The blood of god, p.7
The Blood of God, page 7
Ruairí, said Sir Bearach.
“But not you?” said Fionn.
“I wasn’t there, sure. I was down in the tunnels with you and the others, meeting the Lady Meadhbh Herself. When I came back, those in the battalion told me of their newfound faith. But of course, I couldn’t renounce the existence of the Trinity.”
“Because they don’t believe in the Lady,” said Fionn, nodding.
That’s why he wanted to meet you, lad, said Sir Bearach. It wasn’t to learn about the Lady, but to recruit you.
Of course, thought Fionn. And he saw the folly in his attempt once I told him that the She really does exist.
“Many of those he spoke to,” continued Cormac, “left the Triad’s army, opting to stay in Penance while the rest of us marched out.”
“So, they’re planning something?” said Fionn. “What could be more important that stopping the Godslayer?”
Cormac’s gaze fell to the ground, he shook his head slightly.
“I’m sorry,” said Fionn. “She’s still your daughter after all.”
“My daughter is dead,” said Cormac. He folded his arms. “And we’re going to kill the monster that has taken her place.”
As the others settled into place, the room’s well-kept floor was barely visible beneath all the bodies that sat on it. With a low whirr, the engines of the ship started, and among a chorus of excited voices, it slowly began to rise from the ground.
Others whooped and cheered as the ship took flight, but Fionn’s stomach immediately began to stir again.
I thought we got the last of it out, said Sir Bearach.
Nausea took hold of Fionn with an overwhelming force that pushed out every other thought and feeling from his mind. He stumbled to his feet, blinking his eyes with watering lids.
“Fionn, are you okay?” said Cormac. “You’ve gone terribly pale.”
Fionn dared not respond. He rushed out into the hall, hoping to find some suitable place to throw up. After a few steps up the corridor towards the direction of the bridge, Fionn’s stomach gave way, hurling its meagre contents to the ground with a scattered splash. Between gasping breaths he threw up again, this time expelling nothing. The dry wretch came out of him with so little voluntary input, it was as if Fionn no longer had control of his body. With another heave, the muscles on his neck tensed up, and an unbearable pressure pushed against the back of his eyeballs, bringing flashing stars into his vision.
Afterwards, Fionn slumped onto the floor, gasping for air. His stomach felt somewhat settled now, but the nausea was still there.
Are you sure it was just three glasses, Bearach?
Before the dead knight could answer, another voice called out.
“Fionn, are you alright?”
He turned to see Aislinn Carríga approaching from behind. She was dressed in dark plate armour, as thick as concrete.
“Just air-sick,” said Fionn. “I think I’m over the worst of it now.”
Aislinn laughed. “I used to suffer a great deal too, when I was a child. I find walking helps. I’d suggest you do the same.”
She crouched down to help him up. Fionn found himself amazed at the ease at which she took his weight and propped him onto his feet.
“You don’t get it anymore?” said Fionn. “Air-sickness?”
“I reckon I grew out of it. But the walking definitely helps.”
That much I can vouch for! said Sir Bearach. She could barely handle a carriage ride without feeling unwell.
It is strange though, replied Fionn. I was completely fine aboard The Glory of Penance.
Were you up drinking the night before then too?
No, I suppose I was more sensible back then.
“I must have grown into it,” said Fionn as they walked. “Have you any other suggestions to shake it off?”
“Keep your eyes out the windows,” she said. “And try to convince your mind that you’re moving.”
They approached a porthole looking out over the starboard of the ship. Through it, the city of Penance fell away as the ship sailed over the Steel Mountains. On the other side of the Rustlake, another, larger ship, flew past in the distance.
“But I know we’re moving,” said Fionn. “Why do I need to convince my mind of the same?”
Aislinn sighed. “A healer told me about the cause of travel sickness once. See, there’s fluid inside our ears, and its ebb and flow give us our sense of balance. It’s how we know we’re right-side up or upside down. So, when you’re aboard a boat or an airship moving very quickly, your ears tell your brain that you’re moving.”
