One (The Godslayer Cycle Book 1) (31 page)

“
As a guess,” suggested Naris, “I would say that Goodsmith's powerful desire to protect his progeny has tapped greater reserves than we had intended.”

Airek mused.  “We had always designed the Avatar power to grow over time, so as not to overwhelm its recipient.  It seems we failed to account for the efforts of strong emotions when we created the matrix.  Mortals have ever been unpredictable.

“If the lad can teleport, albeit crudely, with no effort to replace the air he leaves vacant, in a paternal desire to protect his child, what will he be capable of when enraged?”

None of the Gods had a ready answer for that.

* * *

Nathaniel was one moment standing with the Gods, and was the next standing in the middle of the street in front of Wyrm Fang's Tavern.  Or, at least, what had once
been
the Wyrm Fang's Tavern.  Now, the two story building had collapsed in on itself, flames rising high in the center where the roof had once been.

Vaguely, Nathaniel was aware of a sharp pressure on his ears and distant rumblings, as though thunder had just peeled in the distance.

The scene surrounding the ruined tavern was one of chaos.  Some people were making an effort to form a water chain to the nearest well, but most were running and shouting as loud as they could to be heard.  And the loudest of all was Bracken himself, somewhere out of sight, bellowing at bystanders to either stand aside or lend a hand.

Nathaniel had no idea how he had come to be there other than one of the Gods must have sent him here.  A rather abrupt method, for sure, but it was effective.  He was exactly where he had wanted to be at that moment.

Gritting his teeth in resolve, he set out to follow the sound of Bracken's voice.  It was not difficult considering the dwarf never seemed to tire of talking at the best of times, especially when he had something to complain about.  And what else in the world could he have more cause to grouse over than the destruction of his livelihood?

When Bracken first saw Nathaniel emerge from the crowd, even the dwarf's embellishments took pause though.  “Nate!  By the Abyss, wha' 'as happened to ya?  Ya look like death had come a callin'.  An' is that blood I be seein'?  Please, Nate, this nigh' canna get worse.  Tell me ya're a'right?”

Nathaniel swallowed before he answered.  “Mari's dead, Bracken.  They came for me and they...  killed her in my stead.”

Bracken's eyes grew wide, forgetting entirely the inferno around him.  “Geoffrey.  They came fer Geoffrey, Nate.  They came an' took yer son, too!”

“I know, Bracken.  I know,” was all Nathaniel could think to say.

“
I shoulda done a bet'r job protectin' the lad, Nate.  I be sorry.  Truly I be.  Ya sen' him ta me, and I let ya down...”

“
No, you could never do that.  And we'll get him back.  I swear, we'll get him back!”

The dwarf screwed up his face.  “By the Gods, we will indeed!  Those brig'nds may 'ave caugh' me ill prepared this time, but next...  They'll no' be so fortunate!”  The dwarf spit into the fire, some twenty feet away – an impressive feat by any measure.  “A murder an' a kidnappin'.  Foul villains these.  But we'll find 'em an' set a' leas' one wrong aright!”

“I need to know something first,” Nathaniel scowled.  “Where is Brea, the priestess of Imery?”

Bracken raised an eyebrow.  “Ya think tha' li'l witch be involved?”

“I do.  The raiders at my home were Imery's men.  They were the same ones who destroyed your tavern and took Geoffrey.  Mighty big coincidence that she was at my place yesterday morning, don't you think?”

“
I would na take tha' wager if my beard were at stake!”  Bracken scowled anew.  “An' would'n you know it, the witch lef' town jus' this mornin'!”

“
Then I know what I first have to do.  I need to follow wherever she went if I am to ever have hope of learning where her men took Geoffrey.”

“
Not alone, Nate.  I've a stake in this 's well!  They burned my home an' bus'ness ta the groun', tarnished my honor an' all 'round made intoll'rable pests of themselves!  An' besides, ya know the boy is like a nephew ta me!”

