by Ron Glick
Bracken caught Brea's stare. “Did you see?” she asked. But she had no need to speak, for it was the precise thought that had resounded in his own mind.
Geoffrey had used magic, of that there was no doubt. But more specifically, he had used the magics of two of the godslayer swords. He had first used Two's power over water, and then used One's power to be undetected, vanishing in an instant.
Bracken could only nod dumbly. But Avery was the one who voiced the question.
“Did he just use both swords' magics?”
* * *
Tanath entered the bar and walked as casually as she could manage directly up to the bar. She squeezed past the large, balding sailor standing in her desired spot, earning a grunt of disapproval from the burly man.
“Shove off,” said the immortal girl. “Trust me, there are more of me than there are of you.”
The large man glared in her direction a moment, then snarled and turned away. “I'm a big 'nough man I don' need ta beat on li'l girls,” he grumbled as he moved down the bar a few feet.
“It might be true,” said the man now standing at Tanath's right, “but are the rest of you even anywhere close?”
“Does it matter?” responded the girl. “If he'd tried something, we would have swarmed this town within days.”
“I'll keep that in mind,” laughed the man, taking a long swallow of his amber beverage. After a moment, he wiped broth from his lips and turned his full attention on the newcomer. “So I s'pose there's something important afoot?”
The girl nodded. “I found the Godslayer,” Tanath reported without hesitation. “His name's Nathaniel Goodsmith. And I got to feel his sword, too. It was amazing!”
Tanath sighed, then continued. “But I couldn't stay. There was a God coming. Don't know which one, but I wasn't going to wait around and find out.”
The man looked the young woman over. “This body or another?”
Tanath glared at the tall man. Some things one just did not ask her, no matter what your rank was within the Conclave. “Why does it matter?” she practically growled.
“Hey, put away the daggers, lass,” laughed the man. “I just wanted to know if he was close, 'sall.”
Tanath considered and decided it was a good question after all. “No. He's far inland, close to the Wildelands. Hides out in a place called Oaken Wood.”
“Never heard of it.”
“I'd be surprised if you had.”
“So. Did you approach him?”
Tanath reached over and grabbed the man's brew, taking a large swig of her own. After several swallows, she slammed the glass upon the bar, resisting the urge to spit. “Balerot? Really?”
The man laughed. “It's an acquired taste.” All mirth disappeared from his eyes. “Now - is he with us or not?”
Tanath momentarily considered the worth of trying to work the man for the information, but almost immediately abandoned the idea. One did not tempt a man able to...
The woman immortal shuddered at the thought. “No. I barely had time to make the initial approach. Offered our help, told him we were there if he needed us. But I gave him space to think about what I had said. And then the God came...”
The man nodded somberly. “But you're close enough to try again?”
“See, there's where the problem comes in,” confessed Tanath. “I was waiting outside of town, just at the edge while I waited for the feeling of the God to go away. But I sensed a godly amount of power appear and I rushed to see what had caused it. It felt like the Godslayer's sword, but more powerful. So I hurried towards town and I was just able to reach the ridge over town when I saw it.”
The girl swallowed. “Goodsmith was fighting some girl with another sword... a little girl, like maybe twelve or thirteen if she was a day. Anyway, he swung at her and she just...” Tanath opened her hands in imitation of small explosives. “She just blew him up. Right there in front of me.”
The man's face could not hide his startlement. “A girl killed the Godslayer?”
Tanath shrugged. “Seems so.”
“And what happened to the little girl?”
“Don't know. I kind of lost sight of her after that. Literally. She just disappeared.”
The man considered what he had been told a moment. “I'll take this to the Conclave,” he said finally. “Unless there's something else to report?”
Tanath thought about how to frame what she would say next. “Farius, the girl had another sword. Just like the Godslayer's. And there was even a third sword there. I didn't see it, but I could feel it.” The girl leaned in closer. “There's more than one Godslayer, Farius! Think of what that means!”
