Three (The Godslayer Cycle Book 3)

by Ron Glick

  Dart's lighter personality returned, yet she held back a moment longer. “The Witness found this in Surenport. He just... became aware of it. Once we saw it, we knew you would want it for your collection.”

  The girl at last lifted the card for the man to see. “The God Behind the Man,” the girl recited. The artwork showed the same image from The Fake God, the one which had first shown the false God, Avery. But behind him now stood another person, his head lowered, a twinkle of mischievousness in his eye. On the shoulder of the second man's leather vest was a stylized symbol that just about anyone knew readily enough.

  “Ankor,” gasped the Player. “The God behind the fake God is Ankor. Which means...”

  “Which means it was Ankor disguised beside Avery in Levitz,” finished the other demi-God. “That it's been Ankor who has been helping Avery pretend to be a God.”

  “But for what purpose?”

  “Read the story text.”

  The Player's eye went to the words along the bottom edge of the card:

  Oh, isn't this the greatest practical joke there ever was?

  The Player laughed. “It's a joke? The God of Mischief is just playing a joke?”

  “A fairly serious one, it would seem,” suggested Dart. “Do you know how many people all over the kingdom have branded themselves as faithful to the God of Vengeance?”

  The Player had not considered that, but it was true - more and more people walked the streets of just about every town he had moved through in recent months brandishing the former heretic symbol, the inverted horns that Avery had adopted as his own holy symbol. But the Player did not dwell on this - for the full impact of this information finally struck home.

  “You said that whoever was in Levitz helping Avery...”

  “...Was the true author of the Game,” finished Dart. “Because only someone inside the wall of water could have known what transpired there. And there was only one God in Levitz that day.”

  “Ankor.” The Player fell back in his seat, all energy leaving his body. “The author of the Game is the God of Mischief himself.”

  Dart raised a finger. “Now, to be completely fair, we do not know that absolutely. Not yet. We know he was there, but he could have told one of the other Gods. Not likely, but it is a possibility.”

  The Player raised the deck he held to his face, pressing the edge of the cards to the underside of his nose. “No. I think I would know if it were not true. I believe the Game would know the truth of it. I don't feel any disagreement. So it must be true...”

  Dart grinned wickedly. “I would feel better asking him myself, but if you are content, then who am I to complain?”

  The Player took a deep breath. “I thank you. You have indeed kept your promise.” He leaned to the side, retrieving his ever-present satchel. With practiced ease, he slipped the deck of cards within and had the bag across his shoulder in a matter of moments. “And now I shall deliver upon my own. Take me to Surenport. It is time for the Player to try his hand at the spy game...”

  * * *

  Seree rested upon her dais, the deep pillows consisting more of nebulous cloud-like material than anything else. Though the illusion of great comfort was maintained, the end effect was far more luxurious, since she literally floated while she reposed.

  The Goddess was not greatly surprised by the other God's appearance, but she was annoyed. This was her private domain, and she did not like to have her peace and solitude intruded upon without some consideration being given.

  “You should not be here,” said the Goddess of Charm, stretching luxuriously, the meager blouse rising as she did, exposing the underside of her shapely breasts. “And not just because this is my private abode.”

  “And here I thought we had a thing,” said Ankor, leaning suggestively over the reposed body of his host.

  The Goddess rolled her eyes. “Just because we play now and again does not make our relationship a thing, Trickster.”

  “Ah, and here I thought you appreciated my unique... maneuvers.” The God gave up all pretense of leaning and let his body fall into the pillows beside the Goddess. “Ooh, fluffy.”

  “Ankor,” groaned Seree, shifting her body away from the other God. “Why are you here? You've been cast out. If any of the other Gods knew where you were...”

  The God of Mischief rolled onto his back, folding his hands behind her head. “Such lack of respect, that,” he grumbled. “It is true what they say - no good deed goes unpunished. For the first time in my entire existence, I was completely honest with you all. There were no games, no tricks. The Lesser Powers were set to make the largest coup in this world's history. And just like that...” The God tweaked his toes, emulating the sound of snapping fingers. “...they cast me out like so much bath water!”

  “Enuchek is dead, Ankor,” scolded the Goddess. “You assured us that you were only after the Greater Powers. Now Enuchek--”

  “Was the one who betrayed us,” interjected the God, rolling over to face the Goddess. “We were supposed to all be working in secret, but she made an alliance with Belask. Belask!”

