Three (The Godslayer Cycle Book 3)

by Ron Glick

  “Zantel is wise beyond our comprehension and he told me who and what this man truly was. He is not simply a liar, or a cheater, or a blasphemer. Oh no. He is far, far worse.” The woman paused for effect, plainly gauging the level of anticipation in the crowd. “He is a false prophet!” Erias threw her arms to the skies as though the declaration represented some kind of rapture, lifting and casting aside some invisible shackle from the people.

  Again, the priestess had stirred the crowd. Gasps were replaced with cries of disbelief and outrage. Angry murmurs began to filter to Nathaniel's ears and he began to fear that he had misjudged the woman's intent. She was not simply trying to draw them to her side, to make them believe him some form of monstrous person in their midst deserving of being branded and cast out. No, she was not trying to convert these people - she was trying to incite them into rage. She was actively trying to raise a mob to do her bidding for her...

  Knowing this, the woman's next words came as less of a surprise to the man. “Zantel made clear to me that this man does not deserve the honor of being branded as a heretic and thrown out to wander without home nor shelter. No, this man cannot be permitted to continue in this life, even as an outcast. For crimes far more grievous than any that could be committed against the Gods, this man's punishment can only be one thing.” Again, she paused for effect. “Death!”

  Calls of support rose from the crowd, angry shouts for Nathaniel's head. One person called for him to be rent limb from limb. The priestess permitted the crowd to call out for nearly a minute before she raised her hand, taking on the false pose of someone being a lone voice of calm amidst the irrationality of the masses.

  “Please, good people,” she called. “This man's death has been divinely sanctioned and it must fall upon me to first pass sentence before his life may be sacrificed.” From somewhere on her person, Erias produced a twisted dagger, raising it high over her head. “Only by abandoning the old ways can this town reap its true prosperity. Oaken Wood can be a great city, but only if it casts out false prophets, only if you embrace fully the will of the Gods!”

  In the middle of the woman's speech, murmurs had begun from within the crowd, voices of uncertainty mixed with the angry retorts which the priestess had inspired. Nathaniel began seeing people pause in their outrage and turn uncertainly behind them, quickly falling silent as they did so. Many took a step back, as though doing so would move them away from whatever offense they had just been caught at.

  The crowd's shift did not escape Erias' attention either, who lowered her dagger to gaze curiously into the crowd, seeking out what had disrupted her grand performance.

  “Maribel,” came a voice from somewhere in the crowd, the name echoed from several places. Nathaniel's heart froze in an instant as he realized what was happening. As more voices echoed his mother's name, he knew what he was witnessing - the confrontation that would end with his mother's death.

  The crowd parted and the local priestess of Lendus stepped through the parted crowd. Many people lowered their heads in shame and reverence, the word, “Priestess,” and “Lendus” now echoing alongside the woman's name in the murmurs of the crowd. Maribel appeared as she always did, in the simplest of clothing and in as unassuming a manner as she could manage. Only the small satchel tucked into her waist bore any difference to Nathaniel's eyes.

  “Another example of a false prophet in your midst,” cried Erias, stabbing her dagger directly in Maribel's direction. “It was she who brought this false prophet into your midst. This woman has kept the world's wealth from you for years, and now you would revere her? Honor her? Are you so blind as to not see that the reason you have never prospered was because you sheltered her kind in your midst?”

  Maribel smiled softly. “I have never taken a single coin from these good people,” she said, spreading her arms wide. “Yet you demand all they can give. It would seem that of the two Gods at issue, Zantel is more likely to impoverish these good people than anything I could do.”

  Nathaniel recalled the story from his youth, how he had been told of his mother echoing these precise words. The only thing missing from the story had been his own presence. How could it be that he had not realized that someone else had been at risk of harm, that this had been the reason his mother had even spoken that day, that she had stepped forth to protect a stranger in their midst - a stranger who had, in fact, been himself! He could not help asking himself, would she have said anything if he had not insisted upon trying to convince her of who he was? But of course he knew the answer - his mother would never have let an innocent come to harm...

  Erias' face grew livid, turning crimson with her own rage. “People of Oaken Wood,” she said, her face twitching visibly, “you have one chance. You have one chance to cleanse this town of the corruption of the Old Gods. If you do not, if you do not act now, you will face the wrath of Zantel. Not only will his prosperity be denied you from this day forth, but you will be visited by a pestilence of the like you could never begin to comprehend!”

  Silence fell as Maribel calmly stood at the edge of the crowd. A tension hung in the air between the women, one standing alone in an eye of calm, the other seeking to press down the calm with her will alone.

  The rock came out of nowhere, striking Maribel sharply in the temple. Even casting his eyes about desperately, knowing what was coming, Nathaniel could not see who had thrown it. But it sailed across the space between Maribel and the crowd with a directness that left no room for doubt - it had been aimed at his mother.

  Nathaniel felt his throat constrict and his chest seized up, unable to draw a breath to scream. He watched helplessly as his mother's hand flew to the point of impact, her head bowing, her eyes closing. An instant later, her legs failed her and she fell into a seated position. Her eyes were still closed when the second rock struck the back of her head and she keeled forward onto her face.

  After this, the stoning became a barrage. Rocks, sticks and other debris were flung at the fallen woman from all directions. All the while, Nathaniel's eyes burned with tears as his soundless cries creaked out of his throat. He found himself standing, felt rough hands upon his shoulders trying to pull him back.

  Nathaniel turned to face his tormentor and cracked his forehead against the man's face. His warden stumbled back, clutching at his face, blood spewing from between his fingers. Strength flooded his body and he tore at his bonds, shredding the heavy course ropes that had bound him. He found one of his hands on his guard's neck, felt the crunch of bone as he crushed the man's larynx. The bully's hands left his face to clutch at his throat, choking and spitting blood.

  Another body came from behind Nathaniel, but the former captive did not even need to turn. His other hand reached out, clutching at the cloth of his assailant's shirt. With barely a thought, he twisted around, wrapping his arm about the man's neck. With a violent wrench, Nathaniel forced the man's head from his shoulders, severing the man's spine. He did not even hesitate as he dropped the lifeless body to the ground.

  No rationality existed in Nathaniel's mind, only cold, icy rage. He was a beast acting on instinct, and it was this basic drive which compelled him to lash out at anyone who came near him. Several others tried to subdue him, but none lasted more than a moment against his incomprehensible strength.

  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 turne
d 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 w
ith 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.