Three (The Godslayer Cycle Book 3) (15 page)

“I'll bring the Lord's guard back--”

“An' I'll thank ya fer i' as I claim me own charges 'gainst yew fer cheatin' in my bus'ness.  An' I'll 'ave the 'ole town b'hind me.  Who'll yew 'ave?”

The large man's hand holding desperately onto his cards began to tremble, spasming from squeezing onto them for some kind of measured support.  He held the position for a moment longer, his gaze going around the room, looking for anyone who might have supported his bid.  But Nathaniel knew there was no one in the room who would offer any measure of support to the man.  He was alone in a sea of enemies, a town united around their own.  He had never stood a chance.

Bracken had earned his place in Oaken Wood.  He had come here, built a reputable business and supported his neighbors.  None ever had an ill thing to say against the dwarf, and this stranger who had set upon trying to bully a win from a teenage opponent certainly was not going to be the wedge to drive any of the townsfolk against the tavern's proprietor.  And with a sickened appearance quickly spreading over his porcine features, the foreign player in the room realized it, as well.

But it still did not stop him from making one last effort to oppose the dwarf.  A wicked smile spread across his face as he launched his last defense.  “And what will you do to enforce your petty rule, dwarf?  As you say, we are in the Wildelands.  Your town has no outpost, no town militia.  Would you murder me to take my property?”

At these words, the room was suddenly filled with the sounds of scraping furniture as the half dozen patrons in the room rose at once.  The message was clear:
Bracken does not stand alone.

The portly man swallowed hard, his eyes darting about in panic at the four men and one woman who now stood in their places, looking somberly across the room at him.  Whether he could have bested the surly dwarf may have been of question, but even this man knew he could not overcome an entire town. His bluff called, the man finally withdrew his grip from his cards.

“Would you also take my purse and the clothes from my back as well?” the large man growled.

“Jus' yer cards,” said the dwarf, cocking his head for the door.  “Though if yew'd like ta press the' ma'er more, we ken always take those, 's well.”

The large man tugged at his shirt, as though he were pulling himself together after a brawl.  He gave one more look about the room, apparently looking for any break in the solidarity surrounding him. Finding none, he threw his head back and marched for the exit.

At first, it looked as though the he intended to say no more, but as he reached the door, the robust man turned one last time and called, “I will be back for my property.”  He did not wait for a response, hastening out the door into the lengthening shadows of late day.

Bracken wasted not a moment in turning and offering the young man a hand up.  He had remained upon the ground where Bracken had shoved him, too stunned by the scene to do anything more.  “Ya alrigh', young Nat'anyel?”

The teen blushed and took the dwarf's offered hand.  “I didn't cheat, Bracken,” he said as he pulled himself erect.  “It was a fair win.”

Bracken slapped the young man on the back heartily.  “I know, la'.  I know.”  The dwarf's hand rested on the young man's shoulder as he guided him back to where Nathaniel and Maribel stood. “Nat'anyel, may I int'rduce ya to yer namesake, Nate.”  At this, the dwarf gave the young man a light push, sending him forward alone to face the elder Nathaniel.

An odd sense of anamnesis overcame the elder man.  He had not at first remembered being introduced to himself - the memory of the day had largely been of the porcine man who had threatened him for losing the game - but now that he was looking down at his younger self, he did remember, if in a somewhat dissociated way.  He remembered looking up at himself, taking his own hand - which at the time he had no way of knowing was his own - and shaking it. Remembered saying in time with the man...

“Well met,” the two Nathaniel's said together, the younger from politeness, the elder saying the words from recall.

“Nate has some trouble with his memory,” explained Maribel.  “I found him at the edge of town, overcome with some strange malady.  I healed him, but his memory...”  The woman shrugged, indicating she did not really have an answer as for what was wrong with the elder Nathaniel.  Then her face grew thoughtful.  “He does seem to know you though, Nathan.  Have you met him before, by chance?”

The younger Nathaniel shook his head.  “Sorry, Mother.  I have never seen him before.”

“No, he wouldn't know me,” offered the elder version.  “Though you could say that I know him very well.” 

It was an incredibly awkward feeling Nathaniel had towards his younger self.  On one hand, there was a distinct pleasure in seeing his younger self, the innocent young man who had suffered nothing worse than a spring fever in his entire life.  His mother had sheltered him, provided for him, never having the young man want for anything.  There had never been any real conflict in the young man's life.  In fact, the porcine man's display had been the greatest threat the young man had faced in his entire life - and Bracken had fought that battle for him. 

On the other hand though, Nathaniel was looking back at a point in his life where he could actually change
what this young man
did
experience.  Nathaniel realized that he had come back to a point before the priestess had arrived, before his mother had been assailed, before the greatest tragedy this young man had yet experienced would come to pass.  It was within his power to save his mother's life - and shelter his younger self from the tragedy altogether.

The Eternal had warned him that the past could not be changed, that Fate would prevent it.  But Nathaniel could not accept that.  No matter what happened, this opportunity could not be passed by. He was here - and his mother was here.  And no matter what happened, no matter
what
the Eternal might believe, the chance to change his own future for the better was now in Nathaniel's own hands.  And this was not an opportunity the man out of time would ever have again.

Nathaniel reflexively reached for the hilt of his sword, assuring himself that his God-crafted weapon still rested between his shoulders. 

One way or another, Nathaniel would save Maribel Goodsmith's life, the Eternal's predictions be damned...

*     *     *

Erias shifted her weight in the saddle.  She
so
disliked traveling by horse.  It was much easier when she could do so by carriage.  But her present mission for the church required that she journey into the Wildelands, and no horse-drawn carriage would ever have made it through some of the narrow passes where she wished to go.

