Three (The Godslayer Cycle Book 3) (4 page)

“That might change soon,” mused the stranger, flipping a card up for the two others to see.  “Are you aware of the Conclave?”

Dart reached out and took the card.  An image of several shadowed figures stood around a glowing circle, the shadows merging to make it impossible to tell how many were actually supposed to be present.  The game text stated, “Your opponent plays with his hand revealed.”  But it was the story text that made Dart shiver: “The children are coming together.  Woe be the fate of the Gods.”

“I knew of it,” said the Witness.  “But it is not the first time our kind has come together to seek revenge.  This Conclave will fall apart just as all the other unions have in the past.  None of us can reach the Gods, and so our nature will tear apart this group before anything can be accomplished.”

“Is that something you have seen, Witness?” asked the other man.

“No,” admitted the Witness.  “It is simply a belief based upon what I
have
seen.”

Dart placed the card face down upon the table.  “We're not part of any Conclave, Pl---”  The girl caught herself, blanching.  “Sorry, I know you don't like that name.  What should we call you?”

The stranger laughed.  “Your information is a little out of date.  I know what you all call me, and I have come to accept it.  I may only have a handful of decades on this plane of existence to draw on, but I'm beginning to gain some of your wisdom in letting go of my mortal life.  Go ahead and call me what I am.  I may have been born Laris Montise, but I am as our kind calls me.  I am the Player, and that is good enough for me.”

Dart bowed her head in acknowledgment.  “Very well, Player.  As I say, we are not part of the Conclave.  We are here on another matter.”

The Player began to side shuffle the cards in his hands as he talked.  “I may not be the Witness, but I do know something of what happened with you two.  I know there was a great gathering of military around a town wiped from the world, a town that returned after you two were involved.  I know you two were at the center of it, but I have not yet found the cards which tell the whole story.”

“Do your cards tell you that the Godslayer has returned?” asked Dart abruptly.

The Player's hands fumbled the cards, the deck spilling out across the table.  He quickly moved to gather his cards back to him, his face noticeably paled - but whether at the question or his own fumbling, it was impossible to tell.  “The Godslayer is a legend.  There's no proof he ever existed.  How could a fable return?”

“Have you heard of the new God of Vengeance, Avery?” pressed Dart.

The Player stopped his collecting of the spilled cards for a moment to look up at the girl.  “Some,” he admitted, turning his attention once more to retrieving the last few cards.  “He's supposed to be running around with a sword that not everyone can see, laying claim to being a descendant of the Old Gods.”

Dart leaned across the table, placing her hand atop the Player's as he reached for one of the last two displaced cards.  “We've seen one of the swords.  The Gods are the ones who can't see them.”

The Player's eyes flew wide and his face grew paler still.  His gaze flirted to the cards in his other hand, then back to Dart.  Some kind of comprehension passed over his features before he tried to pull back his passive expression.  “If what you say is true, it is proof that the Game truly is made by one of the Gods.”

“How so?” asked the girl, releasing her hold on the Player.

“Because if only the Gods cannot see this sword of Avery's--”

“There's more than one,” interrupted Dart.

The Player began again.  “If only the Gods cannot see these
swords
, then it explains why the Game does not reflect all of what you say.  Because there is no Godslayer card, nor is there a single card with these swords on them.  Only if these powers were invisible to the Gods could they be absent from the Game.”

“But there is a card of Avery?” asked the girl.

The Player nodded.  Reaching beneath the table, he pulled up a leather satchel.  The man reached inside the pack and pulled forth several wooden boxes until he found the one he had been looking for. Setting it aside, he returned the others to the bag before he pulled the item he had searched for before him.  Reverently, the Player lifted the lid of the box and leafed through the container's contents for several moments.  Finally, he selected a handful of items, then once more closed the box.  On the smooth lid of the box, the Player laid three cards.  One was titled,
The Fake God
, the second,
Heresy Unbound
, and the third,
The Doomed Sailor
.  

“
The Doomed Sailor
I just acquired a few days ago.  It's a new one.  The other two, I came across together weeks ago.  The first one is about your Avery, the second about the people who are now declaring themselves to his religion. 
The Doomed Sailor
is about Gravin, who wiped Levitz from the world only to have his work undone.  There are others I have seen but don't have yet.  But these are big ones.”