The man known as Farius simply stared at his informant. “An army of Godslayers...” he fairly whispered. “Yes, young one. I can imagine. I can imagine indeed.”
Chapter 13
To Nathaniel, it was like watching history play out in slow motion. He could see it happening, able to tell that a great event was approaching, but he just did not have a precise enough recall to remember the exact moment it would happen. He knew that if he was going to act, he needed to make his move at the right time, for he might not get another chance. But as for telling when the right time was - therein lay the challenge.
The day after Nathaniel had appeared in the Oaken Wood of the past, the priestess of Zantel had arrived. And before the dawn of the next day, she had a shrine erected to her God, drawing in converts through speeches containing fear and intimidation as their primary elements.
The shrine was nothing much to speak of - a standing erection of stones gathered from the surrounding untamed lands that loosely resembled an altar. It had been assembled directly in the middle of the town's single roadway, making it impossible to avoid. Some effort had been given over to cementing the stones together with clay and mud, but no person eyeing the construct with a critical eye could possibly see anything more than a primitive construct. And yet somehow, the act of erecting it had drawn nearly the entire community to listen to the priestess' words.
None who wish to live can defy the will of the New Order.
Zantel is the God of Prosperity, and none can live without his blessing.
Show your piety to Zantel, or watch your family starve when your fortune runs dry.
If Nathaniel was being honest with himself, he had to admit that the words were compelling. To people who had never known purpose other than that which revolved around their own small lives, to have a worldly personality appear and give them a purpose beyond themselves was empowering. But of course, there was more than a little underlying fear motivating their flock mentality, as well. Without any other frame of reference to draw from, who could say there would not be consequences if they did not heed the words being spoken? And was she not a messenger of the Gods themselves? How could one ignore the words of such a person without suffering for it?
The citizens of Oaken Wood were not worldly by any stretch of the imagination. They had never been visited by a preacher in Nathaniel's lifetime before this priestess had arrived. This small community was too remote, bordering the Wildelands where only bandits and heretics lived - or so it was said in the more populated regions. There was no profit in coming to small outlying regional communities like this one. So to have a priestess visit now was something like having a hero of lore come to dine.
The woman called herself Erias. Nathaniel had not remembered ever hearing her name when he was younger. He had ever only known her as a priestess of Zantel. As the woman who had ordered his mother stoned to death. All because she - unlike the other residents of this town - was willing to speak out against the fear mongering that gave Erias her influence over the townsfolk.
For days now, Nathaniel had struggled with what action he could take. More than once he had committed to telling Bracken of who he was and where he came from, but a lifetime spent growing up around the dwarf provided a worthy argument against such a course of action. If nothing else, Bracken Hillfire was intractable in his belief of the world around
him. He was no great fan of magic to begin with - Blas'ed sorc'ry, tha'! - but having magic actually affect him... Why, that was near blasphemous! Assuming Nathaniel could get the dwarf to even accept magic was involved without having his head taken off with Hal'Bracken, then to get the dwarf to accept that magic had somehow brought Nathaniel's future self back to his own past was a near herculean feat of faith that he would be calling upon the dwarf to possess.
The only weapon Nathaniel possessed that might have swayed the dwarf's mind - literally - was the godslayer sword, Two. Several times, the man had gripped the hilt of his sword, trying to imagine what the dwarf would say or do if he drew the blade and began forming miniature cyclones of moisture out of thin air. Even if he did not specifically wield the weapon menacingly, Nathaniel could see no positive outcome to such a display.
At the end of the day, Nathaniel could think of nothing he could say that would compel Bracken to accept anything he said other than as fanciful - and nothing that would not end with the dwarf trying to sever the man's head from his shoulders.
