One (The Godslayer Cycle Book 1)

by Ron Glick

  Oh, please don't see me! Avery thought hopelessly. Let this be a bad dream! I'm not here. Don't see me! Don't hear me! Please, don't find me!

  A strange tingle scratched at his palm, making Avery shift the sword in his grasp. Even with his eyes closed, he could sense the other man standing right over him. Avery quivered in his position, pushing himself up against the tree as if he could hide in the grooves of the tree's bark.

  “Where did you see him?” came a voice further away.

  “He was right here,” came the thundering response, directly over the top of him. Now Avery could hear the man's heavy breathing, smell the odor of his sweat. “He was hiding right here beside this tree! I saw him!”

  Avery hesitantly opened his eyes, afraid the man was only teasing him with some horribly cruel joke. Just as his other senses had confirmed, the man stood directly at his side, breathing hard, leaning his hands upon his knees as he caught his breath.

  “That little pest can move, I'll give him that,” breathed the man as a second came out of the woods, followed shortly by a third. Both of the newcomers cast their glances directly at where Avery huddled by the tree and moved on, searching the surrounding trees as though they had not seen him at all!

  How is this possible? screamed the voice of reason in Avery's mind. There was not even shadow enough to cover his backside here and the sword clearly glistened as it reflected the light of the moon. How could they not see him?

  It was a game. It had to be. They were waiting for him to relax, to drop his guard and lower the sword. Then they would pounce on him and beat him mercilessly.

  Avery's legs began to cramp and he slowly edged himself upward with his back still firmly pressed against the tree. He stood there watching as the three men made as if to search the surrounding woods, seeming to take great effort to listen for any telltale sign that would reveal where their quarry had gone.

  Maybe if I surrendered, they would not hurt me as badly, thought Avery miserably. Not giving himself time to reconsider the sensibility of his plan, he lowered the sword, still hoping against reason that he genuinely was unseen and that some great magic guarded him from their sight.

  His pursuers' reactions did not change, even after Avery knelt and placed the sword across his knees in submission. His heart beat madly against his chest as he opened his hands and splayed them before him to prove he was not otherwise armed.

  “I think we've lost him, Strom,” said one of the men, addressing the first.

  The first man nodded reluctantly. “I think you are right,” he sighed. “I don't much like leaving the little thief to wander and possibly break into another place, this time perhaps some family's home, not knowing the harm he could do. But there is no doubting that he has gotten himself cleanly away from us this night.”

  Casting one last hopeful glance around him, Strom turned and led his fellows back through the woods towards the town, leaving a terrified and mystified young man alone in the dark.

  Avery's eyes immediately fell upon the sword as soon as the men's footfalls could no longer be heard. It lay distinctively outlined against the leaves where it overlapped his legs. He then cast his glance to the half-exposed sheathe lying partly bent as its stiff material lay revealed to the night. What brand of magic is this?

  His hands shook as he knelt down to pull the sheathe free from the earth. It offered no resistance and his hands marveled at how clean and smooth the leather seemed to his hand. His fingers brushed over the ridges, noticing that the leather was embossed with fine, intricate designs all along its length. His eyes drew back to the sword, now lying upon the ground where he had knelt, where he could also see matching designs etched flawlessly into the blade.

  As he bent to pick up the sword, Avery noticed a mark he had previously not seen on the pommel. In fact, he had been quite sure before he had drawn the blade that the pommel had been completely smooth and unmarked. Yet now, there was clearly an embossed ivory die upon the pommel with a single red pit in its center.

  “One,” he muttered.

  “So, if you're the first,” he addressed the sword, holding it up to shine brilliantly in the moonlight, “how many others are there like you in the world, I wonder?”

  Chapter Two

  “Goodsmith!” roared a bellowing voice from behind the bar. “I though' I'd tol' ya not ta be showin' that scrawny, worm-fed hide o' yours in these halls 'gain!”

  The man at whom the address was directed suppressed a grin as he turned to face the owner of the tavern he had just entered. The stocky girth of the man lent to a perception of size and strength that was both accurate and deceptive. One could not so easily take in this barkeep's worth at a glance of him from behind the counter, Goodsmith knew.

