by Ron Glick
The ebon Goddess' face registered shock as a visible energy built around the point of penetration. Without any other warning, an explosion erupted from within the wound, throwing the Goddess and her attacker alike away from the point of impact.
Bracken recovered far quicker than the Goddess but the axe had fallen from his grip, leaving him defenseless. The Goddess however lay upon the ground clutching at her side in confusion. “Impossible...”
The dwarf cast about for his axe and spied it embedded in the ground some distance away. Cursing, he turned his back on the Goddess to retrieve his weapon, leaving her ample time to rise again. Her hand moved over where the blade had pierced her and in a moment, there was no sign of a wound at all.
That did not last, however. No sooner did the wound vanish than a new one was created - as the silver end of a sword stabbed at her front. This strike however did not cause her to shirk whatsoever. Loris and Nalen had appeared out of nowhere, seeking to press the assault upon the Goddess.
“No!” Brea's voice cracked, but it would not have mattered if her voice had been to its full strength. Her words were barely uttered before the Goddess swept her arm to the side, dark shadow erupting outward like a scythe, slicing the two attackers in twain. Shock registered on Nalen's face as his body twisted to face Brea before his upper torso fell to the ground lifeless.
A new scream erupted from the distance, and Brea's attention was instantly drawn to another point of conflict. Avery stood with his sword buried in the chest of the Goddess who had stood beside the ebon one, her head thrown back as she cried an echoing shriek of agony. The battle fell silent as all eyes were drawn to the impossible feat - a Goddess impaled upon a sword.
The Goddess remained held, helpless as multiple facets of herself began to swirl about her, drawn into the form held in place by the blade. Energy waves began to pulse outward from the focal point of the tempest. The God who had wielded the lighting had tears of fire burning his face as he held his own arm, now showing no sign at all of trying to reform. The Goddess who had come to his aid was nowhere to be seen. Even at this distance, Brea could hear the Mastron's whispered protest. “Enuchek, no...”
The pulses of outward energy grew more powerful, doubling then tripling in strength. Brea found herself having to brace herself against the force being cast out from the epicenter of Avery's attack. Then, with an inexplicably soft sigh, the form impaled upon the blade dissolved into a purplish smoke, which itself was drawn into Avery's blade.
Enuchek, Goddess of Mystery, was gone. And Brea felt it as absolutely as she knew her own name.
Before any could react, Avery moved again, taking advantage of the deathly stillness that had fallen over the assembled mortals and Gods alike. Without any show of hesitancy, his sword came around and decapitated the other God kneeling at his feet, severing Mastron's weeping face from his body.
Yet again, the pulse of power came, but this time it was as one large, harsh burst of thunder. Whether this was because Avery had already sapped energy from the God or it was representative of a different form of death, it seemed to matter little. Mastron, God of the Storm, fell in an instant, his own body bursting into sparks great and small, most of which were equally absorbed into Avery's God-forged weapon.
The would-be God of Vengeance turned, fire burning in his eyes as he turned to face Galanor and the ebon Goddess. But in doing so, he was unprepared as a silken strand wrapped suddenly about his neck and flung him forcefully into the air. At the apex of its range, the man's body was released and he flew unceremoniously through the front wall of a nearby building.
Galanor bellowed in victory as he moved to take advantage of Avery's fall, but Brea acted first. Her power had so far been a complete mystery to her, manifesting whatever form it needed to take. Before now, it had always been instinct, yet this time, she had a specific idea in mind. Calling upon the skill she had used to make her light physical, she combined it with the energy spear she had cast earlier, forming the image she desired in her mind before throwing her new construct at the Knight of the Fields.
Galanor's mad rush came to an abrupt halt as Brea's barbed energy construct pierced his chest. And when the priestess hauled back upon the tether she had created, the great God was pulled off his feet and fell abruptly on his backside. In moments, the tether took the form of a great rope of power that twisted and bound the God to the very dirt from which his power was drawn.
“Release me, witch!” yelled the felled God, but Brea only laughed, tying off her power so that it remained solid without connection to her own body.
“Defy her will, and feel Imery's wrath,” Brea heard herself say.
“Imery is dead! You cannot speak for her!”
“Then perhaps,” said a man's voice from beside the priestess, “what you are witnessing is a new Goddess of Truth?”
Brea's heart missed a beat as she looked to her side to see another deity - but one unlike any she had ever seen. The being's divinity was unmistakable, but the entity's raven black head defied any image she had ever held of a God. In response to Brea's unspoken befuddlement, the creature cocked his head in an amazing imitation of an actual bird, while his beak twisted in an uncharacteristic smile.
“But what does the lowly Opopu know of such things?” Without another word, the being vanished in a burst of foul-smelling smoke, leaving only a dark feather to flutter to the ground where he had stood.
Galanor howled in rage. “Release me!”
“I think not,” came another voice, this one familiar. From the front of the building, Avery approached, his left arm clearly shattered as it lay twisted at his side. A large gash on his forehead had left a flap of flesh laying exposed against his skull, blood pouring profusely from the wound. Somehow, though his strength was visibly failing him, he still held the sword, its weight dragging in the dirt behind the man. “You would only return... to do more harm,” he managed.
