One (The Godslayer Cycle Book 1) (45 page)

“
What is it my servant has for me, with such a troubled spirit?” asked the Goddess.

Brea steeled herself for her response, for she knew the only chance she had of luring her Goddess here in person was to express the very doubts she had been trying to hide all along.  “I wish to speak with you, My Goddess.  I have questions, doubts about what it is you are having me do...”

The flame leaped slightly, reflecting the Goddess' irritation.  “You would question me?” she demanded.

“
I...  I would speak with you, seek comfort in your presence and wisdom,” managed Brea.  “I...  I am feeling lost and without your guidance...”  Brea's throat seized up with the emotion she was indeed feeling at these words.  They were blasphemous, and yet they were the only words she could offer.

Imery's image flickered in the flame for a moment before a warm, soothing smile spread across her features.  “My most favored,” she nearly purred.  “If you seek my presence for comfort, who am I to decline it?”

Suddenly, the fire leaped upwards, burning with an intensity that suggested more of a bonfire than a simple campfire.  Brea covered her eyes and face to protect it instinctively, though there really was no excessive heat from the display.  When she uncovered her eyes, Brea caught sight of her Goddess walking free of the flames and into her presence, just as requested.

“
What is it you would seek comfort in, my child?” asked the Goddess made flesh.

Brea took a deep breath before starting.  “I have encountered the one called Avery and he is defeated,” she began.

Imery cocked her head in curiosity.  “Truly?  Yet you have not reached Scollhaven yet...”

“
Avery was upon the road, it seems,” Brea responded.  “He sought to ambush us...”  Brea paused at her words, not yet sure how to answer for the presence of the dwarf and Nathaniel himself.  “I was seeking out the dwarf who followed us when he appeared and attacked us,” she continued.

“
And you defeated him?” asked the Goddess.  Imery was not blind to the fact that her priestess was withholding something.  All that she had said was true, but there was more that she was not saying.

Brea pursed her lips, gathering the strength to ask what she next needed to.  Raising her eyes in a firm challenge to the Goddess, Brea launched her own assault.  “Why did you send me after this false God?  Why send me away from Oaken Wood?  What is it you are hiding?”

Imery's temper flared.  “What are you trying to say, my priestess?  Are you accusing me of something?”

“
You killed Nathan's wife!”  Imery blurted out.  “You took his son and laid waste to the town and left me to take the blame!”  Brea was on her feet now, though she could not recall standing.  All her pent up anger and frustration had finally come to the fore, and the very caution she had advised upon Nathaniel was gone in an instant.

Imery's features raged.  “How dare you!  How
dare
you!” bellowed Imery.  “How dare you accuse
me
of crimes!”  Imery raised her hand and Brea found herself flung away, crashing moments later into the far side of the path against the rocks there, barely within the light of the fire.  In an instant, Imery was at her side, reigning over her in fury.

“
I am your Goddess and you will never question me again!  Ever!”  With the flick of her wrist, Imery once again threw her hapless servant into the air, this time towards the heart of the campfire.  Only the quick reflexes of the dwarf as he flung himself in the way managed to spare her from landing amidst the burning ashes.

Imery was instantly in front of the pair.  Brea barely hung to consciousness as her champion stood over her, holding her bodily in one large hand, his axe wielded dangerously in his other.

“I give you one warning, dwarf.  Stand away.”

“
I be a dwarf, as ya say,” growled Bracken.  “Dwarves took down one set o' Gods afore, an' I ain' gonna dishonor a hunerd gen'rations o' dwarves afore me wit' cowerin' down to 'nother now!”

Imery's eyes blazed with her fury.  “So be it!” she spat, raising her hand to launch another attack.

Yet her hand did not gesture, and her face froze for a moment in confusion.  It took a moment to realize that she was being held immobile, that her body had lifted slightly from where it stood.  Then the sword became visible to all, as it protruded from her abdomen.  Imery, the Goddess of Truth, stood skewered upon the blade of one of Nathaniel's swords.

Imery shuddered momentarily, her body wracked with the unfamiliar sensation of pain.  Her mouth moved, but words would not come from her lips.  She grew pale in the next moment as another seizure wracked her body, then she convulsed inwards, her feet lifting off the ground in her spasm.  She threw her head back then and sound did come from her throat: she screamed.  And it seemed every fiber of existence now shuddered in response to her pain.

Light burst from Imery's eyes, her mouth, her pores.  Ghost images flickered in and out of reality around her, duplicates of her own body, floating in the air around her, equally shivering, quaking and convulsing.  Yet these were not simple mirror images – they were duplicates of Imery in every feature and mannerism, yet they each responded independently to the pain that the body skewered on the point of a sword was enduring.  As the seconds passed, more and more images appeared, and now it could be seen that they were being drawn toward the physical form of the Goddess.  Hundreds of phantom Imery's danced in and out of the firelight, drawn to the plight of the physical version of themselves.

