The God Sword

By Ty Johnston

Warrior and general, Lord Kavrik has been tasked by King Osrick to retrieve The God Sword from the city of Gloriolus where the famed blade has resided for untold centuries, in order to fulfill an ancient prophecy which would bring immortality to mankind, easing suffering and ending death itself.

Yet when Kavrik lays hands upon the divine sword, he finds not all is as expected, and the fate of man rests upon him.

Thus begins a journey which spans across thousands of years, from the past to the future and back, where Kavrik meets strange enemies and unlikely allies.

All in the name of faith.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ty Johnston
• Release date: Nov 30, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370793532

Ty Johnston

Originally from Kentucky, Ty Johnston is a former newspaper journalist. He lives in North Carolina with loving memories of his late wife.Blog: tyjohnston.blogspot.com

Book preview

Warrior and general, Lord Kavrik has been tasked by King Osrick to retrieve The God Sword from the city of Gloriolus where the famed blade has resided for untold centuries, in order to fulfill an ancient prophecy which would bring immortality to mankind, easing suffering and ending death itself.

Yet when Kavrik lays hands upon the divine sword, he finds not all is as expected, and the fate of man rests upon him.

Thus begins a journey which spans across thousands of years, from the past to the future and back, where Kavrik meets strange enemies and unlikely allies.

All in the name of faith.

The God Sword

by Ty Johnston

a Monumental Works Group author

Copyright 2017 by Ty Johnston

visit the author’s website: tyjohnston.blogspot.com

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This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2017 Ty Johnston

All artwork copyright © 2017 Ty Johnston

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, contact the publisher at [e-mail].

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Table of Contents

Part I: Enter The God Sword

Part II: The Broken Lands

Part III: The Forbidden City

Part IV: The Forgotten Temple

Part V: The Circle of Faith

Epilogue

Part I: Enter The God Sword

A hundred thousand had been slain across half a continent. Cities and fields had been burned. Ships had been scuttled, livestock butchered, roads uprooted, lives destroyed. All for this one night.

General Kavrik stared from atop a hill overlooking the wall-less city below. After all the battles, all the wading through the mud and the blood and the piss and the gore, after all the sacrifices and the tortures of brother against brother and fathers against son, after all that and more, this would be the easiest of confrontations. No more armies stood between the general’s forces and the city. All opposition had been slain or driven far away. Now there existed little between the massed troops of King Osrick and the handful of priests below. Not even a large city, Gloriolus sat unprotected but for a handful of temple guards, no threat to Kavrik’s massed troops, the place not unlike a newborn child left in the woods for the wolves to devour.

Of course there would be a few foolish citizens still milling about, those who had not believed it would ever come to this and those who thought themselves safe. They would pay the price. Considering himself a man of honor, Kavrik had always tried to restrain his men, but in the heat of war there was little he could do to smolder the burning embers of passion and hate. His men believed themselves an army of God, and those were the most dangerous of all armies.

Turning from the sight of the city, he mulled his way through the camp of his men, passing soldiers tugging on their armor, sharpening swords, swallowing a meal or taking a final drink. More than a few heads nodded in his direction and none too few saluted. Despite their zealousness, or perhaps in part because of it, Kavrik’s men appreciated him, a general who did not lead from behind, a general willing to do anything himself he asked of his soldiers, a general who did not place ineffectual officers between himself and the troops.

Kavrik nodded back, and he saluted. It was his way. The men must know him. He did not expect their love, and in fact would not have respected such over familiarity, but he did seek their respect. A leader without respect could not be effective and would have to watch his back. Kavrik had little to fear, as respect for him had been earned on campaign after campaign.

Now came the end, the final leg of the last campaign, here in Gloriolus.

Coming to a rise outside his war tent, Kavrik paused to stare back nearly a mile to another hill, this one well lit by torches and camp fires. There King Osrick waited, he and his personal guard. No coward Osrick, but his general had insisted the king remain outside the area of combat, especially as the king had a tendency towards arrogance and would not hesitate to thrust himself into the middle of a fight. Too much had been accomplished, too much lost, for the king to throw away his life here at the conclusion of hostilities when the very world was at their fingertips. At least Osrick had acquiesced to Kavrik’s strong suggestions and had remained behind, allowing the general to take lead in this particular clash.