The time-lost soul briefly considered the possibility of speaking to his younger self, but he almost as quickly discarded the idea. What would he do, tell his younger self something only his younger self would know and expect what - open armed affection? No - more likely, the younger Nate would rush to Bracken screaming for help against witchcraft. And once again, the scenario in his mind ended with the dwarf trying to take his head.
And besides - Nathaniel's mother had taken the thirteen year old version of the man home on the same day they had met. And there was no predicting when they would return. Though there was a certainty it would be soon, because all of the other players were setting the stage for her murder. The only missing element was the victim herself.
That left one other person - Maribel herself. Nathaniel's mother was intimately familiar with magic, and of everyone present, she was the most likely to believe in the man's tale. But she had already rejected the idea of who he was once - what did that say for the possibility of revisiting the idea that he was her son from the future come back with a premonition of her death?
Still, as he sat skulking at one of the Wyrm's Fang's tables nibbling at one of Bracken's egg and meat breakfast concoctions - having been granted an uncommon open-ended generosity from the dwarf for a place to stay while he recovered from whatever ailed his mind - Nathaniel had no better solution. He was convinced that he needed to make the trek out to his old home and try to convince Maribel of the danger she was in. If he could only convince her to stay away until after young Nathaniel reached his nameday - would that be enough time to assure that the woman's life would be spared?
“Dwarf, a round and be quick about it!” bellowed a loud voice, distracting Nathaniel momentarily from his own morbid thoughts. But when he saw who had spoken, all of his plots to visit his mother to stave off her doom were forgotten.
Aliban Stinhauf had not changed a great deal in the last decade. Even at what must have been his thirtieth year, he still had the deep lines in his face that suggested he was much older. One would likely have assigned it to a rough life, except anyone who knew Aliban would have known better. If Oaken Wood had anything resembling a merchant by trade, this man would be it. He was always seeking to barter one thing or another - and often without any real clear claim for where the item he bartered had come from. But if someone needed anything, Aliban was the man to go to.
The would-be merchant kept a large sealed shed back in the woods. Some had an idea of where, but none would tell Aliban they knew if they did. It was rumored that Aliban had some kind of connection to a rogues' network that came out of the Wildelands - some even suggested that he was a middleman for an alleged route between here and the proper kingdoms. People who fancied this story told of a clandestine network of station houses where items which might or might not have been illegally obtained were moved from one place to another.
In his years since, Nathaniel had learned an apt word for what Aliban was rumored to be: a smuggler. But at this point in time, his young self had no concept of such a term. Instead, like many of the lads in town, Aliban had been something of a notorious hero of sorts, always providing for the town's needs - at a price, of course - and doing so right under the eyes of any of the kingsguard who might be roaming about looking for bandits or those evading taxes. Oaken Wood considered itself independent of the Carland crown, so any effort to oppose the might of the kingdom was seen as heroic to the young of the community - Nathaniel included.
Of course, young Nathaniel had grown up to marry Aliban's daughter, Mariabelle, and that had exposed the naive man to a much closer perspective of what kind of man Aliban truly was. Even before Nathaniel had learned that the would-be merchant had aided in the murder of his mother, Nathaniel had distanced himself from the man. Something had always felt wrong about the way his father-in-law spoke to him, as though Nathaniel were not worthy of his good nature. Whether it was because the man sought to breed out Nathaniel's family's heritage with the Old Gods, or the guilt which the Pantheon suggested might be motivating him, the fact was that Aliban had never shown any great affection for his son-in-law - and the elder man's recognition had not been missed.
“Kee' yer britch's on, ya lout!” called Bracken from the back room. “Yew'd think ya 'ad the Lor' Hig'n Migh'y Just'n hisself wit' yew!”
A moment later, the dwarf pushed his way through the swinging door of the kitchen, wiping his burly hands on his shirt. “'Course, if'n ya di', 'e owes me a crown 'r twen'y I'da much like ta see!”