Ankor stepped out of the air behind Avery. “Use your power to heal,” whispered the God. Though the words had been intended for Avery alone, Brea found herself able to hear them as plainly as though they were spoken for all to hear.
“I...” Avery turned, confused at the God beside him. Still holding One, he raised his hand out towards the Trickster. “I like you better as Hamil...” he said. Then his eyes rolled up into his head and he pitched forward, falling into the God's arms.
“You have one chance at redemption here, traitor,” came the voice of the ebon Goddess, appearing out of a dark swirl in the air before Avery and Ankor. “Step away from the Godslayer.”
“I...” Ankor looked helplessly between his sister and the unconscious body he held in his arms. “Belask, please...” The God visibly struggled with what to do, but the decision was taken from him in the next instant.
Once again, Bracken appeared, swinging his great axe at the Goddess. “We're no' done ye', ya harlo'!” The Goddess turned, dodging the edge of the axe, plain insecurity visible upon her face. Inexplicably, that very blade had hurt her earlier, and she had no desire for another strike. Yet the move to avoid one blade made her vulnerable for another.
Ankor let out a scream of agony, which acted as the only forewarning. Brea and the Goddess alike turned at the sound to see Ankor rising, the sword known as One wielded in his hand. But his arm was afire, the energy of the sword eating at his flesh. With torment driving him, the God thrust the blade forward, aiming for Belask's chest. The sword fell in its arc however, and it instead skewered the Goddess directly above her left hip. Nevertheless, the sword remained embedded as the Trickster released his hold, falling to the ground in anguish, rolling back and forth crying, clutching at the scarred and twisted flesh of his arm.
Energy ebbed from where the sword remained lodged in Belask's body. She reached down to pull it free, but shirked back at the spark of pain that met her at the slightest touch. The ebon Goddess steeled herself, clutching her fists for some act of will that she might be able to exert, but Brea gave her no opp
ortunity to act.
The priestess leaped forward and clutched the handle of the blade, twisting it firmly into the Goddess' body. Instantly, the power held in check inside Belask's open wound burst along the steel of the blade and into Brea's body. She found her hands bonded with the sword as the power of the Goddess flowed untamed into her body. She wanted to scream herself as the power rebelled with that which was already within her frame, but a moment later whatever resistance existed fell away.
The dark and terrible energy that represented that of the Goddess of the Unseen joined with the light of truth in her heart and the two forces found common ground, merging into a force greater than what had existed before. Without Imery's gift, Brea was certain she would never have recognized any of this - but she was her Goddess' last vestige of power on this plane, and with that gift came understanding - and the ability to see beyond that which is unseen.
Brea realized at that moment that she had closed her eyes as she had observed the conflict within her body, and now opened them to fully take in what was happening around her. She found herself staring into the disbelieving face of the Goddess of the Unseen, but the Goddess' eyes could not be seen. Where the Goddess' eyes had been, great plumes of smoke were invading her body. Instantly, Brea understood that this energy represented the other incarnations of the Goddess from all over Na'Ril, joining to the form which was presently stabbed by the blade in her hand.
A moment later, the Goddess sighed and her body slacked. As her muscles fell to their lowest point, the Goddess' body dissolved, black, sulphurous smoke falling away from where her body had been, dissolving into the ground at the priestess' feet.
A twinge at the edge of her awareness caused Brea to turn about, leveling the sword at the throat of the final Goddess, who had attempted to charge the priestess from behind. The Goddess Brea now knew as Orlicia, Goddess of the Dream, swallowed as the edge of the sword fell just short of piercing her skin. The Goddess scowled, hatred only a Goddess could possibly emote plain upon her face. A moment later, the Goddess vanished, leaving no trace of her presence behind.
Suffused with new power, Brea leveled the sword at the God she had bound. “Galanor,” she said simply. “Give me reason why I should not slay you here and now.”
If the priestess had expected some form of capitulation, she was sorely disappointed. “You are mortal.” He lifted his head and spit at the ground by her feet. “You have earned my wrath and I will see your soul burn for all eternity!”
A hand fell upon the woman's shoulder, and another reached for her hand that wielded the sword. “This is my task,” said Avery's voice. Brea was not greatly surprised to find that the man's wounds were now healed. Once his senses had been restored, he had clearly utilized his own power to do precisely what Ankor had asked of him.
Brea offered no resistance as the man who had long called himself the God of Vengeance took back his blade. Once in hand, he hesitated not a moment in driving the blade directly into the God's heart. Galanor's body ebbed in form, his skin becoming fluid. From the earth around him, various versions of himself own rose up and joined with his body, the fluidity of his shape seeming to grow in size with each new form. Within a heartbeat, the God's form was twice the size it had originally been, but he did not grow beyond this.
Throughout all of this, even though the God clearly suffered with what was happening to him, he did not cry out. Instead his steely eyes continued to glare at Brea, the unspoken oath to see her tortured carried on the invisible daggers he shot at her through the force of his will. Then, without any great expulsion of force, the God's body simply crumbled into dust and blew away.
