The Godling
Chronicles
Book one
“The Sword of Truth”
Written by Brian D. Anderson
Original concept by Jonathan Anderson
The Godling Chronicles (Book One) The Sword of Truth
By
Brian D. Anderson
Original concept by Jonathan Anderson
Copyright © Brian D. Anderson 2012
Published by Longfire Press
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
All rights reserved. No part of this book maybe reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher and/or author.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Dedication
For my wife Eleni and my son, a creative genius, Jonathan.
Prologue
It was all the Dark Knight could do to keep his teeth from chattering. The chill mountain air was thick with a dense fog that soaked into his skin, making every movement of the wind like torture. The only sounds were the crunch and clatter of his horse’s hooves and his own labored breathing.
He could feel that he was drawing near to his destination, yet he could see nothing but dull gray fog and the gnarled and vicious shadows of long dead trees.
He steeled his wits and warily urged his steed onward. He knew what was to come, and it unnerved him. The prospect of death had never bothered him. He had faced it many times before, but this was something different. After today, everything would change. After today, the whole world would tremble. For the first time in his life, he was uncertain. Decades of struggle and planning were culminating into this one moment, this one action. He should have been excited, but for some reason was unable to shake his sense of foreboding.
His horse spotted the edge of the precipice just before they both would have plummeted to their deaths. It reared fiercely, nearly throwing him from the saddle onto the hard, jagged stone path. Calming his nervous steed, he dismounted and walked to the cliff’s edge. He strained his eyes, attempting to penetrate the fog, but could see nothing. Yet he knew what was out there. Reaching down, he picked up a small stone and tossed it over the cliff’s edge, but heard nothing.
‘The trial begins,’ he thought. He turned and retrieved his sword and scabbard from his saddle and fastened them to his belt. As he peered into the nothingness, his armor felt heavy and cumbersome. Feats of prowess in battle were far different from what he was about to do. Armor would certainly be a hindrance, but he dare not leave it behind. He backed away from the edge of the cliff and closed his eyes, his heart pounding in his ears. For a long moment, he stood motionless as stone.
Suddenly, the sinews of his thick, powerful legs burst into life, propelling him forward at amazing speed. In a flash, he was at the edge and jumped with a heavy grunt. Time stood still as he flew through the air. For a split-second, a flash of fear filled his chest as he felt himself begin to fall, but relief and triumph quickly replaced this as his boots struck solid rock. Somehow, with a huge effort, he managed to keep his footing and stumbled to a halt. As he slowly stepped forward, the fog lessened and he realized he had jumped atop the first in a series of immense natural rock pillars.
“At last,” he muttered.
Each pillar was about eight feet apart and could easily accommodate a dozen mounted men. He could make out twelve pillars, but beyond that the fog thickened again. Experience told him not to get too excited; nothing was ever as simple as it seemed. He could leap the distance easily enough, even with armor on. However, considering the prize that awaited him, something told him there was more to it than that.
Without warning, the ground began to shake violently. The Dark Knight could feel the rock starting to give way beneath his feet. With no time to think, he leapt to the next pillar, only to feel this also begin to crumble the second his boots landed. From pillar to pillar, he raced for his life. In seconds, he knew he would reach the fog again and be unable to see. As he reached the last column, he planted both feet hard on its edge and pushed with all his strength, propelling his body into the void.
His upper thigh struck hard against a lip of rock, flinging his head and torso forward. The sound of grinding metal tore through the dank air as his armor crashed against rough stone. He scrambled and clawed as he felt himself beginning to slip off the edge. Just as he was about to fall, his hand caught a crack in the rock and he pulled himself up. He lay there for a moment, taking stock of his hurts. Nothing serious. His thighs would be bruised, and the hilt of his sword had jammed into his kidney, but overall he was fine. He listened as the thunder of collapsing pillars echoed, then disappeared.
He rose to his feet, checked his sword and surveyed his surroundings. Before him lay a square courtyard of plain black granite. On either side were smooth, sheer walls one hundred feet high, and at the far end, carved into the living rock, a flight of steps leading up.
In the center of the courtyard stood a ten-foot obelisk of unadorned white marble. As the Dark Knight neared the obelisk he heard a low hum. His eyes narrowed and his muscles tensed as his hands slid to the hilt of his sword. The hum grew louder and deeper the closer he came, until his body shook with its intensity. He desperately covered his ears, but to no avail. He felt his knees begin to weaken; each step became agony as the loud hum grew to a deep roar. As he stepped directly beside the obelisk, he felt blood trickling from his nose.
‘Almost there,’ he thought, taking another step.
The moment he passed the obelisk, the hum stopped. It was then that his legs gave way and he collapsed, his chest heaving and ears ringing. After several minutes he lifted his head and looked toward the steps. Slowly he rose to his feet, wiped the blood from his nose, and began his climb.