Not that there will be much danger, Kavrik thought as he rounded a cooking fire and approached his large command tent, the front flaps tied back and a pair of well-armored guards at the sides.

Nodding to his guards, the commander of these troops crossed the border into his tent and paused just inside. Facing him was a familiar scene, a large field table unfolded, set up and covered by a large sheepskin map of Gloriolus and surrounding territories. Around the table stood a half dozen men, most nearly Kavrik’s age though a couple were relatively young with hairless chins, each man dressed in armor, wearing swords at their belts, and having short capes bearing the signs of their individual military ranks.

The six men had been talking amongst themselves, but each looked up and grew silent at sight of their general.

Kavrik stared back at these stern faces, faces which had crossed desserts and oceans with him, faces which had shared in the bloodletting and the screams and the horrors with him, faces which had suffered mutual losses with him of other faces which no longer stood with them.

Kavrik nodded again. It is time, he said.

No other words were shared. No questions were asked. The six officers glanced to one another, then gave their own nods to their commander and one by one proceeded past him, escaping the tent’s confines to give orders and prepare the men for the fight to come.

After the last of them exited, the general crossed to the table and looked down, his eyes taking in the markings upon the sheepskin. He stared at the circle that was Gloriolus, then reached down and pulled the edge of the map to one side, revealing another map beneath, this one written and drawn upon parchment. This second map showed the world, the known continents. Kavrik’s eyes followed a path from Gloriolus across several rivers and political boundaries to a shore, then across an ocean to another continent.

Home. It had been too long, nearly a decade. Nothing awaited him there, no wife, no children, no father or mother or siblings. There had never been a wife or children, as duty had encompassed Kavrik’s adult life, and his parents had long passed on to God. But perhaps now there would be time for rest, a time to start anew. Maybe Kavrik would find a wife, or perchance even the king would appoint him a suitable bride. No longer a young man, Kavrik still brimmed with strength and vitality, and he had more than a little wealth and fame, enough to make many a woman more than comfortable if not downright ecstatic.

But only after this last fight.

From outside the din of battle horns blared across the hilltops and down the slopes to Gloriolus itself. Kavrik’s men would be readying, and the priests below would be quivering in fear. Too bad for those priests, as they had chosen their own fate.

Tugging at the straps of his armor to make sure all fitted well, the commander crossed to a wooden rack and withdrew his weapons belt and strapped it about his hips. Resting a hand upon his sword, he turned and strode forth from his tent.

As he had said, it was time.

***

Hardened leather cracked against oak as General Kavrik’s left boot hit the double doors of the temple, snapping the doors back against the walls to reveal the bright chamber beyond. Soldiers swarmed around him, pushing in from the brick and dirt-packed streets of Gloriolus to spread through the temple, their spears and swords leading the way. Robe-garbed priests fled, their sandaled feet kicking up behind them as they raced away down the length of the temple’s marble floor, most vanishing out back exits but some few butchered before they could escape.

Within a matter of moments, all came to a standstill. The fighting had finished at long last.

Crossing the white floor, Kavrik stepped forward between his men to face the temple’s altar, a stone rectangle roughly the size and shape of a coffin though taller. Atop this altar lay a sword with a golden hilt, its blade as bright as silver and twice as long as any sword carried by those of King Osrick’s army.

A hush sped across the dozens present as if each man sucked in air and was afraid to breathe. At long last, they had reached their goal.

The God Sword.

Kavrik approached, lifting a hand towards the sword.

Then snapped that hand back as from behind the altar another priest appeared, his features lined and ancient behind his pale beard. He waved his arms and his robes flapped about him as he came from behind the sword to stand between it and the general.

Enough! the old man yelled. By the soul of our founder, Brother Troisan, you must not lay hand upon the sword.

Kavrik sneered. The religious arguments had been waged for years, and now real war had been waged for years, yet this fool still sought to bar the way of King Osrick.

Wait! the old man said, his arms upthrust as if to ward off a blow. You do not understand! The God Sword was placed here not for men but only for God himself. Only when his champion comes may the sword be lifted, and by the champion alone.

Kavrik waved off his soldiers who were drawing swords. He stepped closer to the priest. It is you who does not understand, old man. Our king will have that sword. It is his destiny, the prophecy fulfilled. Has there not been enough bickering? Has there not been enough bloodshed? Step aside and let it end here without losing your life.