  The barkeep moved purposefully from behind the bar, dropping almost two feet in height as he moved off of the raised area that allowed him to serve his patrons at eye level. His stout four foot frame moved with unexpected ease for one whose appearance would have suggested a more waddling gait if the body had belonged to a man of equal proportion. For one untutored of anything beyond the human realms, the short man could have passed for a human save for the rather unique way in which he moved, in fact. That, and anyone having spent any considerable amount of years around him could not fail to note that he had aged very well indeed.

  This barkeep was not a man though, at least not a human man. The man's stout frame was compensation for the countless generations his kind had lived deep below the world's surface, and one could easily discern from his balance and fluidity of movement as he crossed the room that his kind were natural fighters. Anyone making the mistake that a dwarf's stature lent to anything other than such would quite possibly be making a fatal mistake.

  To see a dwarf in a human community was an oddity, unless one lived closer to the major trade routes. This town, however, was not close to any major anything. In larger settlements where trade might move through, a pack of dwarves might be seen moving through the town to trade in ore or gems they had mined in exchange for luxuries they could not produce in the underworld. But even when they did, their kind were reclusive at best, outright hostile at worse should someone choose to cross them. Though an honorable lot, they did not mix well with humans for long periods, and were well known for making haste with their trade ventures and quickly returning from whence they had come.

  This dwarf seemed to be one to prove the exception to the rule for his race, though. Not only had he chosen to live in a human settlement, but, worse still, he had actually opened a business there. And he had maintained that business now for over fifteen years!

  Bracken Hillsfire had come to Oaken Wood and opened his inn, the Worm Fang's Tavern, to local popular acclaim. True, not many had ever seen a dwarf in their lifetimes and those that had knew even less about them. Most simply believed dwarves to be folk tales and dismissed far too readily that this man was of that race. However, even when Bracken's prodigious strength and ease of movement were viewed to be superhuman, the people in the community, who one would have thought would have been reluctant to have such as he in their midst, seemed to take far too readily to the dwarf's gruff and demeaning nature when it was balanced by the much needed services he catered to. Oaken Wood had never had a real tavern nor inn in their community. Travelers prior to Bracken's arrival had to rely upon the kindness of local families to provide room and board. Now though the community scarcely could imagine what they ever did without the tavern before.

  Ironically enough, the tavern's presence did nothing to truly bring outside commerce through the town more than before the building had been raised. A few travelers still wandered through and found warm lodging for when they did, but Oaken Wood remained out of the way for most, and rooms remained vacant far more often than they were not. And the locals ran more debt with the tavern than they actually paid, as well. Perhaps this was the reason none had ever attempted to build a tavern or inn before – there simply was no profit to readily be made in this small little town.
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br />   And yet, Bracken had not only built the place, but had stayed on maintaining it for over fifteen years. None understood his reasoning, but likewise they did not protest their good fortune. The Fang had become the heart and soul of the community, if for no other reason than it was the only common ground for socializing in the area. And none ever thought to question from where the coin to both build and sustain the establishment came from; they were simply content in its always being there.

  As open as the community was towards Bracken though, none doubted that the dwarf could readily back up his boastful manner and it had rarely been put to the test. Most knew that much of Bracken's demeanor was largely show, his bark far worse than his bite, yet there was a point which none truly wished to challenge nor risk crossing the line that took away the good-natured gruffness for the aggressive element lying beneath.

  To emphasize that he was far less tame than his patrons, Bracken kept a large battle axe mounted against the wall behind his bar, within easy reach should there ever be need. The axe, like the dwarf himself, had an untold story behind it – anyone could sense that in the way it was maintained even as a trophy. The mystery that hung over the blade was palpable to anyone who saw Bracken's eyes whenever his view crossed over the weapon. None had ever had the nerve to question the axe's purpose beyond a necessary security reserve. In all his years in Oaken Wood, Bracken had never seen fit to draw that blade down in defense, even in the midst of a brawl. That the weapon remained mounted on the wall and was never directly used by the proprietor spoke volumes of its importance to him, that the weapon was for better than such common skirmishes.