Yet the images were fighting the pull.  Some instinctive reflex in each of the duplicate Imerys somehow recognized that they needed to stay away from the impaled physical form, yet the more they fought, the harder the pull seemed to be.  For ethereal creatures, they seemed to be in a life and death struggle with a gravity they could not overcome.

Then the first of the images came into contact with the physical form, and in a burst of light was sucked into her body.  Then another, and another followed suit, and with each form that joined the physical, the greater the pull so that more and more came rushing in, faster and faster until it became a constant stream of ghostly images pouring into the physical body.  Clearly, there had been far more images than what the mortals had been able to see in the firelight, for the multitude of forms kept coming and coming, amplifying the scream of the Goddess as they joined their voices to her own.

Finally, the last spirit that could be seen entered Imery's body, and her scream silenced.  For a brief moment, she seemed at peace, cognizant enough to look upon the face of her priestess, who now kneeled upon the ground with tears in her eyes.  It looked as though she had intended to say something, to pass along some blissful bit of wisdom.  But before she could utter whatever thought dangled upon the tip of her tongue, Imery, Goddess of Truth, simply dissolved in a burst of showering sparks.

The bulk of the fairie-like energy that had been the body of the Goddess drifted down, while more drifted away as though upon a breeze.  Brea heard herself cry out in anguish, rushing to the sight of her Goddess' remains.  Desperately the priestess tried to scoop up the dancing, shimmering wifts of energy, trying to clutch them to her bosom, as though she could somehow shelter her Goddess' remains from harm.  Yet the energy kept falling from her hands, passing through her fingers as though she were trying to scoop water with a sieve.   She could feel the energy, warm and gentle, passing through her physical body, through her skin, through her clothes and into her chest where she attempted to clutch it to her heart.  Yet in the end, it all melted through her and finally disappeared into the ground beneath her.

Within the span of half a dozen heartbeats, the only illumination that remained was from the campfire behind Brea.  There was nothing left of the Goddess of Truth now save a memory.

Nathaniel stood rooted in his place,
One
still held solidly in the position where it had struck its mortal blow.  Inwardly, he could sense the elation the sword emitted at having taken the life of a God.  Somehow, Nathaniel thought he would have felt better at what he had done, yet the sheer immensity of the power he had felt flow through him, the gravity of what he had just done weighed upon him as nothing else ever had in his entire life.

Nathaniel had done the unthinkable.  Though the Old Gods had told him the purpose of the swords, what they had been designed to do, to have actually witnessed the death of a God, to have actually been the hand that had taken the life of a God...  It was more than a little humbling, and immensely more disturbing.  The afterglow of all the energies that had played out before him danced behind his eyelids whenever he blinked, and he wondered if they would ever fade. 

Brea looked up at Nathaniel from where she knelt in the dirt.  Her face was covered in grime where she had been attempting to brush away the tears that streamed from her eyes.  A mixture of disbelief, anger and awe filled her mind as she looked upon the man who had in one thrust of a sword dispelled every belief she had ever held dear.  Here before her was a man, and yet he had not only defeated a God, he had slain one!

Imery, Goddess of Truth, was gone.  Forever.  Deep inside her, amidst the doubts and uncertainties that now churned within her soul, Brea could genuinely feel the complete absence of her Goddess as she had never felt before.  It was as though the Goddess had never existed, and the sudden void filled her with an ache she could not hope to mend. 

Yet the man who had sealed her fate still stood.  Nathaniel looked down to Brea, his eyes pleading for her to say or do something, to help him make sense of what he had just done.  Whether from some remainder of her faith or simply shock, tales of myth began circling in her mind, compelling her to name the demon that now stood before her. 

“
Godslayer,” she said, her throat tight with emotion.  Then she passed out.

The streets of the community were near bare, in spite of its being midday.  Where there should have been bustling and industry, even in the small hamlet, the people that could be seen seemed lackluster and dull.  It was as though their very spirits had been crushed by some great tragedy.

The Witness walked calmly down the main street of the town, seeking with his senses for something solid, something reassuring.  Yet all around him, reality seemed askew.  He could see in his mind how things should have been, see the wagons and the children at play, the women who basked in the sunlight from the upper windows of their rooms.  And yet, the reality around him was in every way different.

Shadows danced before his mind's eye, something he had become accustomed to seeing mirrored with his physical eyes, to see the rhythm of the two sequences moving in harmony, watching the points of convergence branch away, to have them set a path that he would walk through, solidifying as it went.

Yet nothing of what his mind's eye reflected his real world vision.  It was as though he walked through a town of phantoms, for the unreality of his mind made him see things that simply did not exist.  Never in all his life had the Witness been so greatly disturbed, and yet at the same time so terribly excited.

Something – some power – had derailed history, had derailed Fate itself.  The destinies of the people in this town had been thrown away, and now a new tapestry was being woven before his very eyes.  One of which his power was
not
yet attuned to.

