Nemeton: The Trial of Calas (Hallowed Veil Book 1)

by Christopher Lee

  Ubara had forgotten about the servant girl. She stood before him petrified. He walked towards her and brushed his hand across her cheek. The softness of her skin aroused him. The fear in her eyes only tended the flame. He breathed heavily, binding his desire within his loins.

  “My Lord Ensí,?” she spoke as a tear dripped down her face. “Do you require anything more…”

  Before she could finish her sentence, the cold gripped her body. Her silken clothing freezing stiff, her eyes grew wide as he turned and their eyes met. The reflection of her fear fed his animosity. This frail, clueless enslaved girl did not understand the stresses he faced. Infected with a horrendous anger, he reached out his hand; from afar, he gripped and snapped her spine. The crunching sound elated him, calming his nerves. The frailty of the slave girl’s neck delighted him. There was something in the crunching sound that was even more important, it spoke to him. He brushed the back of his hand against her cheek and soft lips. He grinned, “Such soft, sweetness. She never knew the horrors of the world, not as I do.”

  Ubara walked to his desk and opened the scroll she had brought. It was a summons to the court of King Balor signed by the young prince Bres. Ubara looked out the archway leading to his balcony in the tower of the dark ziggurat. From here he could see the grand castle of King Balor. He would need to put on his best show yet, he would need to convince prince Bres to attend the conclave and take the seat of man effectively unifying mankind under Fomorian rule. Many dominions would resist, war would spill rivers of blood painting the oceans red. The Nemeton, the Fae would have to intervene and their bloodlust would further unify mankind.

  “So be it, demon. I will attend your heathen festival. I will join your wretched alliance. I will twist the necks of those that have sought to wrest power from me. I will bring those who have turned their backs on their sacred duty to justice. And for my grand finale, I will stand above your bloody corpse and watch as my men tear down your false throne.”

  Chapter Five

  Arabella, the Fairy Princess of Hyperborea

  Hamer fall, poet’s call,

  Sacred arts of fairest folk,

  Forge and tongue evoke, a hallowed masterstroke.

  The fires of the forge burned causing beads of sweat to drip from her furrowed brow. Iron and steel clanged as she drove the hammer towards the anvil again and again. The bark of the Ironwood tree was stiflingly hard. She formed the molding into which the silver would be poured. The process was complex, only a few could have achieved it.

  Wild auburn soot-covered hair waved in front of green eyes as she focused her mind on the task at hand. Her long tipped ears were beat red as the heat bit bringing a pink hue to her pale blue skin. Her fingers were calloused by years slaving in front of a blistering forge. Though she was skilled in many arts, none gripped her attention as much as smithing. It was an uncommon art for a princess to engage in, but Arabella was anything but common. She fashioned herself after her father King Dagda Nuada of Hyperborea. Her mother left this world during childbirth, thus her primary influence throughout adolescence was the King. She grew up with many tutors, teachers who taught her lessons in tactics, statecraft, and etiquette. Arabella did not follow the traditional path, it wasn’t in her nature.

  Dagda had ordered that she be trained in poetry, alchemy, smithing, herblore, and the martial arts. Her days were filled from dawn till dusk with her duty to the Seeley Court. At night she would take out the day’s frustration on the anvil. She would often mix poetry and smithing into a potent mix of personal expression. Arabella found that by combining the two she could craft items beyond her wildest dreams. It was this gift that led her father to commission her in crafting a torc. In her people’s custom the torc was a sign of sovereignty fashioned as a metal band worn around the neck. It was most often forged of gold, the metal of royalty. She was unsure of what the item was intended for, her father had been vague. The list of components to were specialized and exceedingly rare. Only a King could procure such oddities. She took the silver from the crucible and poured it into a mold. The silver flowed into the hammered ironwood reservoir. As the liquid silver took shape Arabella reviewed the list in her mind.

  Silver from the Shimmering Peaks

  Essence of the stars

  Bark of the ironwood

  Light of the moon

  Shroud of night

  Marked by the tongue of the trees

  Her instinct told her that her father was not using the torc for its traditional purpose of displaying sovereignty. The inscriptions he had requested suggested that her father had requested a fetish to enhance his kinship with the spirit world. Tree speech was an ancient magical language that Arabella could not decipher. She tapped the chisel into the soft metal marking it with the requested inscription. She lowered the glowing red hot metal into the quench. The oil hissed and popped as it received the heat of the torc. Arabella pulled the torc from the quench and held it above her head. Beams of moonlight collided with the twinkling metallic surface of the shaped ore.

  She brushed the sweat from her brow and set the torc upon a fine bolt of cloth. After peering at the fruits of her labor for a moment she placed her hands above it. Arabella closed her eyes and retreated deep within herself. It was here within the recesses of her spirit that she summoned the bardic spirit of poetry.

  Peaks that shimmer,

  Under stars glimmer.

  Shield of the elder race,

  Kissed by moonlights face.

  Bathed in blackened mystery,

  Bequeath the voice of the trees.