“Makes sense,” said Fionn. He had studied some amount of white magic back when he was in the Academy, and likely once knew the technical term for the fluids Aislinn mentioned. Though it was detail long forgotten now.
“But there is a problem,” said Aislinn. “Even though we’re travelling across the Northern Reach, we’re standing still. Our ears are telling us that we’re moving, but our eyes are saying the opposite. This discordant messaging into our brains causes it to come to the wrong conclusion. Not that we’re aboard a moving ship, but that one of the signals is incorrect. And apparently another way that information can get garbled as read by our brains is—”
“Poison,” finished Fionn. “So, when travel-sick, our brains think we’ve been poisoned?”
“Exactly,” said Aislinn. “And our bodies know exactly what to do if they detect poison in our bellies.”
Fionn glanced back at the floor where he had thrown up. Aislinn laughed.
“It’s funny, some sailors would laugh and jeer at their peers that show symptoms of sea sickness, claiming that they’re weak or frail. But if anything, those are the ones who are stronger than the rest, since their bodies are better equipped for dealing with poison compared to the others. Indeed, many ailments are caused by our bodies trying to protect themselves. Like someone trying to help with the wrong tools to do so.”
“Kind of like us,” said Fionn. “Flying out to Dromán to protect one god from another. Do you think we even stand a chance?”
“I didn’t think I could escape the horde on foot,” said Aislinn. “But I did. I didn’t think we could fight them back at Penance, but we did. I suppose the real answer is that I don’t know whether or not we stand a chance. So, we may as go and see if we do.”
The ship accelerated as they crossed the Clifflands, and soon Fionn found that his air-sickness had returned. He excused himself from Aislinn, as even speaking seemed to much effort now. He spent the rest of the journey with his head pressed against the glass of the porthole, watching the baren landscape zip past below.
As the afternoon deepened, Fionn’s illness did not subside. He was happy enough to linger in the one place for the rest of the journey, just praying with every passing moment that the ship would land.
Indeed, after about six hours of travel, the ship began to descend.
Are we here already? asked Sir Bearach. I thought the journey would be closer to eight hours.
Fionn agreed with the knight, but part of him hoped that they had reached their destination. Unfortunately, a quick glance out from the window told him they had just reached the northern border of the Hazelwood.
So why are we landing?
Fionn’s body welcomed the decrease in pace as the ship slowly descended. As it landed, some people emerged into the corridor. It didn’t seem that they were getting ready to disembark, so Fionn joined them. He caught some excited murmurs among them but wasn’t quite sure of their context.
After the ship came to a halt, some time passed as the crew fussed themselves with the gangway door. Eventually, this opened, revealing a wooden bridge that descended down to the grassy planes below. The trees of the Hazelwood loomed ahead to the south.
But at the foot of the gangway were seven Simians upon mounts. Fionn squinted, recognising General-Commander Plackart at the head and Farris just behind. As the Simians embarked, the rest of those aboard burst into applause.
“Plackart’s back!” cried one Human next to Fionn. “I wonder how Point Grey is faring.”
“I don’t,” said another Simian. “As long as my family back home are fed, it can burn for all I care.”
Plackart stepped through the door, tending to his mount that walked alongside him. The General-Commander’s face was still and stoic as it always was. He didn’t even acknowledge the cheers of jubilation that greeted him as he boarded.
Fionn wondered if something was wrong, if the party had come across something on their journey to or from Point Grey to trouble them so much. And when the next Simian came on behind Plackart, Fionn’s suspicions were confirmed. For Farris Silvertongue came behind. His face was pale, and his eyes stared blankly ahead, wide and unfocused. As the crowd cheered again, Fionn caught Farris’s glance. The Simian was agitated. His mouth was ajar, and his lips were quivering. No matter how terrible Fionn had felt during this flight, he reckoned Farris felt far worse.