The Witness had come to be more than a little callous and  unfeeling in his centuries of wanderings, had divested himself of his connection to humanity.  He could honestly not recall the last time he had actually even spoken to another living person.  So far had he become removed from the real world around him, that he had actually stopped talking to anyone.

Part of him wondered at that, marveled at the fact that until this very moment, he had not even taken notice.  Another part of him wondered at the idea that he had noticed.  Something about this place stirred the waters of reality.  And the severance of this reality from the one he knew was apparently even affecting the Witness himself.

A young woman walked by him.  Remarkably, she looked up into his face and smiled.  “Do you come to know our Lord Avery's blessing?”  she asked.

The Witness was stunned.  She had spoken to him.  Worse, she had
noticed
him.  His presence, though certainly not invisible and more than capable of affecting the world around him, had always been one that had made others uncomfortable.  As his powers had developed, he had found himself more and more isolated, if for no other reason than others simply did not wish for his company.  His wife had even become more and more distant towards the end of their marriage, his children less loving and affectionate.  Once he surrendered to his life as the Witness, fewer and fewer people would look him in the eye, even more would avoid looking upon him, at all.  He had accepted that facet of his life as readily as he had accepted his place in the world around him, and it only served to strengthen his emotional isolation from the rest of the world.

Until now.  Now, there was this lovely young woman who looked upon him and not only accepted him, but opened up to him with welcome and...  love.  Yes, love.  This young woman was sharing love for another human being towards him, and he could not conceive of how to respond.

As though she understood, the young woman reached out her hand and laid it gently upon his arm.  “Our Lord's chapel is not yet built, but his bride's father has opened his doors for all who would seek his love.”  The young woman's eyes roamed to his midsection, and she stroked her stomach gently.  “I have personally known his love, and Avery's blessing grows even now within my womb.”  She looked back up into the Witness' eyes.  “Believe me when I say, all outcasts are welcome here under Avery's sigil.”

The young woman took her hand from the Witness' arm and turned her wrist upwards for him to see.  “Do you not see?  The New Order would have us believe these to be signs of evil, and yet they are our Lord's sigil, his strength and his might.  Any who were outcast before are now the faithful of our God.  You have only to ask to be blessed...”

A voice behind the Witness spoke up suddenly.  “So it be true,” said the man's voice.  “Heretics are welcome here.”

The Witness started, for he had not sensed anyone come up behind him.  Yet the young lady looked past the Witness and beamed.  “It is indeed, sir.  But if you were known as heretic before, you are no longer.  You are Avery's children, and your Lord and Savior will shine his blessings upon you.”

The Witness turned to see a dirty man, old enough he was certain to have walked the world near on fifty years.  And yet, the Witness sensed nothing of the man – his past, his present, nor his future.  In his mind's eye, no one stood in the spot where the man stood, and behind him the ghostly remnants of a timeline forever severed from the real world moved in the phantom realm of unreality.

The old man hesitantly brought forth his arm, the right wrist raised, shaking.  The young woman moved past the Witness to take the man's arm into her grip, pulling him toward her.  “In Avery's name, be blessed,” she said, leaning forward and kissing the inverted horn symbol seared into the man's flesh.

The old man smiled at that, his toothless face lighting up in what seemed an almost painful grimace.  Clearly, this man had not known reason to smile in such a span of time that the muscles of his face had atrophied.  Tears streamed from the man's eyes as his mouth moved in silent witness to his joy.  In moments, the man had pulled his hands back and buried his face within them, his body wracked with sobs.

The woman put arms around the man and gently guided him away.  Looking over her shoulder to the Witness, she beckoned him to follow.  “Come, good sir,” she said.  “There is love for us all.”  And without another word, the woman turned again forward and led the old man towards the heart of the town.

The Witness stood in his place, perplexed.  For the first time in centuries, he was lost in what to do.  This town had become a leper's colony, of a sort, it seemed.  The heretics of the world had found a place to love and shelter them.  That alone was world-quaking in its import.  Heresy was a sin, and heretics were never to be rewarded for fear of Godly retribution.  And yet, this town – under the guidance of someone named Avery – a God amongst men, it seemed – had become a refuge.  If the Gods were aware of it, they had done nothing for it, either.  And if the Gods were not aware... What exactly did that bode?

Time, the Witness decided.  He would need to spend time here.  To learn what he could of this town and its peoples, to find out what great event had so drastically set it upon its current path.  And in so doing, perhaps learn how this community existed outside the boundaries of the reality his mind saw.

By now, the young woman had become a small figure in the distance, though he could make out the structure towards which she led the old man.  From a distance, it appeared to be an inn or perhaps tavern.  And yes, his sense told him that much to be true, for that fact was not changed – not yet, at any rate.  Such places were the hub of information in towns such as these, and it was there he could best begin his investigation.

With a firm resolve, the Witness took his first step forward, ready to confront as boldly as he was able this new world he had found himself within.