The general knew of what he spoke. He had spent hours upon hours not only in talks with the king, but in studying the ancient texts sent down by the unnamed prophets of old, and in talks with the priests of the king’s own church. The old ones had told of a champion who would grasp the sword and thus bring immortality to mankind. These fools here in Gloriolus had kept the sword to themselves for thousands of years, constantly warning of its dangers and saying that the time had not yet come, using their keeping of the blade for their own political might. Well, no more. Osrick had decided long ago he was the champion of prophecy, and who was Kavrik to disagree? If nothing else, the battles waged across the continent had seemed to fulfill the prophecies which had spoken of death and destruction.

Yet all this knowledge was not enough to thwart the old man in front of Kavrik.

No, the priest said, stubborn and bold as he moved between the general and The God Sword. The sword is not for you, nor for your king. It is not to be handled. The time has not come.

I say it has, Kavrik said, unsheathing the sword from his belt. Without further words, he swiped the blade out and up, slicing from hip to shoulder.

The old man staggered back grimacing at the rent in his garb and the crimson line that sprang alive there, the blood slowly pouring down. He grasped at his chest, his fingers instantly stained red. Leaning back against the altar, he glared at Kavrik. This will be your undoing, your doom.

Then he died, sliding to the stone floor, his back still against the altar.

The general stood over the body, staring down at it. Then he sheathed his weapon and turned to his men present. No one touches the sword. Inform the king’s guard the sword is ready and waiting for him.

***

Osrick did not come. Instead he sent a messenger, informing his general the sword was to be brought to the king, that Kavrik personally would lay hand upon the holy weapon and carry it to Osrick.

Kavrik realized he should have expected as much. The king had never lacked for hubris, and it was like him after all of the campaigns and battles and deaths to want what he had sought all along to be brought to him on a pillow or a silver platter instead of him going to it himself, regardless of the fact he had already traveled halfway around the world just to be here.

Beyond this irking, Kavrik still found himself in a quandary. The prophecies had been quite clear. Only the champion was to rest a hand upon the sword, and once he had done so, mankind would know immortality. The ancient scrolls had never mentioned someone else touching The God Sword, and Kavrik had no idea what would happen if he or another were to do so. Would the wielder be struck dead? Would the sword lose its magic, leaving the prophecies never to be fulfilled? Or would nothing happen, the stories only becoming true once Osrick had hold of the weapon?

There was no way to know other than to take up the sword, and this Kavrik was reluctant to do. Yet he had always been a king’s man since his youngest days, setting aside any plans for a family or other business, forever loyal to Osrick who had proven himself to love his people despite his arrogance. The religious zeal which had swept their nation had not been Osrick’s doing, but that of their own priests, men with long beards and longer robes who had shared a faith in God with those of the temple where the sword had lain for centuries but who had interpreted the old prophecies in a new manner. Osrick had been reluctant to set out upon the warpath, for years attempting diplomacy and even bribery to get the sword in his own hands, but ultimately all that had failed, leading to war across the globe with Kavrik at the helm.

Starring at the unmoving sword upon the altar, the general grimaced. He could feel the weight of his men behind him, officers watching, waiting to see what Kavrik would do. They, too, knew the prophecies. They, too, knew the importance of Kavrik’s choices, to deny the king or to deny prophecy.

The decision came down to one of temperament. Though not a rash man and not stupid, Kavrik held himself as a man of action, a man who balked at indecisiveness. He could stand and pace and think for hours, yet he knew no proper answer would simply be thrust into his mind. Either way he stepped, there could be repercussions.

Damn them, he said.

And he reached for the sword, grabbing it by its hilt and lifting it from stone.

A bolt not unlike lightning shot through his body, causing his back to arch slightly and his eyes to dilate. For a brief moment, Kavrik saw a tunnel of blackness in front of him, the tunnel seeming to recede fast and further and further away, almost as if he were falling from the top of some deep well. His head swam slightly and he felt unsteady on his feet, disoriented and dizzy.

Then he snapped back to full awareness and found he continued to stand next to the altar in the temple, the wire-wrapped, gold handle of the sword in his right hand. His lips parted slightly as he gasped in air and looked about himself.

A dozen of his officers and a handful of his guards stood there watching him just as they had before he had touched The God Sword. No surprise appeared in their features. If anything, the men looked anxious, as if they were waiting for something to happen.