Chapter 7:
In the Light of the Lady
Against our enemies, He is our sword
Against the plague, He is our shield
In His name, this land is blessed,
For in His words, it was promised,
The One, Most True,
Lord Seletoth
Sermon of the Sons of Seletoth, from God’s Blood, 1:22
***
Farris spent most of The Majestic’s journey alone, watching the Hazelwood drift by beneath them. As the afternoon approached evening, the trees below began to thin out, though Farris was sure they hadn’t even reached the Tithe; the river on which sat Dromán itself.
Much to Farris’s confusion, the trees fell away entirely as the ship continued south, leaving a gaping hole of stumps in the place of the lush forestry that had come before it.
“That would be Santos’s handiwork,” said Plackart, approaching Farris’s side. “The timber needed to build his tunnel under the ground came from here, so I’m told. The Dromán outpost lies in the centre of the cavity.”
Farris didn’t respond. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to even speak to Plackart since they left Point Grey.
“Far simpler, things would have been,” continued Plackart, “if the tunnel had been finished before all this began. We could have made the journey in half the time with twice the cargo if the trains were ready.”
“And with fewer dead,” said Farris. It was only when he spoke that he realised how dry his throat was. The words came out with a sting.
“It had to be done, Farris. We fought in self-defence. The lad would have buried his blade in my back if you had not reacted so quickly.”
But maybe we would have deserved as much, Farris wanted to say, but thought it better to keep his mouth shut. Unfortunately, Plackart pushed the point anyway.
“We are at war, Farris, and sacrifice is as much a part of it as combat is. We gave those villagers the option to leave, and they chose to fight instead. It was their inability to sacrifice their homes, that we—”
“Don’t,” spat Farris. “Don’t spin the fault to their side.”
Plackart raised his hands. “I do not wish to. But know that they left us with no choice.”
“Would you have understood, had you been in their shoes?”
“Of course. As a soldier of the Triad, I know that—”
“You’re missing the point.” interrupted Farris. “In their shoes, you are not a soldier. If not for your training and your military service, would you have understood?”
Plackart responded only with a scowl, his lips pursed as tight as the faded scar that crossed his left cheek.
Farris saw this as a chance to press on. “Oh, has the Triad has made you forget what it means to defend something closer to your heart than the chain of command? Have you forgotten that there’s nothing worth defending more than one’s home? Or perhaps you prefer the taste of King Diarmuid’s boots to your—”
“Know your place, Farris Silvertongue!” roared Plackart. This caused a few eavesdroppers to jump in fright. “You will not speak to me in that manner while in uniform.”
“Fine,” said Farris. He promptly removed his chain-mail gauntlets, then grabbed his blue and gold tabard and pulled it off. He tossed both aside. “Now, where was I?”
Plackart scowled at the discarded uniform. “You were never a soldier. Just a thug who got lucky.”
Part of Farris wanted to strike Plackart there and then, but he stayed his hand. He had caused enough of a scene already and maiming the General-Commander wouldn’t help with the fight against Morrígan.
And deep down, he knew it wouldn’t quell the fires of guilt that burned inside him.
***
Sometime later, the Triad’s fortification at the Dromán outpost came into view. A makeshift moat with jagged palisades encircled a meagre-looking stone structure. Farris had seen one of these stone structures before. Several days after the Battle of Penance, Nicole had snuck himself, Cormac, Fionn, Aislinn and Padraig out from Penance via a stolen ship named Gallant. Without the go-ahead from the Church, the ship only had enough blue focus-crystals to take them to Ongar and back. The rest of the way they made on elk and horseback, through the railway tunnel, which they had entered via a similar outpost near Ongar.
This structure, however, was heavily fortified with a half-built trench encircling it. Many soldiers ran to and fro through the encampment, some carrying supplies, others setting up tents and pavilions. On the far side of the camp, three great airships stood harboured to a temporary air-dock made of steel. The Majestic joined these, between Horizon and The Kingsmill. A group of Simians tended to the craft as it landed, taking ropes and chains from the ship and fastening them to mechanisms across the dock, which tightened and pulled the ship into position.