“That is not what happened,” said the Witness.  “Gravin held one of the swords.  He called it
Two
. He raised a great wall of water around the town.  We were there when it happened.  It was Avery who defeated Gravin and took his sword, which is what brought down the wall of water.  But none of this is what is the most important event we witnessed.”

“Which is?” asked the Player, now visibly intrigued.

“There was a God with him,” blurted out Dart.  “A
real
God.  One of the New Order, if I were to guess.  But the
false
God has a
real
God helping him!”

“No, not helping,” corrected the Witness.  “But this God is certainly
with
Avery.  What Avery did, he did with no help from the God himself.”

“A God helping a mortal pretend to be a God?”  The Player's voice showed his doubt.  “That goes against everything we know of the Gods.  They rely on faith to empower themselves.  Why would any God help a man pretend to be a God?  Even if it was only minuscule, it would still take faith away from the true Gods, would it not?”

“I don't know,” admitted Dart.  “Neither of us do.  It's part of what happened which makes no sense. Which is why we came to you in the first place.  No one else in all the world is tied closer to the Game than you are, and we hoped you would have answers we did not.”

The Player looked between the pair, then about the room at the others who paid silent attention to their conversation.  “So what is it that you will not speak of?  There's something more, I can tell.  I have played against too many players who try to bluff to not recognize the signs.”

Dart looked to the Witness, who nodded in response.  Looking back at the Player, Dart looked deeply into his eyes before speaking.  “Has the Game mentioned any dead Gods?”

The Player could not hide his shock.  “
Dead
Gods?”  He then recovered his poise.  “Not that I have seen myself.  But there is something I have heard
rumor
of.  But the world is full of rumors of cards that have never existed.  I never give credence to anything I have not seen nor played against myself.”

The Player fell silent.  Dart's blank stare from across the table compelled him to continue however. “Look, it is like I said.  It's only a rumor.  Of a card - one card - called The Vanquished.  Supposed to be more powerful than anything anyone has ever seen.  I don't know much more about it than this: it's supposed to have story text about the defeat of New Order Gods.  Two of them, though I don't know which ones.”

“Galentine and Kelvor,” supplied Dart.  “The Gods of Honor and Justice.”

“And you know this...?”  asked the Player. 

“It happened in Levitz,” answered the Witness.  “They were killed by the one called Avery and this Godslayer that you say is only a fable.”

The Player sat back soundly.  “Dead Gods...” he muttered.  “How is that even possible?”

“The swords,” responded Dart.  “The swords can kill Gods.”

The Player's eyes went wide.  “Do you know what this means?  There are ways to kill the Gods!  Do you know how much the Conclave would pay for this kind of thing?”

The Witness scowled.  “We are not here to make money.”

“
You're
not in this to make money,” corrected Dart.  “But I'm with you in not giving it up to this Conclave.  We don't know anything about who they are, and I'm a loner besides.  I don't play well with others.”

“But you just told me,” pointed out the Player.  “What's stopping me from selling the information?”

Dart barked a laugh.  “We chose you for a reason, Player.  You don't think we didn't talk about this before we came to you?  We know you rely on information through your expertise with the Game.  That is your
only
salable commodity.  But you never sell it.  You keep it to yourself.  You only share it when you get something in return - like the details of what really happened in Levitz, for instance.  You couldn't know it, so you gave us information in exchange for what we knew.”

“You couldn't have known that the Game would not have that information,” interjected the Player.

Dart jerked her finger over her shoulder at the Witness, who crossed his arms confidently across his chest.  “You're kidding, right?” 

The Player looked between the Witness and Dart several times before he spoke again.  “If you knew what I didn't know, why then would you even come to me?”

“Oh, we knew
some
things,” offered Dart.  “Once the Witness opened his mind to it, we knew that no one has seen anything about what really happened in Levitz.  Not from the Game, not from anywhere.  Which means only the few of us who saw it know anything - and none of us are talking about it a lot.  But we didn't know specifics - we didn't know about how much
you
knew - about the Godslayer, about Avery, about Galentine or Kelvor.  We needed to know what the Game knew, because we think we may have deduced who the
real
creator of the Game is.  And it all relied upon knowing how much information had actually made it into the Game.”

The Player's mouth opened and then closed without a sound.  Swallowing, he deliberately tried to calm his racing heart before he tried again.  “Who?  Who created the Game?”

“Who may not have been the best choice of words,” admitted the Witness.  “But we now know that only someone who had been
inside
Levitz could have known Glavin's involvement.  And there was only one God who was actually there.”