Nothing had changed. The world still went on. Kavrik almost chuckled, wondering if his sensation upon grasping the sword had been but an illusion brought about by his own expectations.

He turned to his men. Inform the king I bring him the sword.

***

Thus General Kavrik brought The God Sword to King Osrick. He found the king in front of the royal tent on the hilltop, banners showing the king’s colors flapping in the night breeze. The king reclined in his portable throne, a chair so large and heavy it took half a dozen men simply to lift it onto a wagon for transport.

Osrick smiled from his seat as his general approached, the king’s armor shining gold from the nearby camp fires and torches atop poles. The man appeared his age, nearly forty, with dark hair gray at the edges above the ears, his chin a bristle of a week’s growth, his limbs sturdy beneath chain and bronzed plate. All in all he appeared imposing despite his grin.

With nearly a thousand officers and soldiers in formation at his back, Kavrik approached slowly, almost with ceremony, silence reigning throughout the camp as the legions held their breaths, all eyes upon the scene. This moment would be written of in history, the moment when King Osrick took hold of The God Sword and as the prophecies had promised, immortality would come. What that prophecy actually meant, no one knew, but the general belief was mankind would no longer have to face death; Osrick had built a war on that belief, promising eternal life for all.

When Kavrik came within a few feet of the throne, Osrick pushed himself to standing and stared down at the commander of his armies. Kavrik lowered his eyes and held the sword forward, the fingers of his left hand gently beneath the blade of the weapon while his right hand cupped the pommel.

At long last, Osrick said.

His general remained silent, allowing the scene to unfold naturally.

With hesitation, as if unsure of himself or of The God Sword, the king reached out. His fingers lingered just beyond the steel and gold of the weapon, quivering from anticipation or fear.

Then Osrick took the sword, one hand upon the hilt, the other gently upon the steel. He brought The God Sword up to his eyes and he stared into the silvered length of its blade as if he expected to divulge some unknown secrets of the universe. Kavrik glanced up at this moment, half expecting to see something in Osrick’s eyes that was a sign of what had occurred to Kavrik himself upon touching the sword, but whatever transpired between the king and the sword, if anything, none would ever know but the king himself.

A slow sigh of disappointment escaped Kavrik’s lips. Then again, none of those present had seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary when the general had taken the blade. Perhaps Osrick had felt that jolt to his body, or perhaps not. Whatever the case might be, the sword now belonged to the king.

Bring me a prisoner, Osrick said, holding the sword horizontal across himself as he looked over it to his general. Then the king smiled. One of the priests should do, one of those captured at the temple.

Kavrik gave a curt nod and turned to face the gathering of officers and soldiers. He snapped a finger and several of the men ran off to gather a prisoner. Then Kavrik turned back to face the monarch, not knowing exactly what Osrick had planned, though the general had a guess.

Within moments soldiers returned, thrusting forward a young man garbed in the flowing robes of the priesthood. The youthful figure fell to his hands and knees, then looked up into the eyes of Osrick suddenly standing over him.

Now we test the prophecies, the king said, gripping the sword’s handle in both hands to the left of his head.

The priest opened his mouth to speak, perhaps to beg mercy or to cry out, but words had no time to escape his lips. Bright steel flashed and crimson rained from the young man’s throat, splattering the ground and the boots of a few nearest officers. A gasp came from several throats of those present and watching, but none intervened as the priest grabbed at his neck, red rolling between his fingers and down into his frock. He swayed on his knees for a few moments, then his eyes rolled up in his head and he dropped forward, no longer moving.

Osrick grunted, then leaned down and wiped the blade clean on the dead youth’s clothing. Standing, he said, So much for immortality.

Perhaps there is something more to it, Kavrik said from behind the king.

Osrick turned to face him. What do you mean?

Perhaps it is only immortality for our people, not these of this land, Kavrik said, or perhaps it is only immortality for yourself, my liege.

The king nodded. You might be right. Whatever the truth might be, at least now we have the sword. Now our own priests will have time to divulge its secrets.

True, Kavrik said.

Slowly the king spun to face his troops. Prepare to march! he shouted out. We travel home!

A roar of approval greeted him.

***

The travels west took place slowly, it being no easy feat to move thousands of armored men along with wagons, riding beasts, siege engines, and the usual servants and stragglers who followed any army. The land itself remained