Zantel's church was perhaps the greatest in all the land, if for no other reason than the God of Merchants controlled the very coin that so many of the other Gods' faithful sought to coax from their faithful.  Zantel's church was actually a bank in and of itself, so it controlled fabulous amounts of wealth - even that which had not been clearly contributed to the church's purpose.  With such monumental resources at their disposal, how could they not be the greatest faith in all the land?  Even if one did not openly claim to be the faithful of Zantel, commerce was its own religion that everyone in the civilized world practiced - and the God of Merchants oversaw all commerce.

This had been the most appealing aspect of Zantel's faith to Erias when she was a young girl - the idea that priests of Zantel never wanted for anything.  They always had money, and they never had to do any menial chores to obtain it.  Erias' mother, Gerelda, had been a barmaid, her father some traveling vagabond who had not stayed long enough to see his own child take her first breath.  By contrast, the church was paradise on Na'Ril.

Erias had been raised poor, often going hungry if her mother's patrons had not seen fit to offer her any gratuities for her service.  Her employer, the wretched innkeep who owned her mother's work deed, was a miser.  Sometimes he would pay Erias' mother, other times he would find some fault or another to penalize the woman with as an excuse not to.  Had Gerelda been required to pay for her lodging, she would never have been able to afford it - she barely fed her daughter.

Gerelda had been a good mother in every way she could.  She had never been overly abusive with young Erias, and more often than not, she would go without food herself so that Erias could eat.  But the sheer poverty in which the two were forced to live left young Erias bitter and resentful.  And it had made her ripe for being culled by the church.

When a priest of Zantel had come into the inn where her mother worked, Erias had been spellbound. When the priest learned of Gerelda's plight and that of her daughter, he offered the innkeep a gold pence for the barmaid's child.  Gerelda had refused, but her employer sold the child all the same.  And it would be the last day Erias would ever see her mother.  Not that the child protested much past being taken from her mother's presence that first day.

Erias had not missed her life with her mother for long.  That evening, she had gone to sleep clean and with a full belly.  And never a day after did she go hungry nor want for any comfort.  She readily embraced her new life and never once regretted her separation from the barmaid, Gerelda.

Now in her twenty-third year, the woman was a rising power within the church.  Her commitment to spreading her God's faith was unparalleled, and the number of those she converted to Zantel's faith was a marvel.  Her beauty was a large factor, certainly, since more merchants and aspiring business people were men than women, but there was also a compelling presence that Erias had about her that could inspire followers, even if she had worn a mask. 

People called her charismatic; Erias felt that the divine moved through her.  Whichever was true, she was seen as a rising power within the church, and few could claim her stature.

Her only genuine failing, if it could be seen as one, was her rigidity in her beliefs.  More than once, she had been chastised for her heavy-handed approach to the few who
did
resist her charms.  To her mind, none had a right to refuse Zantel's blessing, and more than once, she had ordered a man beaten in the street for daring to challenge her whims.  In her short time, she had even committed ten souls to being branded as heretics, casting them forever from the blessings of church and society.

This fault had earned the young woman a reputation for being merciless.  To Erias, it was a sign of her devotion.  And anyone who could not see that deserved whatever punishment she could envision.

Some might have thought Erias to have ambitions for leadership within the church.  But this was simply not true.  Erias gained more pleasure out of her power over the people than she ever could have within the hierarchy of Zantel's church.

Of course, with her rising influence, there had also been the rising need for Erias to carry Zantel's good works to the faithless reaches of the land.  As unbelievable a concept as it seemed to her, there were still regions of the world who had not yet accepted Zantel's graces - and she would gladly accept any challenge to prove that her life's devotion was the greatest in all the land.

So when her patriarch had come to her with a mission to serve as witness to the communities of the Wildelands, she had leapt at the opportunity.  Specifically, she was called upon for a three year missionary service to the borders of the Eastern March, as far removed as one could imagine from the center of faith.  But the challenge had excited the devout priestess, and she had zealously accepted the mission. 

Now though, as she road sidesaddle upon this gentle mare as she cantered along the wilderness trail, the young woman had begun to wonder whether the trip was worth the gain.  After all, where were the benefits of being a priestess if one did not have the people around her on the road to her destination?

So when the obese man came huffing along the trail that evening towards dusk, Erias had perked up.  Here was a man upon whom she could bear witness, who she could share the blessings of Zantel with.  Of course, she had no way of knowing that he brought instead an even greater opportunity.

“Blessings be to you, priestess,” had called the man, stopping in his forward movement, bending over to catch his breath. 

“May Zantel offer his blessings to you, good sir,” responded the priestess.

The man's face turned up at her words, a spark in his eye that others might have seen as cunning, but which Erias chose to see as a sign of devout pleasure.  “Oh priestess, you are divinely sent.  For I am a loyal man of Zantel, a merchant who has been so unjustly robbed.”

Erias felt her spine go rigid.  “Robbed, you say?  Who would commit such a heinous act upon the faithful of Zantel?”

The porcine man smiled at this, perhaps a little more than would have represented an honest appearance.  But again, Erias chose to see devotion where others might have seen something more duplicitous. 

“I am Ferdinand Lurion, Priestess.  And I bring you warning, for there is a town full of thieves barely a half-day's travel behind me.  Avoid the fork to the north, for it will lead you to a town known as Oaken Wood.  There I sought to trade my wares and bring some luxuries to such simple folk, only to have a card shark rob me of my property and send me on my way as you see me now.”  The man spread his arms grandiosely.  “Had I argued, they would surely have murdered me.”