The blood of god, p.3
The Blood of God, page 3
“No,” said Farris. “King Diarmuid was fond of brothels back in his youth, and even more so in his later days, but he never fathered a son. Your men made sure of that.”
Cathbad clasped his hands together, interlocking thin fingers with thin fingers. “How so?”
Farris stood. “You know well ‘how so!’ You had the Wraiths of Seletoth track any woman Diarmuid lay with, murdering those who fell victim to his seed. I’ve read the reports; dozens died because you were too afraid to say to your king, ‘No!’”
“If I know more than I let on, Farris, then you know far, far less. These ‘Wraiths,’ as you call them, are no different to the Sons of Seletoth: nothing more than mortal men who chose to serve the Lord in a manner different to me or you.”
Farris inhaled deeply. He thinks this will get to me.
“I’ve spoken to one of the Sons about his Seeing,” said Farris. “He told me that he felt Seletoth’s infinite power and learned that He does not love us. Does this adhere to the teachings of the Church?”
The smile faded from Cathbad’s face. “Of course not. The Lord created the earth and Her fruits and loves each of His creations like a parent does a child. The Sons’ iconoclasm is nothing more than a baseless attack on our faith.”
“Then why does the Church not share this same love for the people of Alabach?” Farris’s voice was rising. “Families starve outside your walls while you walk on carpets paved with enough gold to save them.” He gestured to the portrait of Seletoth. “Doesn’t your god want you to help His children?”
The Arch-canon closed his eyes. “That is not our purpose. We uphold the moral and intellectual fabric of society, and we have allocated our resources to best let us achieve that.”
“I’m sure there are many in Penance who’d prefer food and shelter than whatever the Holy Hell that’s supposed to mean.”
Cathbad shook his head and sighed. “Farris Silvertongue, you must not assume you can do a better job bearing the burdens of those who rule. How easy it must be, to sit across from me and claim you could feed and shelter the poor—all the poor—if you only you were in my place. Yes, the riches of our establishment would be yours in that case to do as you please. But they too come with the responsibility of ensuring the continuity of the Church. If you truly understood the purpose of our work, you’d quickly see that opening the Basilica doors and spreading its wealth across the land without a plan would be reckless and irresponsible.”
“But it would be the right thing to do.”
Cathbad smiled. “Perhaps. But often what the people want is not the same as what they need.”
Farris bared his teeth. “And what is it they need more than food and shelter? If you saw what I’ve seen growing up in the Dustworks, you’d do whatever you could to help.”
“Ah,” said Cathbad. “But if you knew what I know about the will of our Lord, you’d understand why we cannot.”
Farris didn’t respond. Oh, but I know quite a bit about that already.
The Arch-Canon returned to his seat. “Back to the matter at hand, what makes you think the girl will travel south?”
“The scouts of the Triad have been spread across the Clifflands in the wake of the attack on Penance.” Farris paused. He could have lied there and then and said they saw her, but he hesitated.
As if sensing this weakness, Cathbad pressed further. “But she has already destroyed Dromán with her horde, correct? She marched her army through the Academy grounds and took a thousand battlemages into her ranks. I don’t believe she’d leave any behind, so why go back?”
Farris narrowed his eyes.
He knows, he realised. He just wants me to admit it. He considered Cathbad for another moment. The man’s expression was unreadable, like grey stone. Let’s see what reaction this gets.
“We have found the tomb of the Lady Meadhbh,” Farris began. He kept his voice low and calm. “It is located near Dromán. Santos and King Diarmuid uncovered it a year ago when they were building the underground railway. Shortly after the horde was defeated here, we parlayed with the Lady Meadhbh Herself.”
Farris paused. Although Cathbad’s expression remained unchanged, his eyes no longer seemed so dark. Instead, they stared back at Farris with something between wonder and fear.
Oh dear. Perhaps he didn’t know after all.
“She told us of the lies of the Church,” Farris continued. “That Seletoth did not create the heavens and the earth, or the flora and fauna that inhabit them. All He created was the Human race, and only they are bound to the Tapestry of Fate.”