“The one helping Avery,” said the Player.

“The one helping Avery,” agreed Dart.

“So if you find out who is really helping Avery...”

“Then we answer the greatest mystery of the last hundred years.”  Dart's lips lifted in a sweet smile.

“Who made the Game,” supplied the Player.

“And you, of all people,
desperately
want to know that, don't you?”  Dart's smile turned wicked. “And that's how we know you won't say anything to your Conclave.  Because that piece of information is more valuable than anything else in existence.  And only the Witness and I are capable of finding out.”

The Player moved his chair back and stood to face his fellow demi-Gods.  “My silence in exchange for the truth then?”

“Oh, more than that,” purred Dart.  “You're going to continue to work for us, because this debt is one that is worth a lot more than just keeping quiet.  It's worth your life.  Which now belongs to us.”

The Player actively considered the implications of what Dart had said.  His freedom, his committed loyalty, possibly for the rest of his significant life.  All for this one piece of information.

“How could you possibly know you could trust me to keep my word?” asked the Player, trying to buy for time.

“Because you're fair,” shrugged Dart.  “Because to you, rules are rigid and should never be cheated. You would never cheat, anymore than you would ever deceive.  There's no challenge if you rig the game.  Am I right?”

The Player considered for a moment longer, then closed his eyes.  She was right, of course.  In everything she had said.  If he agreed to this, he would always agree to this.  And it was worth it.

Without any further hesitation, the Player offered his hand.  “Provide me the name of the one who created the Game, and I will forever be your man.”

Dart's hand whipped across the space between them.  “Done.”

The sun had only begun to rise, yet its colors had already spread through half the sky.  The light, airy clouds wafting across the sky carried the various shades of orange and yellow yet unseen from the great orb itself out and across the heavens, announcing for all to see the coming of the day.

Nathaniel sat upon the edge of the wooden bar that had formerly served as the hitching post for the Wyrm Fang's Tavern, looking longingly into the distance.  Now with the old business burned to the ground, it was one of the few areas in town where people did not frequent - few were interested in a vacant lot that had only been partially cleared of debris, after all.  And those who had once tried to make shelter out of the ruins had been driven off by the dwarven proprietor.  It gave Nathaniel a small measure of perceived solitude, and he found himself coming here far too often to be alone.

Yet it was not the raw vibrancy of the dawn which drew his eye, but an imagined location too far removed to actually be seen with his own mortal eyes.  It was lost to him now more than it had been before his grand quest seeking the fate of his son, and more than anything else in his life the reason for that loss heralded a change that would be difficult to ignore.

The Old Gods had returned.  There was no disputing that now.  Nathaniel himself had known since they first appeared to him last autumn, but now everyone else knew as well.  They had performed a miracle that could not be explained away, even by the most persistent objections of the priests of the New Order.  And worse, he had become connected to their miracle - everyone knew him now, and it was a degree of fame he was quite uncomfortable with.

Last autumn, someone had attacked Nathaniel's homestead.  His wife, Mariabelle, had been alone in their shared domicile, and she had lost her life.  He had lost his son, Geoffrey, the same night, having been forcefully taken from where he had been staying in the small community known as Oaken Wood, from the care of their family friend, the dwarf Bracken.  Both Nathaniel's and Bracken's homes had  been lost on the same night, but these were small accounts compared to the death of Nathaniel's wife and the abduction of his son.

The clear message was that it had been retaliation from the New Order's Goddess Imery, but that had proven to be a misdirection.  Imery had known nothing of the crime - but Nathaniel had taken the Goddess' life all the same.  Even now, with months to reflect upon his actions, Nathaniel could not say whether his actions were driven by grief over his loss or an effort to protect their companion, Brea, who had been under attack from Imery at that moment in time.

But the Old Gods - or the Pantheon, as they called themselves - had made Nathaniel a promise. They would work towards resurrecting Mariebelle, keep her body safe until her soul could be returned to her flesh.  They had no control over the soul of his wife because she had been a devoted follower of the rival group of Gods known as the New Order, but the Old Gods had believed that they could eventually barter for her soul.  And it was from this promise stemmed the miracle which had come to vex Nathaniel so.

Nathaniel had never thought to ask how the Old Gods expected to keep a dead body viable, to preserve it so that its soul could be returned one day.  And to be honest, in the months he was away, he had given it next to no thought.  His primary focus had been to track down the ones responsible for taking his son - but this had also been a fruitless endeavor.  He had returned to Oaken Wood just before the heaviest of the snows set in for the season, but he had only returned with himself and Bracken - Geoffrey was still lost, and none had any clue as to where his toddler son could be found.