  The words spilled forth from the well of inspiration imbuing the metal with alchemical power. The torc undulated under the influence of her words for a few seconds before bending to her will. She felt heat emanating from the torc as the words manipulated it. There were only a handful of smiths in the world who could perform such a task. After a minute of expelling heat, the torc cooled welcoming her suggestion. Her mastery of words and her knowledge of metallurgy had allowed her to craft a gift fit for the Goddess herself. Arabella smiled, satisfied by her work.

  She tidied her workspace. She had been at work for hours putting the finishing touches on the item. When she’d finished putting away and cleaning her tools her keen Fae ears heard footsteps nearing her forge. The stride was long, powerful, and controlled. Arabella knew the footsteps belonged to only one being, her father. She strained her senses to see if she heard the faint sound of the other feet that walked alongside him. For years she had been honing her senses to alert her when the Morrighan approached. Arabella knew wherever her father went the cimmerian female accompanied him. She was his shadowy knife in the dark, and a force that struck fear in the hearts of men and Fae. Though she had worked at it for years her success in detecting the phantom queen was marginal. Arabella picked up the cloth and torc and knelt before the entrance of her forge, presenting her work.

  Moments later the King entered the room with the Morrighan as escort. He walked through the open archway from the hall to the forge. “Blessed daughter, you have outdone yourself,” said Dagda.

  Dagda’s presence filled the forge with a noble air. Wherever he went he carried a regality that Arabella hoped she would one day embody. She was his chosen heir, a mere formality considering the Dagda had lived since before the fall of Atum. Arabella was uncertain her title as heir was meaningful. It was an accepted fact among both man and Fae that Dagda could not die. Arabella had always assumed that this folklore was a means of controlling the populace though she had little evidence to prove otherwise. Only one being throughout history had ever drawn blood from the ancient Fae, lending credence to the common myth. The Druid Knights were indestructible, only the Goddess herself could break the curse that bound them eternally to the physical plane.

  “I thank you father,” said Arabella. “The torc received my blessing well. I hope you find my effort suitable.”

  Dagda took the torc in hand and examined the artistry. Along the ends of the metal band wer
e the delicate features of a dragons head and tail. The torc was designed to be worn upon the neck, to display the royalty of the one who wore it. His sharp red eyes held a penetrating gaze. Arabella watched as he evaluated. Dagda showed the torc to the Morrighan before placing it around his neck. When the torc was fixed around his neck, the metal hummed in reaction to his spirit. Her dedication to the craft bore. Dagda closed his eyes and took a moment to connect with the essence of the magical adornment.

  “The spirit of your labor sings within it,” said the Dagda. “I am most pleased. What you have done here will prove invaluable to our people Arabella.”

  “Thank you Father,” Arabella said with a bow.

  Dagda looked at her, his eyes were filled with pride, but Arabella could detect something else hiding. He carried with him news, something that scratched at him, irritating his usual calm exterior. His eye released a single tear.

  “Father, what is it?” Arabella inquired.

  His lips attempted to part, but were interrupted by the Morrighan. “The High Priestess has sent word to the Nemeta in each dominion. A Conclave is to be held this year from Beltane to Litha.”

  Arabella’s eyes fluttered and darted around the room.

  “A Conclave,” said Arabella. “But there hasn’t been one in over a thousand years.”

  The weight of the word bore down upon her. Arabella had only seen the wheel of the year turn eighteen times in her brief life. Her life had known nothing but peace. If Conclave was declared by the voice of the Nemeton, then darkness would soon descend upon that peace.

  “The Morrighan speaks the truth,” said Dagda. “The Grove demands the ancient rite, and thus I must obey to keep the peace.”

  His face displayed the distress that his heart felt, Arabella had seen it before when her brother Aengus had been called away to the Northern Reaches in dragon country. Aengus had not returned yet, and her father had assumed her brother dead. She knew better, Aengus was too powerful to be torn asunder by the dragon kin.

  Arabella had fostered an interest in the archaic ritual. She had studied the history of the Conclave with her tutors. The Fae kept an oral tradition, few things were ever committed to parchment. Their history, knowledge, and arts were all kept within the memory of the living and passed on to each successive generation. She had studied with the oldest and wisest of the Fae gaining every available resource on the Conclave. Conclave was only declared with the aberration of a dorcha, a darkening that fell over the Earth. As such the ritual itself reflected the barbarity of the time.

  “Does it mean war?” asked Arabella.

  “Perhaps not, but a darkening falls…” said Morrighan. “Peace will recede from the land of the living and death will descend upon our children.”

  The darkening of the world reflected the chaos unleashed in celestial war fought between Atum and the Goddess. Their quarrel had split the sky reverberating throughout eternity, dooming their children to repeat the same cycle again and again. Arabella knew this. She knew the only way the Nemeton kept the world from descending into eternal conflict was by way of the magic of the old ways.

  “Have they named which of the noble families must present a champion?” said Arabella her voice laced with curiosity. Both Dagda and the Morrighan hesitated. Arabella noted their hesitation.

  “I see,” she said. “So be it.”

  While Arabella had been interested in studying the history of it, she had never believed she would be a participant. She felt her throat close for a moment. The weight of it came crashing down upon her. Arabella collapsed to her knees. She was a whirling pool of excitement and dread.