Avery lifted the sword, raising it over his shoulder to sheath it into its scabbard. “None of the Gods are safe to release,” he said as he bent down to the side of the one God who remained. Ankor sat on his haunches, clutching at his blistered arm. “All save this one.” The man looked severe as he turned his gaze to Brea and Bracken, who had come to stand beside the priestess. “Ankor is under my protection.”
Neither the priestess nor the dwarf had any reason to challenge the man.
Chapter 18
For the second time inside of a week, Nathaniel found himself waking to the feeling of absolute discordia. This time around, it was not nearly as all consuming, but it certainly was not pleasant. As his mind once again resumed taking mental accounts of his surroundings, the only thing he could be certain of was that he was not lying down - and he was only sure of this because he felt an overwhelming need to.
Voices filtered in through the man's ears, but his mind could not yet translate their meaning. There were many - of that much he could be certain. If there were only a few, he was confident he could have understood them. It was in trying to gain perspective of dozens of voice at once that was confusing him.
Nathaniel tried to open his eyes, but found the effort made him nauseous. A sharp pain in the back of his head reminded him that he had been struck, but the details of the incident would not come into focus. He remembered dirt in his mouth, and someone squatting nearby, concerned that her dress not drag in the dirt...
All at once, the memory returned and the man forced his eyes open, ignoring the disorientation that suffused his body as he did so. The illness would pass, he believed, but his safety in general might be another thing entirely.
Nathaniel found himself seated, looking up at a crowd of people mingling around him. He recognized many of them - people he had grown up around in Oaken Wood. Occasionally, one would look in his direction, but when they saw him looking back, to a man they all averted their eyes.
“We will move him to the altar,” came a woman's voice, and the man fixated on it with a cold certainty. It was the priestess of Zantel, the one who had - or would - kill his mother. And who now had him captive...
Rough hands reached down and hoisted the man to his feet. He could feel his arms bound behind him, his scabbard pressed roughly against his arms. The thought crossed his mind of whether they had still left him Two, there might be a way to command the sword even without drawing it. But he dismissed the thought almost immediately as he caught sight of the familiar steel shoved through the rope belt of a large man to his side, one of his escorts.
Walking out of the shade of wherever he had been held, Nathaniel gauged the time to be roughly before midday - which meant he had lost an entire day. The sun was high in the sky, and the central road in town was filled with townsfolk who had clustered around the poorly constructed altar which Erias had had built in the centermost area of the community, just up the road from the Wyrm's Fang. Clearly, some kind of word had been passed that the priestess intended to hold a ceremony, for the people had come out to hear.
This had been why so many people had been flocked about - they were the fringes of the crowd gathered at the center of town, possibly people curious enough to scout out what Erias had arranged.
Nathaniel felt he must have passed out again since the next thing he knew, his back cried in pain as he was thrown against the base of the altar. His body ached in agony from the wounds already inflicted, and he struggled to make sure he did not lose consciousness again.
“Citizens of Oaken Wood,” called Erias. The woman was not immediately visible from where Nathaniel sat propped against the stone structure, but he could imagine her raising her hands for attention. That was how so many people like her began their rhetoric, after all. “Most of you have heard, I am quite certain, but let me speak to those who do not yet know.”
The woman appeared from the edge of the structure to Nathaniel's right, stepping forward so she could visibly stab her accusing finger at him. “We have a blasphemer in our midst, someone who has suckled himself to your community without any care or concern for your welfare.”
“I didn't--” Something solid struck the side of Nathaniel's face, forcing blood to fly free in the opposite direction.
“I'll break your jaw next time,” came a menacing voice.
Nathaniel turned to
see the glint of Two hanging inches from his face and knew the identity of his assailant. He wanted to rage against his bonds, but his anger was cold, forcing his rage down, tempering it for something more useful.
“He accuses the New Order of atrocities which cannot be permitted,” the woman continued. “I thought I could pass this by, for I was assured this man was simply sick of the mind. Yet I prayed upon this, and Zantel himself appeared before me and blessed me with the wisdom needed to see the error in this thinking. This heretic would slur the goodwill of the New Order to keep you all rooted in the old ways, to deny you the prosperity which is your right under the blessings of Zantel.”
The priestess paced a moment, taking in the mood of the crowd. “I asked my God, asked what I should do. I spoke on behalf of this man and the fever which had robbed him of his rational mind, but Zantel informed me that none of this was true - that this man was a mockery, who knew entirely who he was and what he spoke of. This man is not suffering from an illness of the mind - he speaks deliberately, and he speaks knowing that what he says are lies.”
Gasps arose from members of the crowd at this. Nathaniel could see a slight smile twist the corner of the woman's mouth, though he was certain that none in the crowd would have noticed. The people were reacting just as she wished them to, and she was pleased.
Nathaniel felt the urge to rise up, to slap aside that look of self-satisfaction, but he remembered at the same time that he had a warden. Instead, he cast his eye upon the sword that dangled so tantalizingly close, and began calculating how he could move in order to lay his hands upon it. This guard knew nothing of the sword's true power - and all Nathaniel needed was to grip the handle to invoke it. But it would require precision and timing, so he could not act on an impulse - he needed to wait out the woman and her rants, to wait for an opportunity.