All Nathaniel could claim as reward for his travels were two mystical swords -
Two
, the
second of the nine godslayer swords created by the Old Gods in their quest to overthrow the New Order, and the sword from which they had all been forged,
First
.  Those and their new companion, Brea, the former priestess of Imery, the now-deceased Goddess of Truth.

Of course, Brea was another matter altogether.  With the death of her Goddess, she should have been rendered powerless, the magic she had drawn upon through the grace of her worship to the Goddess snuffed along with the life of the deity herself.  And yet - Brea had instead begun to exhibit power of her own - independent of prayer, or worship, or devotion.  It was power entirely hers, and it was a source of enigma for everyone, including Brea herself. 

When the three companions had returned to Oaken Wood, however, none of their trials away from the small community had mattered.  For the small community had become something new in their absence: it had become a mecca of faith, faith long thought lost to the mortals of Na'Ril.  It had only been at the beginning of its ebb at the first heavy snows, but by spring, the pilgrims traveling to Oaken Wood had grown exponentially, and the town was now swallowed on all sides by massive camps of people who had come to see - and many to stay in witness to - the impossible demonstration of divine existence.

And there was a story that had begun to circulate, as well. 
There's always a story
, thought Nathaniel,
regardless of how much of the story was actually true.

The story went that the Goddess Imery had cruelly sought out and had an innocent woman struck down because she stood in the way of her own priestess' desires to possess the woman's husband.  But the Old Gods, looking down upon the world from their long exile, took umbrage against the cruelty of the New Order's Goddess.  Pitying the woman, they swore to forever preserve her body as a promise to the mortals of Na'Ril that never again would such cruelty be permitted to stand.  The Old Gods had returned, and they had taken their revenge against Imery, who had fled from the mortal realms out of fear of retribution.

If any doubted the words of the story, they had only to ask any priest of Imery - their Goddess was gone.  Simply gone.  And what's more, the woman's body had been displayed for all to see - at the very site of her murder - sustained as pristinely as if her body still drew breath,

Nathaniel rubbed at his eyes, doing his best to hold in his tears.  The Old Gods had kept their word. They had preserved Mariabelle's body - but had displayed it in a crystal coffin rimmed with gold, silver and precious gems.  They had sanctified the site of her death and used her body as a monument of their power.  Any could come and see her, resting peacefully below a clear shell, indestructible and immovable.  It had become proof impossible to ignore - and a holy site of pilgrimage for countless people seeking proof of the Old Gods' continued existence.  For hundreds of years, the New Order had sought to quash the Old Gods' religion, and in one act, they had forever reaffirmed their true power for all the world to see, all focused around the eternally pale body of Nathaniel's wife.

But what the Old Gods had done forever prevented Nathaniel from ever having the chance to grieve over his wife's grave.  Everyone knew who Mariabelle was - she was the wife of Nathaniel Goodsmith. Though he was known to some as the Godslayer, here he was only the surviving widower of the divinely pure Mariabelle.  Many had come to believe that Nathaniel himself was blessed in some way, or could impart some blessing upon them by virtue of his association to the divinely blessed mortal woman.  None of it was true, of course, and many more still simply saw him in awe for the honor of being the grieving widower, but it made it impossible for Nathaniel to even approach any of the masses of pilgrims clustered around his own home or Oaken Wood itself.

Unable to be alone with his wife, how could any man possibly grieve?

Nathaniel and Bracken had traveled to the Goodsmiths' property almost immediately upon hearing of this debacle.  Even then, dozens of tents and camps had been set up around the boundaries of his property - though thankfully some unspoken agreement had kept any from disturbing the ground of Nathaniel's property itself.  Nathaniel had been able to approach Mariabelle's body, look upon her and lightly run his hand upon the cool surface that separated him from her body.  But that was the last peace he would ever know in Mariabelle's presence. 

It started with a simple question: did he know her story?  It had been an innocent enough question from a young girl, certainly no more than fifteen summers.  There had been no malice in her words - if anything, they were words of reverence and respect.  But it had prompted a heart-worn growl from Nathaniel all the same.

She was my wife
, he had snapped.