  “So you say--”

  “So it was,” insisted the Trickster. “Enuchek showed up with Belask, and she had told Belask everything!”

  “So you killed her.”

  “I did no such thing!”

  “But your Godslayer did.”

  “That wasn't my idea!” cried Ankor. “Galanor showed up leading a lynch mob and Avery stepped out to help me against them - Enuchek could have left, but she started fighting. How was any mortal supposed to know which God was safe to kill and which was not?”

  Ankor sat up, throwing his arms wide in submission. “I had nothing to do with Enuchek's death. I swear.”

  “Then how did you get that?” asked the Goddess, tweaking her face in disgust as she pointed to the twisted scars covering the God's right arm.

  “I got that from Belask,” he confessed. “I did stab her. But only because she was going to kill Avery. With Nathaniel Goodsmith believed to be dead, I couldn't let her do that. And besides, that's what I was supposed to be doing - helping to kill the Greater Powers so we could all ascend.”

  “All except Enuchek, it seems.”

  Ankor threw his head back. “I keep telling you, I had nothing to do with that! She was only there because she had betrayed us all to Belask!”

  Seree considered what her fellow God said. In truth, she did have a special affection for the Trickster. No other God could entertain her the way he did. He was just so... diverse in the things he did with her. Ankor was possibly the most unique lover she had ever had. And that arm... She had to confess to herself if to no one else, she had always had a soft spot for a wounded warrior... And who would ever have thought Ankor would ever go into battle for any reason? The whole concept was just so wickedly... sexy!

  The Goddess tossed her head. “None of that matters anyway,” she said dismissively. “Orlicia escaped your little battle and outed you to the Greater Powers. They now know you have a pet Godslayer and that you were behind the death of the other Gods.”

  “But I wasn't,” defended Ankor. “Well, not all of them. I swear, I had nothing to do with Imery. And I didn't bring any of the others to Oaken Wood. They all just... showed up. On their own.”

  “Do you deny that you attacked Belask?”

  “Well, no...”

  “Or that you had a hand in what happened to Kelvor and Galentine?”

  “No, of course not...”

  “Then what does it matter whether you are responsible for one or seven? You're a part of it, and that makes you an enemy of your own kind.”

  Ankor reached out and took the Goddess' hand in his own. “Not to you. Not to any of the Lesser Powers. You must believe me.”

  At the touch of his hand, the Goddess wilted. She never could say no to the Trickster. Leaning forward, she pulled the God to her body, kissing him passionately as she pressed her nearly naked skin against his chest. Their debate would have to wai
t...

  * * *

  Geoffrey sat at the edge of the fire, meditating as he stared into the flame. He did not exactly see visions when he did this, but it did give his mind the chance to see things beyond what his eyes took in. There was nothing special about fire - some might have seen it as chaotic and without a set form, but the young man found the flames predictable and soothing. One was not surprised to see the dancing light - one should only have been surprised if the flames did not dance as expected.

  “You realize you could go blind doing that.”

  The God's voice came from behind the young man, and he smiled. He had been waiting for his true father to appear for nearly a week now. Ever since he had successfully acquired First, the young man had been awaiting instructions on what his next task would be. And though Malik's visible form was not present, just hearing the God's voice brought great pleasure to his servant.

  “I will be careful,” the young man responded. “And I only do it to calm myself. Once I have a task to perform, I will not have a need at all.”

  “A task? You would have a new task when you have failed in your prior one?”

  Malik's voice resonated disapproval, and it made the young man fearful. He had been so proud of his accomplishment, had been waiting for praise. Instead, could he have somehow failed? It seemed impossible, and yet... Malik could not be wrong...

  “Wh-what have I done to earn your displeasure?” Geoffrey asked, rubbing unconsciously at the nearly healed wounds on his chest. He had not subjected himself to any ritual pain because he had thought he had earned a respite. Now he doubted if he should have been so presumptuous as to presume upon his true father's desires. “I have the sword. I have become the Avatar, just as you commanded...”

  “Have you?” The God's voice rumbled. “Do you feel any different? Can you sense anything new that you could not before?”

  Geoffrey felt a pit form in his stomach. “Malik, forgive me, but I do not know what it is you mean...”