In the distance, he could see a bright light that obscured his vision. As he finally reached the top, the light lessened and his eyes began to adjust, revealing an immense stone alcove, fifty feet high and nearly twice as wide. The stone was polished white marble, inlaid with veins of pure gold and precious jewels. Standing tall and proud at its center was a gold statue of an ancient warrior. It was ten feet tall and adorned with fine chain mail. Its grim features told of countless battles as its deeply set eyes stared - penetrating and unwavering - with a sense of keen understanding that gave it the distinct impression of life. Atop its brow sat a crown of opal laurels, each leaf veined with silver inlay. Its arms were outstretched with its palms held aloft, and there the Da
rk Knight saw it. The sword. Its gleaming steel glowed with an unnatural light that spilled down onto the marble floor like a ghostly mist. Its hilt was plain steel, with neither jewel nor marking to tell of its true worth, and the handle was wrapped in hard, unremarkable black leather.
The Dark Knight felt his pulse quicken as he slowly walked forward. It was his; the Sword of Truth was finally his. Closer and closer he came to his prize. With each step he drew nearer to the end of his quest. Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw a tall figure.
He was dressed in a pure white linen robe bound at the waist by a thin, white silk rope. A pair of simple calfskin boots could be seen beneath his robe, and he wore a circlet of silver on his brow. His face was smooth and ageless with a long, hawk-like nose and pronounced chin. His eyes were deep blue and full of sadness and pity. He held no weapon that the Dark Knight could see.
He turned to face the Man in White and unsheathed his sword. “I thought I’d find you here,” he said grimly. “Do you intend to fight me unarmed?”
A sad smile crept over the Man in White’s face. “I do not intend to fight you at all,” he replied.
The Dark Knight burst into laughter, “Some protector you are. You’re a coward, unworthy to bear the sword.”
“You’re right,” he said. “I’m not worthy. But neither are you.”
“Really?” the Dark Knight mocked, stepping forward menacingly. “We’ll see about that. With that sword, I will be able to break the bonds that have held us back for an eternity. We will finally be free! Can’t you see that?”
Regret washed over the face of the Man in White. “Free? You mean free to rule? Free to murder? Free to do evil with impunity?”
“No, you fool!” the Dark Knight shouted. “Free to show the world what we truly are. Free to take my...” His voice calmed. “Our rightful place in this cursed world.”
“What we truly are, my old friend, has nothing to do with what is in your heart,” he replied.
The Dark Knight scowled. “Whatever is in my heart was driven there by those you serve.” Slowly, his face softened. “Please, brother, why not join me? I could use your advice and companionship in the times ahead. Together we could shape the world into a paradise.”
Tears began to well in the Man in White’s eyes. “There was a time when I would not have hesitated. However, that time is long past. Now I know who you truly are. The paradise you speak of is no paradise at all; it is hell.”
“Hell, you say? What do you know of hell? I have seen hell. I have lived in it. Your masters sent me there, and it’s time the favor was returned.” The Dark Knight’s face darkened.
“You sent yourself there with your betrayal,” said the Man in White.
“I betrayed you?” the Dark Knight scoffed. “Fool! Your masters have poisoned your mind. Don’t you see that? Don’t you understand what I’m trying to do?”
The Man in White’s eyes narrowed. “I understand all too well. I understand that you will fail. No matter what happens this day, you will fail.”
“We shall see,” he said ominously. “It’s clear to me now that you cannot be reasoned with as I’d hoped.” The Dark Knight tensed. “And your blood will spill this day for your foolishness.”
In a flash the Dark Knight leapt forward, slashing his blade at the Man in White’s neck. But the Man in White dodged with an unnatural speed and the stroke passed harmlessly.
Again and again the Dark Knight pressed forward, his fury and frustration growing with each unsuccessful blow. Minutes passed, and the Dark Knight had gained no ground. He began to feel the weight of fatigue burning in his muscles. The Man in White did not attempt to strike; his lack of weapon and armor made it easy for him to avoid the onslaught, and his many years of training made his every step perfect. Slowly, the Dark Knight began to understand his peril. He could not keep this up indefinitely. Eventually his strength would be gone, and he would be virtually helpless.
Then, in a desperate gamble, the Dark Knight flung his sword at the left leg of his opponent, causing him to shift right and slightly back. Normally he would never intentionally disarm himself, but this time the gamble worked. With all his strength, he leapt forward, reaching in his belt, and pulling out a small dagger. His body slammed into the Man in White as he plunged it into his heart.
The Man in White gasped and threw his arms around his killer as both bodies crashed to the floor. The Dark Knight wrenched himself from the Man in White’s grasp, ripping the dagger free. Blood soaked his robe and spilled onto the marble floor. The Man in White’s eyes grew dim as he watched the Dark Knight rise and walk to the statue that held the Sword.