And from that moment on, all knew who he was.  And none would let him be.  All wanted stories of Mariabelle's life before she had been divinely blessed, to somehow live vicariously through Nathaniel's private memories.  He had been swarmed within moments, and he had been forced to retreat.  He had never again been able to approach Mariabelle for fear of receiving the same treatment.

The widower had journeyed to his homestead many times in the months since, and the number of camps surrounding his home had continued to grow.  Now the trees were beginning to be cut back to make room for permanent camps and a rough settlement, all to provide for those who came to worship.  None cared for his own feelings on the matter.  None cared whether he objected, or was offended, or whether he even wanted to return home to rebuild his lost life, as devoid of family as it might be.

All any cared was for themselves, and their own selfish pursuits of what they believed to be paramount - the presence of the divine on the mortal plane.

Likewise, the Old Gods themselves had equally been silent these last several months.  Where before they had plagued him near-daily, ever since Levitz, the Pantheon had been notably absent from his life. Avery had said that the next sword would not awaken until the spring, and part of Nathaniel believed that they were simply biding their time, waiting for the next mission they could send their chosen avatar upon.  But there was also a part of Nathaniel's heart that knew this not to be true.  They were not keeping their distance out of lack of need; Nathaniel knew deep down that the Pantheon genuinely feared his wrath.  Over what had been done with his wife, over the loss of his son, over their complete failure to preserve any aspect of the mortal man's life - all for the glorification of themselves.

Nathaniel ran his finger along the edge of the hilt of the sword resting beside him on the wooden hitching post.  He had taken to bringing along at least one of the swords wherever he went.  This morning, it had been
Two
, the elemental sword.  The sword that could use water as a weapon.  There was no particular reasoning behind his selection - it was just a sword to him.  In spite of its power, it was just a steel object that had become attached to his life by fate.  Avery had belief that the swords were more than this, but not Nathaniel.  In spite of their power, they were only weapons - powerful weapons, but weapons all the same.

“I had not thought to see such a fine blade this far away from the coast,” came a woman's voice. 

Nathaniel started, unprepared for his vigil to be interrupted.  He looked to his side and saw a commonly garbed woman standing there, her leather garment appearing almost drab in its coloring.  No effort had been made to dye the material, and it all had a very plain, soft brown color.  It was well kept, despite this, and the woman's posture gave off a sense of confidence that gave her a near regal air.  Her soft brown hair seemed to almost clash with the sharpness of her eyes.

“I do not mean to bother you,” offered the woman.  “My name is Tanath, and I am only a visitor here.”

Nathaniel blinked a moment before responding.  “Sorry, you startled me.  My name is--”

“Oh, everyone knows you, Nathan.  You're the poor husband to the woman all trussed up there in the woods.”  At this, Tanath nodded her head to the side, aimed into the distance where Nathaniel's gaze had been wandering but a moment before.

“That is a rather harsh way of putting it.”

“Perhaps,” agreed Tanath.  “But true, all the same.  What civil person would lay out a body in that fashion?  The poor girl's dead - let her rest in peace, ya know?”

Nathaniel felt an unwanted smile creep across his face.  There was something about this girl that he appreciated.  Moreso than almost anyone he had met in all his journeys.

“It doesn't sound like you came to Oaken Wood for the sites,” the man offered.  “So what brings you so far inland?”

“Oh, I came for the sites, alright.  You have to at least once see something like this.  I just didn't come for the same reason as everyone else.”  Tanath shrugged.  “I've come, I've seen, now I can move on with my life having done so.”

The woman's eye fell again upon Nathaniel's hand that rested upon
Two
.  “Still, that sword is unexpected, a sight I certainly was not prepared to see.”  Tanath reached out.  “May I?”

Nathaniel hesitated a moment, but only a moment.  No one besides Avery, himself and the now-deceased rogue pirate in Levitz had ever wielded one of the magic blades.  He was not entirely certain what was required to draw the power from the sword, either.  Could this Tanath learn of the blade's power just from handling it?  And if so, what would she do with it?

The hesitation passed however, and Nathaniel brought up the sword.  Balancing the length of the blade between his hands, he offered it to his new companion.  “Be careful.  It is... special.”

Tanath smirked.  “Oh, I can see that.”  Taking the sword in hand, Tanath quickly pulled the steel from its scabbard, eyeing the magnificent sheen of the steel in the early light of day.  “This is just magnificent,” she almost sighed.  “And the runes in the blade - I don't think I have ever seen anything so incredible.  And I have seen a
lot
of swords in my time.”