Nathaniel smirked, but quickly turned serious.  “I won't risk anyone else, Bracken.  I've already lost Mari and Geoffrey...”

“Stop the shower, weepin' wonder,” growled the dwarf.  “If ya don' take me 'long, I'll trek out on my own.  I think we two together would be a stronger force ta recon with than either of us alone, b'sides.”

Nathaniel could tell Bracken was being kind in his own way.  The dwarf had no doubt of his own strength in a fight; he was more concerned over the simple part-time farm boy.

Nathaniel sighed, acknowledging it as a losing argument. “Very well.  We start at dawn.  We can spend the night asking around to find out which direction she left in.”

“
Oh, tha's an easy one,” grinned the dwarf.  “She left behin' a route by which messages coul' be sent wit' me.  She tol' me 'erself where she was a'headed:  Scollhaven.”

Malik walked through the halls of his home.  The God and Goddess of War and Peace had chosen the edification of a castle to fit his particular niche in the Pantheon's domain.  As with any God, his home was little more than what the perceptions of its master dictated.  Yet unlike his fellow Gods, Malik did not choose to dwell in luxury nor elegance.  Stone and mortar imagery much more suited his taste; it paralleled the harsh, unyielding patterns of his spheres of influence, he believed.

In contrast however, the halls of the castle were as twisted as the duality that Peace and War represented.  More than one mortal philosopher had declared Malik the patron of insanity, as his duality had always been the most diverse amongst the Pantheon.  Life and Death were part of the same pattern, but War and Peace could not coexist.  And yet, they not only had to coexist within Malik, but had to achieve balance there, as well.  Not an easy task, even for a God.

At least, this was how Malik saw it.  His was the hardest, most challenging role to be played by any one God.  Worse still, no other God ever acknowledged the difficulties that he uniquely faced.  All considered their spheres challenging and rewarding, while Malik considered his own near unmanageable and beyond frustrating.  Not that he was anything but master of his dominion, but he constantly found a need to act outside the Pantheon's dictates to assure the equality that was his birthright.

That was what had compelled him to create the swords in the first place.  The other Gods had found the nine – cast in their number – yet Dariel had upset his plans by twisting the swords to his own purpose.  Would that he could have wielded one of the Godslayers when he had struck down his brother to halt the prophecy!  Still, after all of that, none of the others were willing to acknowledge the imperative for which the swords had been initially created.

Only Malik had possessed the foresight to predict the Pantheon's decline.  Only he had devised a way to work around the covenants to strike back at the upstart Godlings that threatened their very existence.  And only the God of War and Peace could have constructed symbols embodying both aspects of his being that could be empowered by the mortals themselves rather than by the Gods.  Only a mortal could take direct opposition against the New Order, and so he had devised a means by which to make them powerful enough to do so.  Yet the other Pantheon members had completely subverted his plans!  First with Dariel stealing the swords, and then with the Pantheon as a whole creating an Avatar in order to turn the prophecy to their ends.  Preposterous!

Whereas before, Malik could have strategically placed the swords and had some influence over their use, even if he could not directly sense them once within the mortal realm, now the swords had been cast to chance, allowing whomever found a sword to become something in its use that he or she would otherwise not be.  And without any kind of purpose or direction, of course!

At best, the swords were now instruments of chaos, wrecking random spats of disorder and uproar, perhaps – but as weapons against the New Order?  There would be a better chance of destroying the Godlings with pebbles!  Certainly, the swords could
eventually
inflict mortalities within the ranks of the New Order, but they could just as easily now slay one of his brethren.  Or even he himself!

Malik clenched his fist in frustration.  Why were they all so blind?  Was it not bad enough that they refused to act on their own, but did they always have to tie his hands, as well?  How could they not see that what he did was for the benefit of all?  At least when the Father had lived, there was one voice to unite the divisive factions.  Now with
equal
say amongst the members of the Pantheon, important decisions were too often overruled by his short-sighted siblings!