  Equally mystifying was was the reason Bracken had chosen to forsake his own kind to take up residence in a human settlement in the first place. But, as with the axe on the wall, no explanation had ever been forthcoming and none wished to inquire into the unspoken history that the dwarf himself was clearly not at all ready to discuss. All seemed content to accept him at face value, for all its bearded worth, than to give him cause to raise up that axe. And none doubted that the two were somehow connected so that to bring out one would require bringing out the other.

  In spite of the dwarf's mixed reputation, Nathaniel Goodsmith stood his ground by the tavern doorway as the short yet imposing figure marched up to him. There was no sense, and truly no good reason, to do otherwise.

  “If I 'av tol' ya once, I 'ave tol' ya a dozen times,” snarled the dwarf in his peculiar accent, “tha' ya are no' ta again set foot inta my bar!” Bracken's features suddenly broke into an amiable grin. “At leas' not withou' tha' fair lass and young'un in tow!” he declared as he reached out his meaty hand for Nathaniel's in greeting.

  “Well met to you as well, Master Bracken,” answered the young man formerly, with a barely suppressed smirk upon his lips. Nathaniel stood nearly two feet taller than the dwarf, with his blonde locks striking an obvious contrast with the dwarf's bristly red hair. Yet the two could have been long lost brothers with the warmth that passed between them.

  “Fah!” expounded the dwarf. “Ya woul' find the meetin' a fine thing, woul'n't ya?” The gleam in Bracken's eye showed the true feelings behind the words. “Wha' brings ya ta town, Nate?”

  Nathaniel shrugged. “Nothing much special. Just the monthly supply run.”

  “Always lookin' fer the lux'ries in life tha' ya canno' catch, grow nor fashion wit' your own two hands, aint'cha?” grumbled the dwarf. “Ya shoulda took more after us dwarves if'n you're so intent on livin' in the wilds 'way from town, as ya are! Otherwise, ya should jus' abandon the fool notion outrigh' and move inta town proper an' be done wit' it!”

  “Oh, you would like that, you old miscreant,” Nathanial grinned. “All the more often you'd be around then to pester and prod me into playing your game, huh?”

  “Fah!” Bracken grunted again. “Who would be wantin' some scrawny human hangin' aroun' 'is bootstraps all day? Jus' so's he could play a game all day, ya be thinkin'? Hah! You may be good, and more'n a challenge than some others, bu' tha's hardly a reason for ya to be aroun' underfoot all the time!

  “And you 'ad oughta take a better look at who's really ol' 'roun' here, or I migh' be inclined ta take down my axe and show ya the error o' your notion!”

  “Empty words, Master Bracken,” Nathaniel chuckled. “Now how much longer do we need to stand here exchanging pleasantries before we've satisfied your misdirected dwarven greeting ritual so I can pass already?”

  “Pleasan'ries?” barked the dwarf. “Strange man what can call a dwarf pleasan' in any way an' a greater fool for insultin' his host wit' such talk! I 'ave still a mind ta take up my axe! I will, truly! Mark my words!”

  “Then go after it and I'll take the chance to run while I've still got legs that will take me!”

  Bracken scrunched up his face. “Was tha' a short pun I be hearin'? You walk 'pon brittle ground, Goodsmith!”

  The man raised his hands in mock dismay. “May the Old Gods forbid!” he chuckled.

  Bracken's face took on an immediately serious inflection as he took Nathaniel by the arm and steered him away from the door. “Those are no' the safest words ta be sayin' jus' now, Nate,” cautioned the dwarf. “There's a priestess o' one o' those New Order faiths in town stirrin' things up.”

  Nate's eyes reflected the seriousness of the dwarf's words. “Which one? Which God this time?”

  “Who knows? Who can keep track o' dem all? I thank my blessin's tha' the New Order deities do no' take interest in us demi-humans much. They're you humans' problem's in tha'. But they're mighty touchy still one an' all on the subject o' the Old Gods.”