“This is known,” whispered Cathbad. “Though not by many. What else did She say?”
“Meadhbh alluded to something She called ‘the Truth.’ Some secret that the Church was established to protect. Some piece of knowledge that drove many mad once they witnessed it. She believes that Morrígan has caught a glimpse of this Truth and will do whatever it takes to learn more. When she does, destroying Seletoth and ending all life will be the only reasonable response.”
Farris’s words seemed to weaken Cathbad. The old man placed a trembling hand against his wrinkled neck, grimacing as he rubbed his skin.
“This is what I feared the most,” he muttered, looking away. “The power to see what truths the gods show to us is indeed a gift, but often comes with the curse of being unable to unsee them…” He slowly met Farris’s eyes. “Tell me, what was it like to be face to face with a god?”
Farris considered the question. The Arch-Canon’s demeanour now seemed closer to what one would expect of a man of his age, without the robe and the stole.
“It was… horrible. All my life, I did not believe in power greater than my own. I did not believe something so terrible, yet so beautiful, could exist.”
“Your reaction is understandable,” said Cathbad. “Not many have experienced what you have, and even fewer are capable of carrying on afterwards. They say that those who tend to Seletoth Himself on the peak of Mount Selyth are not even allowed to look upon His face.”
“They say…” repeated Farris. “I get the impression you know more than you let on.”
The Arch-Canon smiled weakly. “Farris Silvertongue, that is the most sensible thing you’ve said since this meeting began. Let’s say I give you what you need to fly the Triad’s army south, and a few hundred of my own to join them. What next?”
“We’ll fortify the entrance to Meadhbh’s Tomb and scout the area. We’ll protect the Lady will all of our might.”
“And are you willing to do whatever it takes?”
“Yes,” said Farris, slowly. He recalled Morrígan’s form after she killed King Diarmuid. The two great black-feathered wings that unfurled from her body. Argyll sprinting towards her. Morrígan throwing him from the Tower of Sin…. “There is nothing more important right now than stopping Morrígan. Nothing.”
The Arch-Canon smiled. “I’ll see to it that an adequate number of ships harboured at Sin are fitted with focus-crystals. Though we will only allow for enough to see them to Dromán and back. And those blasphemous long-distance ships will remain grounded here. Furthermore, I’ll have a small portion of our remaining Churchguard assembled at dawn.”
Farris nodded. Two half measures. More than enough to count this as a win.
Cathbad rose to his feet. “All that’s left to be asked now Farris, is will you be ready to join them in this fight?”
“No,” said Farris, extending a hand. “But I won’t let that stop me.”
“An admirable attitude. But what if you are called to lead them? Dog-headed determination alone is not enough to be a ruler. If that time comes, will you be able to tell the difference between what is right, and what must be done?”
Farris did not answer, and Cathbad did not wait for a reply. With a sweep of his robes, the Arch-canon turned to leave. But it wasn’t the splendour of his garments that kept Farris’s attention as he left, nor was it the confidence in his stride. The harsh eyes of Lord Seletoth stared down at the Simian from the portrait across the room, as if having already cast judgment on his actions.
“Not yet,” muttered Farris, “We’re just getting started.”
Chapter 2:
The Last Carríga
The city of Penance still lingers between joy and despair. Many citizens continue to celebrate their so-called victory over the horde, but they do not know what this victory implies. They do not understand what happened up there in the Tower of Sin. None saw the look on the Silverback’s face as he slid a dagger across King Diarmuid’s neck, nor did they witness the birth of a new god. No, something potentially more powerful than any god, if the Lady is correct.
I jumped on the opportunity to leave Penance with the Chief Engineer, to fly south tomorrow and begin fortifying the Dromán outpost. Before we left, the Chief Engineer convinced Farris to petition the Churchguard to help us. As much as I hate to admit it, the Simian does have a way with words, but I doubt he’ll be able to convince the Arch-Canon. He’d have a better chance of purging all the poison from the Glenn.