  The air quivered with Malik's displeasure, but the God deigned to answer the young man all the same. “The Avatar is one with the swords. If you had properly attained your sire's status, you would be aware of the other swords, be able to detect them, feel where they were. And yet you sit here, alone by a fire, with no direction in mind whatsoever. Is this how an Avatar would act? Is this how the Chosen would spend his time? Instead of seeking out the blades capable of slaying Gods, you would sit here and take pride in stealing only one?”

  “But...” Geoffrey swallowed, his eyes falling upon where First rested in its sheath beside him. “But I took the sword. My sire, Nathaniel Goodsmith, is dead. I saw him die with my own eyes. How could I not have become the Avatar? I thought... I believed that the mantle would pass to me once I had First...”

  “And there is your gravest mistake,” grumbled the God. “You took it upon yourself to believe in something I did not command. You have made the mistake that so many blasphemers before you have. You assumed your pitiful mortal mind could decide when and how the blessings of the Gods could be bestowed.”

  Geoffrey felt close to being physically ill. The presence of the God was beginning to bear down upon his body, making it hard to even draw breath. He felt crushed under the God's will and his body fell forward, his weak mortal shell being crushed into a position of submission.

  “Please, Malik,” the young man cried, burning tears tracing down his face. “Please, tell me what I must do and I will do it. You know I serve you in all things. Please, I beg of you. Forgive the failings of your one, true servant.”

  The pressure eased back and a strong hand cupped under the young man's arm, lifting him up. Geoffrey looked up to see the now-kind features of his God looking upon him with love and compassion. He had been forgiven, and he knew he would do anything to continue to bask in this God's acceptance.

  “There is only one answer, my loyal Geoffrey,” said the God. “Your sire yet lives. He has defied every tenant of existence and has defrauded the Gods themselves by deceiving us into believing him gone. Yet he has found a new talent, bonded with some new demonic power to deceive us all. He yet lives, and while he lives, the mantle cannot pass as it should.”

  Geoffrey opened his lips to speak, and was momentarily startled by the trickle of blood that entered his mouth. His nose had begun to bleed, yet another bit of proof at how imperfect he was when compared to a God. His form was fallible, mortal, imperfect - while Malik was everything opposite this in a capacity beyond belief. There could be no greater love than a mortal man could give other than to seek to rise to the level of perfection of his God, even knowing as he did so that it was an impossible feat. There was no being greater than a God, and they deserved the worship and adoration of those who were so much their lessers.

  The young man brushed at his nose, wiping away the blood before he spoke. “Tell me where he is, and I will kill him.” The promise was easily made, one he had committed to since he was a child. He had thought himself thwarted once, but now that he knew his purpose still existed, he gladly recommitted himself to its completion.

  “It is as I have said,” said Malik, turning his back upon the young man. “He uses some demonic power to hide. But that is not our concern for now. He will appear again, and when he does, you will be prepared. That is all I can ask of you for now.”

  The God turned to look over his shoulder. “That, and one thing more.” The trace of a smile touched the God's lips. “You must begin the holy duties which that sword compels upon you. There are Gods out there waiting to die, and you now hold the means by which they shall fall. Though you have not yet earned the mantle of Avatar, you nevertheless possess the weapon. And having a sword means you must use the sword.”

  “Of course,” said Geoffrey Goodsmith, pride imbuing his every pore. “I shall at once set off to take the war to these impetuous Gods, these usurpers. The New Order shall rue the day they rose from the muck that spawned them.”

  A wicked smile consumed Malik's face. “Who said anything about the New Order godlings?”

  About the Author

  Ron Glick (born January 20, 1969) is a community activist, and is presently active in several charitable enterprises. He was born in Plainville, KS. After living in various states, he currently lives in Kalispell, MT. He is the author of The Godslayer Cycle, Chaos Rising, the Oz-Wonderland series, and Ron El's Comic Book Trivia, as well as having written a screenplay adaptation of The Wizard In Wonderland. Additionally, he created the Golden Age Preservation Project as a means of making Golden Age comics more accessible to modern audiences. His expose, U.S. Political Prisoner Since 2004, broke him away from his fictional works to shed light upon political corruption in Montana.

  Ron loves contact and welcomes input on his work through his Twitter accounts or through direct contact on this site.

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  For the actual cause of this storm, read Immortal's Discord, the second book in the Chaos Rising series.