  Dagda hurried to her side, “Their word is hers. Our Great Mother has chosen my blood.” he paused for a moment. “My daughter, the most skilled of my blood. I know you will make our people proud. If it were not for the Conclave, the world would descend into chaos. It is by sacrifice we live in peace and prosperity.”

  His voice betrayed him. She noticed he was torn by the war within him. He was intimately acquainted with the trials she had been called to face. He had been the first to open himself to the power granted by the ritual.

  Am I even strong enough? She wondered. Arabella looked at the two near omnipotent beings and felt smaller than she had ever felt. She was proud to be chosen and yet doubt sunk in. How can I hope to succeed against such odds? Arabella examined the Morrighan. She was a beacon of feminine power and grace, far more impressive than the Princess.

  “If I claim victory?” Arabella asked.

  “Eternal life,” said the Morrighan. “And the power to vanquish the darkness and create a thousand years of peace for our people. You will be our illumination against the darkness in men’s hearts.”

  Arabella breathed in quick bursts before swallowing the bulge in her throat.

  “How many sacrifices has the High Priestess called for?” she inquired.

  “Twenty in all. Each dominion across the Earth has been called upon.” said Dagda.

  “Even men?” said Arabella.

  To Arabella and the Fae, men were more akin to monsters than cousins. They plodded along like trolls, destroying everything they laid eyes on. They were disloyal, lawless, and absent minded. Altogether she viewed them as lost. Though she looked down upon them she knew well the danger they posed.

  “How many men in all?”

  “Twelve champions of men, eight of the Fae. Do not fear, the Jotun have also been called. No man would dare lay a hand upon the Fae whilst a giant stands at your back,” said Dagda.

  The thought was comforting, however disagreement was written all over the Morrighan’s face. She did not trust men. On this matter they were aligned. They were treacherous, deceptive, and formidable in large groups.

  “It’s no matter, I doubt any are as well trained as I,” she boasted, though she only halfway believed it.

  “Right you are Princess,” said the Morrighan.

  “What should I expect?” Arabella questioned.

  “Of that we cannot speak. We are both bound in secrecy. Though I know you have studied the many tales and records of Conclaves passed.” said Dagda.

  She would come face to face with the most skilled and courageous hearts in the world. All of her training, her knowledge, her mastery of the arts had not prepared her for the turbulence that afflicted her now. She was excited by the chance to become an eternal beacon of hope for her people. Behind her excitement lurked fear. A dread of what she would find the darkness of her own soul.

  “Arabella, my heart is filled with remorse,” said Dagda. “I am King, and yet I cannot save my daughter. I am torn between duty and love.”

  Arabella cradled her father’s head, “Have no fear father. The Goddess would not have chosen me if she did not think me capable.”

  She put on a show of strength for him. It might seem strange to outsiders, consoling an immortal King, but to her he was her Father first. Tears dripped from his eyes while the Morrighan stood above them. Arabella discerned that even the stoic sheFae was concerned. She too knew what lay in the long dark of the trials. They had both stood against the darkness and rose to lead the people towards the light. It was their sacrifice, and ten other brave souls that had led to six thousand years of peace. In this Arabella found comfort and purpose. Fear retreated from her, replaced by resolve and duty. She raised her father’s chin with a gentle hand.

  “I accept the honor of being a champion of our people. May the Goddess bless my path. May I make you proud.”

  Chapter Six

  Dagda Nuada, the High King of Hyperborea

  King or father, father or King?

  Should he cry or should he sing?

  In grief and pride call forth the fabled fairy ring.

  In the depths of the citadel the sorcerer king weaved his magic. Against his cauldron of plenty leaned the club that both gave life and took it away. For centuries he’d been searching for a contingency plan that the Nemeton could use incase man once again regained their primal connection to
magic. He had mastered many arcane arts in that time. He knew the actions to bring order and happiness, he could weave wealth and bring prosperity to the land that called him sovereign. This was not that art. It was indecipherable from sin; heretical, some might say. But it was necessary, he insisted, as a last resort to protect his people.

  Seven thousand years of life led Dagda to study much of the great mystery of life and its inner workings. Though he had lived for this long, he felt time had not devoured who he was. Dagda lived by the same principles he had when he was born. Courage, nobility, and sacrifice. He had seen immortality change others for good and bad. He was thankful that the Goddess had seen fit to grant him a an iron will. A will that was now being tested.

  Do not believe your son acts against you, but for you Mother. He prayed. I do what my heart commands me to do. Is that not all you’ve ever asked of me?

  Six hundred centuries had passed with Dagda as the King of Hyperborea. His people had prospered, and he had bore many children. Some were still among him, others had gone. Now his sole heir had been chosen by the mouth of the Goddess to endure sacrifice. He had labored long and hard to provide his people with a world devoid of sacrifice. It was a world he believed his Mother had wanted for her children. He’d seen times of war, times of tribulation, but what he felt looming on the horizon was insidious. It harkened back to the final days of the celestial war when the Spear of the Morning star was driven into the darkened heart of his brother Atum. He remembered the look in his eyes when the it claimed his final breath.