Journal of Padraig Tuathil, 13th Day under the Moon of Nes, AC404
***
The body of Cathal Carríga stared unblinking at the ceiling through eyes in sunken sockets. Although a lad not much past twenty years, he had the appearance of a man who had seen four times that. Of a man who had lived a long, and healthy life.
Fionn bowed his head as grieving thoughts ran through his mind. Thoughts that were not his own.
He would have died fighting the horde if he was able, said Sir Bearach. The dead knight’s voice echoed against the back of Fionn’s head. He doesn’t deserve to slip away from the world like this.
Fionn grimaced, balling the hand that once belonged to Sir Bearach into a fist. Nobody does.
Across the clinic, Aislinn Carríga gazed down at her dying brother. Almost as large as a Simian, her presence alone brought the clinic into a deep, solemn silence.
Only the two healers tending to the dying man made any sound. One pulled back the sheets to take Cathal’s hand into her own. Beneath yellowing translucent skin, red and blue veins slithered up the frail arm, where a slender tube entered the man’s skin at his wrist. The healer deftly pulled the tube from the arm, revealing the significant length which had lain within. Fionn tried hard not to recoil with fright.
Simian medicine, mused Fionn. Our white magic and alchemy are far simpler than their chemistry, so why keep him alive with the latter? Not that it mattered any longer. The Silverback had promised Aislinn that her brother would be allowed pass in peace. But now, the Silverback too lay in another clinic’s bed, still unconscious since the night the horde came. It was likely he’d recover, but in what state, the healers could only guess.
Fionn flexed the fingers on his left hand, his own hand. The white mages of the Triad had done a great job of healing the wound Morrígan had left behind, but they could no nothing to make his hand less grotesque, with swollen pink skin now all that lay between his index and far-finger. Those he could move but nothing more.
“How much longer?” said Aislinn, turning the heads of the two healers tending to Cathal Carríga with her tone.
“This was the only thing that kept him alive, milady,” said one of the healers, now dismantling the apparatus that held the network of tubes that once gripped Cathal’s body. “If you have anything you want to say, now would be the best time.”
If Aislinn had heard those words, she gave no indication. The Lady of Rosca Umhír continued to stare down at her brother.
Bearach, thought Fionn. I think… I think I should tell her. This could very well be our—
I said no! barked the knight. Just let her grieve for one brother at a time.
A low murmur escaped Cathal’s greying lips, though nothing close to a spoken word. Fionn had read about this before. Death rattles: the sound of a man’s last breath leaving his body. But something flickered in the patient’s eyes, and for the first time since Fionn had first seen him, Cathal Carríga blinked.
A lucid glint replaced Cathal’s dead stare as he rolled over to face Fionn. In silence, he considered Fionn’s over-sized right arm for a moment, then turned to the other side to look up at the giant of a lady that stood over him.
“Ash…” he groaned, something close to a smile creeping across his face. “Am I home?”
“Cathal,” whispered Aislinn. All her stoic strength vanished as she stooped down to face her brother. “Is that really you?”
“I… I do not know,” croaked Cathal. “I heard you… I thought I already passed. But now you’re here. Where… where is Bearach?”
Aislinn shook her head. “I don’t know. So much has happened, Cathal. There’s so much to tell.”
The man flinched and shook his head. “I heard talk… talk of war. Are we… fighting still?”
“No. The war is over, Cathal. We’ve won.”
He nodded. “Good. I can hear them calling to me, Ash. The voices of Tierna Meall.”
“Don’t go,” said Aislinn, taking Cathal’s hand in her own. “You were gone for so long. They’ll fix you up and—”
“No… it has come. I can hear them. I can hear Mother… Father. I can hear….”
Cathal’s voice trailed off into another low moan, then he went still.
“Cathal!” cried Aislinn, placing a hand on her brother’s shoulder. “Come back! Please! Don’t leave me here alone. There’s… there’s no one left.” She shook him, but Cathal Carríga did not respond.
“Aislinn…” said Fionn. “I’m sorry. I —”
“I fled home when we were attacked,” she whispered. “I left Mother and Father and everyone else there behind and came here. Just so I would no longer be alone.”
