screamed in fear and shielded their heads.

  He leapt onto her back, and she leapt into the sky.

  13

  Zilok Morth

  “How do you kill a god?” Zilok asked Orem, looking out over the Inland Ocean as Orem, his anchor to this mortal life, stood politely at a distance.

  “I do not know, my master.”

  It was a question Zilok had pondered more than any other human in history, he was sure, and he had never come up with the solution. He had trapped and tortured Medophae. He had held Medophae’s friends hostage. He had even stripped away the power of Oedandus and given it to another, but through all that, the answer to that question had remained the same. You couldn’t kill a god. Not if you were a mortal. Not even if you were an immortal spirit.

  “To kill a god, you must be a god,” Zilok said.

  “Yes, my master.”

  No human could hope to overwhelm a god. Humans were spawned from Natra’s tapestry. The gods lived outside the tapestry. They were forces beyond nature, and one had to be beyond nature to undo them.

  It had only happened twice in history. Vaisha the Changer, daughter of Saraphazia and Tarithalius, had died giving birth to White Tuana, who sucked the life from her. Dervon the Diseased had been killed by Medophae, Zilok, Bands, and Tarithalius combined. Thalius jauntily called him “Dervon the Dead” afterward, and the moniker stuck.

  Zilok moved to the very edge of the open archway, seeing the play of the threads on the breeze, feeling the threads of the stone beneath him, above him, to the left and right, feeling the reassuring threads that connected him to Orem, that allowed him to dominate Orem’s mind and secure his connection to the mortal plane. As always, far above, the Godgate swirled in different shades of gray, waiting for him, hungering for him.

  Zilok had been there at the beginning of Medophae’s journey, or near enough to know every detail. He had met Medophae shortly after his arrival in Amarion. Zilok had heard the story straight from Medophae’s own lips, how Oedandus had been attacked by no less than three gods—Dervon the Diseased, Zetu the Ancient, and White Tuana—all three of whom still could not overwhelm him enough to destroy him. Aside from the absent Natra, the goddess who had created the world, Oedandus was the most powerful of them all. The best Dervon, Zetu, and Tuana could manage was to stretch Oedandus’s life force over the continent of Amarion and reduce him to a barely sentient being. They had done little to reduce his potency, only his focus.

  Even now, in the formational stages of his latest p
lan, Zilok knew it was all for naught if he could not succeed where those three gods had failed. Zilok had to best Oedandus. Medophae, in desperation or rage, would inevitably turn Oedandus loose, and Zilok would be overwhelmed. He had to face the god’s full power and defeat it, something no human could possibly do, something Zilok had never done in fourteen centuries.

  The new plan was to remove Medophae from Amarion, out of Oedandus’s reach, far across the True Ocean to Dandere. Once Medophae stood helplessly on those shores, a true mortal once more, Zilok could dispose of him, and Oedandus would have no champion. Of course, Oedandus would never willingly let that undeserving, preening eagle loose. It was why he healed Medophae, why he kept the man immortal. Oedandus didn’t want to return to what he had been after Dervon, Zetu, and White Tuana had finished with him: a vague, meandering force, lacking focus or even the comprehension of his plight.

  But before that plan could come to fruition, Zilok had to surmount the walls in his way.

  First, he needed strength enough to transport a mortal of Medophae’s size through the threads, over the True Ocean to Dandere. Even an accomplished threadweaver like Zilok didn’t have the ability to make a transport gate outside of Amarion. The threads of Amarion itself were soaked with GodSpill, especially during the Age of Ascendance, but the saturation of GodSpill over the True Ocean was low, and on the faraway isle of Dandere even less. Zilok could not construct such a portal.

  Second, he needed to turn aside the power of a god. Zilok could not use ordinary threadweaving on Medophae. Oedandus would simply bat it aside. In fact, even if Zilok managed to steal the power of, say, Avakketh, he might not be able to blunt Oedandus’s power. Three gods working in concert hadn’t been able to do it. Who was to say that Avakketh was more powerful than Oedandus?

  “Only Oedandus’s own power is sure to be strong enough to best Oedandus himself, Orem,” Zilok said.

  “Yes, my master.”

  The idea came to Zilok swiftly, sending twin jolts of exhilaration and fear through him.