  “This one especially then?”

  Bracken nodded. ”Aye. Says she be on a mission ta baptize the heathen, ta save the los' souls what 'ave no' yet found their way. And ya know how they recruit from the ranks o' unbelievers...”

  Nathaniel's jaw clenched. He knew all too readily. His mother had lost her life to a zealous follower of Zantel, God of Merchants. She had made the mistake of defending the Old Gods' faith in a marketplace where the priestess was ministering. At first, the priestess had simply called upon her to repent, but when his mother had refused and cursed the priestess for her vanity, the priestess had ordered his mother stoned. Fear proved a powerful motivator to anyone who might be on the fence as to whether to be inducted into the new faith when shown such an example.

  “Should I go and come back another day?” Nathaniel asked. “I don't think it would be in the better interest of anyone for me to cross paths...”

  Bracken sighed. “No' much point'n that. She looks to be settin' up for a long stay, as 'tis. There's no sense'n ya starvin' you and yours up in the hills on account o' some misguided waif. But I 'ud curb my tongue on any less'n pop'lar topics durin' your stay, jus' ta be safe.”

  “And which 'misguided waif' might you be referring to, sir dwarf?” came a voice at Nathaniel's back. Bracken's face took on a stricken look as he bent sideways to see around his friend's waist to greet the newcomer, knowing full well she had overheard his words of caution.

  “Ya know I am speakin' o' your grace,” the dwarf tried hard to subdue his naturally gruff speech. “'Tis a dwarven affliction, I fear, that all ya humans be misguided in your ways. Af'erall, who'd live their whole lives in the sun, if no' misguided, ya be?”

  Bracken's words were clearly not having any positive effect, as the woman's eyebrow rose and her lips pursed – never a good combination in a human female, he knew from experience – and he sought to divert the outburst he felt sure was coming. “This here's Nate Goodsmith, come ta town for stores,” the dwarf blurted out. Sure, throw thy friend to the beast! he cursed inwardly. “He's no concern o' yours,” he quickly amended.

  “Truly?” Nathaniel turned to eye the voice's owner. The dark, raven haired woman would have been a beauty in a different context, he imagined. The delicate porcelain skin and emerald eyes held a fascinating, exotic look, coupled with the obviously well-formed frame. Yet the woman's harsh poise and s
tern expression overshadowed the surface beauty to expose what Nathaniel could only describe as a cruelty of intent. This woman had no compunction of harming another if it would serve her purposes, that much was plain to see. And at the moment, those eyes that held such potential for seduction were intently trying to bore into his very soul.

  “Then what 'unpopular topic' would it be he should avoid speaking of in my presence? Imery is the Goddess of Truth, after all. What then could this Goodsmith lad bespeak that would offend me if he were of no concern of mine? Surely you would not suggest that this handsome young man would not live up to his namesake?”

  Nathaniel's skin prickled with warning as much as with affront as the woman continued to discuss him as though he were not even present. The feeling was enough to remind him to bite back the words that he wanted to speak though. The New Order's clergy wielded incomparable authority and it would serve him poorly to insult one of them. His own mother's fate was evidence enough of that. He caught Bracken's furtive glance that called him to caution, which only reinforced the decision he had already reached. Yet that did not mean he could not act upon his loyalty to his friend.

  “I did not catch your name, milady,” Nathaniel interjected, hoping to turn her attentions away from Bracken. She had never taken her eyes off him, even as she had spoken for Bracken's intended ear, and as such it was fairly obvious that it was he she wished to speak with anyways.

  The woman started all the same. The question had taken her unawares for some reason. Perhaps she had thought Nathaniel would be cowed by her presence or just thought that none should ever address her without her leave to do so. Regardless, she responded without losing much more than a moment's time. “You may know me as Lady Brea, Imery's faithful servant.” The answer was obviously one she had fallen back upon by rote.

  Nathaniel nodded agreeably. “And if I wanted to know what to call you by if I were to be other than knowing of you?”