This is the end, the Man in White thought as death overcame him, …the end of the world. I have failed.
The Dark Knight reached out and grabbed the hilt of the sword. Lightning flashed as he lifted it from its cradle and held it aloft.
“It’s mine!” he screamed. “It’s miiiiiiiine!”
Chapter 1
Gewey Stedding’s wagon rolled up the main avenue of the village of Sharpstone, heavy with its cargo of fall hay. Normally this would be neither exciting nor very important, but recent years had been hard, and the sight of commerce filled the villagers with hope. Fall hay meant food for the livestock, meat for the winter, and trade for the spring.
The streets were empty for this time of year. Usually merchants and travelers from up and down the Goodbranch River kept them busy, but over the last several years trade had slowed to a trickle. The few people who did pass through did not linger, and brought little coin. News of trouble and hardship came with each boat and wagon, regardless of where they came from. The world was in turmoil, and everyone could feel it.
In better times, Sharpstone would be readying for the Festival of Gerath, god of the earth and mountains. Gewey had eagerly looked forward to the festival each year since he was a boy. It was three days of games, music and some of the best food in the whole kingdom. It ended with the entire town parading to the market square to crown the King and Queen of the festival. As a child, Gewey had dreamed of being crowned King, but as things were, it didn’t look like that would ever happen. Last year, the Village Council cut the festival to one day - this year, with little to celebrate and no money to spare, the festival had been all but forgotten. Only a few elders had hung the traditional pumpkin vines above their door, and no one had decorated the statue of Gerath that stood in the village square.
Despite the hardships, the sight of Gewey’s wagon made the people smile. Gewey’s honest dealings and helpful nature made him very popular in the village. He was always ready to help those in need and never shied away from hard work, even when he worked for free - which lately, happened very frequently. Though only seventeen years old, he stood six feet two inches tall and had the shoulders of a blacksmith. With raven black hair, flawless skin, and chiseled features, it was little wonder that the young girls of the village swooned as he passed. The older women were already talking about who would be a good match for him. Luckily, he hadn’t turned eighteen - the time of his coming of age - and he could avoid certain uncomfortable conversations with the Village Mothers.
Called the ‘Village Hens’ by the men (though only when they couldn’t hear), the Village Mothers handled most of the day-to-day operations in Sharpstone. If there was a fire, they organized the reconstruction. If streets needed repair or the river docks rebuilding, the Village Mothers saw it done. The Village Council - headed by the mayor - controlled the finance and commerce, but without the Mothers, Sharpstone would come to a halt.
Gewey had been his own master since his father had died two years earlier of an illness that had swept through the village during an extremely harsh winter. His mother had passed when he was but three, from injuries she received falling from her horse. The memories he had of her were few, and colored by a child’s perception. He knew she was kind and beautiful. A painting of her hung above his fireplace. His father would look at it all night on the anniversary of her de
ath and tell Gewey stories about her life and his love for her.
After his father’s death, the village council had approached Gewey about selling his farm and taking an apprenticeship with one of the local tradesmen. Gewey’s father had been the largest producer of hay in the area, and they had serious doubts as to whether a fifteen-year-old boy would be able to maintain a farm alone. The idea of losing such a resource was unthinkable, and though Gewey had not yet come of age, his father had left him all of his property. Short of petitioning the King, there was nothing they could do to make Gewey give up the land.
Gewey refused every offer, stating that his father wanted him to keep the farm going, and had told him so before he died. The Council was preparing to make one more effort to change his mind when he showed up at the market square with enough hay to supply the whole village for half the year. He had not only bundled and loaded it himself, but also turned a nice profit at market. From then on, Gewey was thought of by all as being the master of his own land; his coming of age was never mentioned again. He was treated as any other landowner and even consulted occasionally by the Council.
Gewey’s image of himself was somewhat different. He harvested hay as he had seen his father do a thousand times before. He bartered the way his father had taught him. He held onto the farm because his father would have wanted him to. Nevertheless, in his heart, he was not yet a man. He was merely a boy, still trying to make his father proud. His size and strength made others think him a man, but at night, when he was all alone, his mind was full of fear and doubt.
The village of Sharpstone was just south of the Sarlian Wastes, at the northern most part of the Kingdom of Megádos. Just to the north was a crossroads that joined the Pithian Highway, leading south to the western gate of the capital, Helenia, then on to the southern ports and the Far Run Road, which spanned the breadth of the entire continent. The land was flat and fertile, and the weather moderate and prone to early springs. The inhabitants, though not numerous, were kindly and welcomed strangers, so long as they did not cause trouble.
The Godling Chronicles : Bundle - Books 1-3 Page 1