“And you’re not alone.”
“I appreciate your kindness, Fionn, but apart from you, I’m alone in a city of strangers. And I’m all that’s left of Rosca Umhír. I’m all that’s left to remember that great city.”
“No,” said Fionn. “That’s not true. There’s —”
Please, came Bearach’s voice at the back of Fionn’s mind. His anger had left, leaving only a weak plea. Don’t.
Fionn obeyed the words of the dead knight, leaving Aislinn to deal with her loss on her own. If only Bearach would agree to have Aislinn speak to him through Fionn. Then at least he’d feel like all he had gone through had served some good. Some purpose. He looked down at his severed hand again. No, Fionn was just as powerless here as he was out on the battlefield at the Goldgate. Sure, he had helped turn the tide of that battle with his fire, but once Morrígan turned up, his magic was useless. To her, he was like a blade of grass trampled under the foot of a mammoth.
Without warning, the door to the clinic swung open with a slam. A figure as wide as its frame entered, taller than all within the room. With coarse, brown hair covering every inch of his body, the Simian strode towards Fionn without paying much mind to anyone else.
“Firemaster Fionn,” he said, his deep voice booming through the room. “The council are meeting now, and your attendance is required.”
“Ah, Farris,” said Fionn. “How did your meeting with the Arch-Canon go?”
“Not as expected,” said the Simian. “He’s seeing that an adequate portion of the skyfleet is fitted with focus-crystals for the flight south, and he’s giving us a portion of the Churchguard to bolster our numbers.”
“Oh,” said Fionn. He’s being sarcastic. Even after living in Penance for more than a year, Fionn never really understood Simian humour.
“And why are the council meeting at such short notice?”
“To make preparations for the flight south,” said Farris slowly, as if Fionn would have trouble understanding. “The resources of the city must now be re-allocated to sustain the Churchguard and the Triad’s supply-line.”
Fionn’s eyes widened. He glanced over to Aislinn, who shrugged.
“Anyway,” said Farris. “Your attendance is required. That’s all.”
As abruptly as he came, Farris left.
“Was he serious?” asked Fionn. “The Church handed their forces over to us? Old Cathbad is thinking about something other than himself for once?”
“I don’t know,” said Aislinn. “But I’m sure we’ll see soon enough.”
Chapter 3:
What is Right
For a long time, my people were lost, wandering through the hills of Arinor without a home, or a purpose. Then the Grey Plague came, destroying any hope they had of finding somewhere to settle.
Until a young woman named Meadhbh said that Lord Seletoth had spoken to her of a land to the west. A land the Grey Plague could not touch. None believed her, until she bore a son without ever laying with a man. The father, she said, was Seletoth Himself.
And the son, of course, was me.
The Truth, by King Móráin I, AC55
***
The first meeting of the Triad since the Battle of Penance was far busier than those Farris was used to. Dozens of Simians and a handful of Humans filled the room, many standing, some leaning against the white marbled walls. Every seat was occupied, bar the three at the top of the room. Those were reserved for the Triad itself.
The nervous chatter of the crowd continued past the scheduled start time, with no leader, no real leader, to initiate the discussion.
But we have so much to discuss, thought Farris, eyeing the attendees. Like the meeting held before when the refugees of the Seachtú came to Penance, many businesses and landowners of the city stood in wait today. Without the Silverback’s presence, it was General-Commander Plackart who spoke first.
“Let us begin,” he growled, looking to the others as if they were his subjects. He added no more volume than usual to his voice, but still, this silenced the room. The old Simian hesitated before speaking, his scarred lips pursed in concentration.
“A victory was won in this city not seven days ago,” he began. He folded his arms, heavy vambraces upon both clinking together. “But our work is not yet complete. In fact, the city’s problems are now threefold. First, the walls of the Stoneworks must be repaired in case this enemy should return. Second, our remaining food provisions are waning, and redistribution of our resources must be carefully considered if we are to survive the winter. Finally, law and order has broken down across the residential districts, with looters and thieves thriving in the chaos the horde left behind.”