When the Father had been slain, his name had been forever banned from being spoken again lest his memory should resurrect him.  Yet even then, when he had aided in that coup, he had done so with the belief that one of the children would be chosen to assume the mantel of leadership.  However, as had so often been the case, his will had been overruled and a more
democratic
order had been established.  That he had coveted that position for himself – an aspiration denied him by the shallow perceptions of his brethren – mattered little in the overall scheme of things, of course.  Or so Malik told himself.

In the end, Malik had calmed his anger and chosen more obtuse ways to gain his way.  And the single most successful way had proven to be secrecy.  So long as he acted
before
the Pantheon could overrule him, the rest could do little but complain after the fact.

The plot with the swords though had been interrupted in only mid-stroke.  Malik had only been able to create the swords, not dispense them.  Their discovery before they could be placed within the mortal realms was a near catastrophe.  That particular plan had had a flaw he had never attempted before though – and he had convinced himself that it was this diversion from his normal tactics that had been his downfall.  But in order to accomplish the creation of the swords, he had needed an accomplice.  So he had wooed his Brother-Sister, Charith, into being his cohort.  Charith had proven far more receptive to the idea once he had explained the premise, since the God and Goddess of Death and Life could not deny the signs; There existed a predisposition that the Pantheon would fall if something was not done.  Yet acting between two had made the plot more accessible, and somehow Airek had discovered it.

Self-righteous moron!
Malik cursed.  Of all the Gods, Airek had always been the most charismatic and influential.  In most circumstances, if Airek had supported you in Pantheon decisions, the matter would succeed.  If he opposed you, it was sure to fail.  The Panthoen may not have had an official overlord, but Airek was as close to a guiding hand as the body of Gods could have without one.

Still, not
everything
about the plot had been exposed.  And Charith had kept her silence on the parts none of the others knew.  Yet it had taken promises and commitments to secure that silence.  Promises, at least one of which, Malik was gravely regretting.

At last, Malik arrived at his destination.  The maze that was his castle was more than just style for Malik.  It also served as one of his greater measures of security.  Though any God could teleport into any physical aspect of his home, several locations could only be reached by walking the maze in a certain pattern.  And only Malik knew the need to walk the maze, and the order in which it was necessary to move.

These special locations existed in a quasi-state, partly in the celestial domain and partly within the mortal realm.  Being an immaterial plane that only existed in one plane or the other under special circumstances, these chambers were inaccessible to any other God unless in the accompaniment of Malik himself.  Only the will of a God could join different planes of reality into a semblance of existence that was both and yet neither of the two planes.  Malik could not help but commend himself for being the only God to have thought to do it, much less devise a use for these pocket spaces.

The night his plot had been discovered, he had brought the nine swords out of such a space to begin locating appropriate candidates.  Airek's summons had distracted him.  Not knowing the necessity of security for the brief time he would be within the Pavilion for whatever matter Airek had wished to raise, he had left them outside of its protection.  And Dariel had seized upon his carelessness to steal the swords for his own scheme.  How things could have been different if he had only retained a facet of his consciousness here to dispatch the swords back to their secure location as his other self had attended the summons...

However, what only he and Charith had known was that the nine swords had been progenies of one master template.  Malik and Charith had not begun with nine – they had begun with one.  And once they had proven the task could be done, had forged nine more from the mold of the first so that they would each be equal in their creation.  Yet the extra sword, the tenth and the first – had never been removed from its safehaven, and had gone undiscovered by Dariel when he had stolen the other nine!

Charith had wanted to reveal the existence of the tenth blade once the Pantheon had ruled upon forbidding the creation of other such devices.  Malik, as always, saw the error in revealing what could prove to be a method of overcoming the other nine.  After all, if a mortal could wield one of the nine against a member of the Pantheon, Malik had reasoned, what other defense could there be other than another such sword?  Yet the Pantheon would surely order the sword destroyed if it were discovered, and this Malik could not allow to happen.