Aboard the ship, the passengers shuffled and fussed, waiting for the gangway to be set up and the doors to open. This brought an air of excitement, but it did nothing to lighten Farris’s spirits.
When the doors opened, Farris followed the flow of soldiers that spilled out into the camp. Lieutenants roared commands as those disembarking sprang straight to work.
I better find something to make myself useful, he thought, noticing Fionn and Aislinn walking out into the camp just behind him.
“Farris!” a voice cried out from up ahead. From up ahead Nicole running towards him, her shirt stained black with soot and grime.
As he saw her, Farris was overcome with a bizarre feeling. It was as if only now had the burdens and tolls of the past few days suddenly surfaced, threatening to boil over. The familiar sense of panic began to form, and Farris found his heartbeat quicken and his breathing growing short. But rather than succumb to the feeling, as he had so many times before, he ran to Nicole to embrace her. The waves of anxiety suddenly retreated, and the weight from his shoulders vanished.
“Well, I’m glad to see you too,” said Nicole, laughing as she hugged him back. As he felt her warmth, Farris found that he could not bear the thought of being away from her again. In fact, it made him question how he ever managed at all with her. But this wasn’t the same drive of attraction or passion he had felt with other female Simians in the past, but something new. Something that made him question all he had ever learned before, all he had ever believed, for how he could have claimed to have lived a fulfilling life before without this incredible force by his side?
Only now did he notice that he was crying, with wet eyes buried in Nicole’s fur. Fortunately, none alighting from the ship paid much mind as they passed, for to a casual onlooker, they likely looked like a couple reunited.
Eventually, they pulled away from one another, but the feeling still lingered.
“So much has happened,” said Farris, wiping his eyes. “I have so much to tell you.”
“It will have to wait,” said Nicole. “She wants to see you.”
“Who?” But something in the way Nicole had emphasised the word ‘She’ told him the answer already.
“Meadhbh. But She didn’t say why. Oh, Fionn!” she called out for the Pyromaster, passing through the dock. “I’ve got something for you.”
She reached into a pocket and revealed two rings. Farris recognised these as flint-rings, used by Pyromancers to create sparks.
“Oh, thanks,” said Fionn. “I really appreciate—wait!” He paused as she handed the rings to him. He held one up to his eye to examine them. “Are these made from your steel?”
Nicole smiled. “Yes, I heard about what happened to your fingers in Penance. This way, Morrígan won’t be able to grasp them with Geomancy like she did before.”
“I don’t know what to say,” said Fionn, beaming as he slipped the rings onto his oversized hand. “Again, thank you.”
Nicole nodded, then turned back towards Farris. “We better hurry. It’s rude to leave a Lady waiting, after all.”
The two walked through the busy camp. Evening was setting in, and many soldiers set to work building fires all around them. Overhead, the rest of the ships that left Penance were arriving, descending towards the others at the dock. They passed two of Nicole’s reapers—huge steel bodies with Simian pilots inside. They were running drills, making slow, repetitive movements as another Simian shouted orders at them.
Nicole paused as they reached the wooden door of the stone building in the centre of the camp. She pulled a long metal key from a trouser pocket and worked it inside a large brass keyhole. Sure enough, the door clicked open, revealing nothing more than a round, empty room inside.
In the centre of the room, however, was a single trap door. Nicole opened this carefully to reveal a set of steel stairs, winding downwards into darkness.
“Watch your step,” said Nicole, walking across the room to take a torch from the wall. “It’s a long way down.”
Farris followed her into the darkness. Every step let out a metallic clang as they went, which rang out rhythmically as both descended. Round and round they went, until Nicole’s footsteps were silenced by solid ground. When Farris emerged, he found himself in the familiar surroundings of the Dromán Outpost.