This was not the first time Bracken had claimed to have known Justin Surelake, the king of Carland. It was something of a running joke in town, that the dwarf had been worldly enough to know the king-before-he-was-king before he had settled into the life of an innkeeper. None took the dwarf's boasts too seriously - yet their disbelief did nothing to dissuade the dwarf from continuing in his tales.
“Better than the king himself, dwarf!” called back Aliban. “Tonight I dine with the earthly voice for Zantel himself!”
True to the tall man's words, two people accompanied him. The man standing to Aliban's left, Nathaniel recognized as Aliban's only son, Olric - still perhaps a year shy of his manhood at sixteen summers. But to the smuggler's right stood the woman Nathaniel had been doing his level best to avoid entirely - the Lady Erias, priestess of Zantel.
The dwarf came up to the woman and placed his fists on his hips and snorted. “Don' look much like roy'lty ta me.”
The woman's face twisted in disdain, but Aliban spoke before she could retort. “You'd best be of a mind to respect the priestess, dwarf. She's your better and you better get to know it.”
Bracken's mouth twisted in a sneer. “Dwarves don' worship Gods, Sir Stin'auf. And I'll no' be bringin' shame 'pon m' ancest'rs by bendin' a knee t'day.”
Nathaniel felt himself rise, not realizing he had chosen to do so. His instinct was to stand in defense of his friend, and his body had responded accordingly. Yet this was not his time - and this Bracken was not yet the friend he would be one day. In spite of the man's momentary hesitation, however, Nathaniel's standing had prompted others to mimic him. Of the three men who shared the common room with him, two of them now stood while the third leaned forward, ready to do so at a moment's notice.
Erias must have seen this - taken notice of the objectionable stance taken in response to Aliban's threats against the proprietor - for her scowl withdrew in favor of a more calm demeanor. She reached out her hand, touching Nathaniel's future father-in-law's elbow lightly before withdrawing.
“All must come to the path on their own, good Aliban,” purred the priestess. “We do not convert by force.”
“No, you just slaughter villages,” said Nathaniel under his breath before he realized what he had said. He ducked his head quickly, regretting it immediately.
“What was that?” Nathaniel looked up to see that Erias' face had snapped around to face him directly. “Speak up. I would hear aga
in your blasphemy full on.”
Every voice in Nathaniel's head screamed at him to be silent, but the rage at seeing the woman who had murdered his mother pushed his rasher personality to the fore in an instant. Before he could stop himself, he took a step towards the priestess, his back stiffening in defiance as he did so.
“I have seen your handiwork,” the time-lost man heard himself say, his courage seizing him as he continued. “I have walked amongst the ruins of your inquisitions.” Nathaniel raised his right hand, opened as though grasping a small bowl. “I have held a child's skull in my hand, buried without any reverence below a fallen wall of stones. Left there after your armies slaughtered the people fleeing your persecutions, abandoned to the elements until I came upon the remains!”
Erias' eyes narrowed dangerously. “What blasphemy do you spout, fool? You do know that I could smite you where you stand for barely an ounce of what you just spit out?”
In the back of his mind, Nathaniel noted the low-class speech that the priestess had suddenly adopted in her umbrage. Though he did not act upon the thought, it was clear that this woman was not the high blooded person she portrayed herself as. Underneath the shiny exterior, there was definitely a lead core. Had he been of a more rational mind, he might have tried to exploit that factor - but at best, it barely registered in his conscious mind. His passion had seized him, and the threat had drawn his battle instincts to the surface, his hand grasping the hilt of his sword, preparing to draw the blade in an instant.
“'E's no' righ' in 'is mind,” interjected Bracken, rushing to stand between the two. “'E's been sick, jus' stayin' 'ere 'til his mind comes back.”
Erias hesitated. It was clear she struggled with herself, debating on some course of action. “I have heard of you,” she managed after a moment. Her stance did not relax, but she made no new effort to threaten Nathaniel. “The man who thinks he is a child.”
“I'm not--” started Nathaniel.