The price of Charith's confidence though had placed the tenth sword out of Malik's control altogether.  He had finally agreed with Charith to gift the sword to the Avatar once he or she had taken up their role in the prophecy. 
A mortal,
Charith had argued,
could not be expected to overcome even a single sword without help.  This extra blade could make the difference between whether the Avatar we create is the one chosen by prophecy or another.

So Malik had reluctantly agreed.  At least at the time, he had believed the Avatar would end up being one of their faithful, devoted to their cause, capable of being entrusted with this sword, manipulated as necessary.  Instead, the Avatar was the upstart Goodsmith, who fought the Gods' will at every turn!  And this was the man he had agreed to relinquish the blade to!  Almost better to turn it over to the new Avatar and try to get her to turn upon her own Goddess! 
She would probably be the easier of the two to convert,
he thought. 
At least she knows respect for the divine already!

Yet Nathaniel Goodsmith was
their
Avatar, for good or ill.  And now that the man had agreed to at least take up the swords, Malik had to honor his commitment to Charith.  The alternative was to have Charith reveal the sword's existence to the rest of the Pantheon and stand by helplessly as they destroyed it.

Malik felt the shift of reality as he stepped into the nether region.  For all intents and purposes, it was a featureless white room with only a single item within: a pure white pedestal at its center.  Since it was at least in part of his own domain, he could have willed it to appear as anything, but he had learned early on that too much will exerted on one of these spaces would cause it to collapse, destroying anything within its confines save the God himself.  The destruction would not have been immediate, but eventually he would have returned to find the space vanished and the sword along with it had he tried.  And so, he left its appearance as it was when formed, save for the necessary feature at its center.

The sword rested upon the pedestal, complete with its leather scabbard.  A casual observer would have thought the blade identical in every way to the other nine, but he would have seen his error once he had taken note of the etchings upon the leather, the ones that matched identically the etchings upon the blade within.  The largest portion of the runic script was identical to the other nine, for they were the enchantments placed upon the blade by Charith and himself.  However, there would be script upon the other blades that would not match the additional script upon this one.

Malik, of course, recognized the differences immediately, for this blade had not been enchanted by Dariel and would not have the scripts his Brother-Sister God and Goddess had placed upon the other nine.  The additional script upon this blade had been his own, magics worked into the blade after the fact, designed to link this blade to the other nine, but not to make it subject to the prophecy.  Its power would remain largely dormant, since Malik had no intention of giving the power to set the sword's purpose to Goodsmith; only its indestructible qualities would be dominant.  Only when all other nine of the swords had been activated would the master blade manifest its power.

By that time, if Goodsmith were successful, after retrieving any of the other swords, he would no longer need this one.  Malik could then retrieve the blade at his leisure, even perhaps bring Goodsmith here so that Malik could perceive the blade again, and remove the enchantments that made it undetectable within the mortal realm.  Goodsmith would have ample protection once he had retrieved one or perhaps two of the other swords, and Malik's oath to Charith would have been honored.  And then Malik would have the protection he needed should any of the other swords be directed against him.  Or against the Pantheon, he added as an afterthought.

Of course, there was the possibility that Goodsmith would still fail and that this new Avatar would fulfill Dariel's prophecy.  If that were to happen, his handing this extra blade into Goodsmith's care was only adding fuel to the fire.  It would be another weapon against him instead of one in his defense.  As if nine were not enough...

Malik hefted the blade easily and marveled anew at his own handiwork.  If only it were not necessary to send
this
one off into potential oblivion.  How he would enjoy strapping the sword upon himself, just to see the others' reactions.  And if they wanted the sword to destroy, would they dare to take it?

No,
cursed Malik. 
As much as I resent the others, I have no desire to remove any of them.
  And removal it would need to be if Malik intended to keep the sword against the Pantheon's verdict.  He would be forced to slay his fellow Gods.  Likely, he would end up a sole God, since none of the others could truly abide his possession of a slayer of Gods.  Though that idea did possess a certain appeal...