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

by Christopher Lee

  “I enjoy your injuries, but I must not allow you to harm the vessel anymore.” he said.

  His dark speech filled her chambers and Sam noticed her power diminish as she fell into a deep and powerful trance. Her eyes fluttered and her breath became shallow. His magic weaved its way inside of her overpowering her will.

  “Do not fear young Seraeph, the Harbinger will show you the light of the Elohim.”

  The imposter left and Sam succumbed to the trance. She was neither awake nor asleep. Sam noted her body lying upon the floor of her chambers, but she could also see herself. She was somewhere between the worlds of conscious life and dreams. For a moment she was content with no longer feeling the darkness of the presence that had left her so devoid of hope and power.

  Sam didn’t know what to do, she wasn’t even sure she could do anything at all. She was the only one who knew what had transpired, and she was the least qualified person. How was she supposed to defeat an agent of the Nemeton? What would her father have done had he been here? The imposter must be lying, there was no way her father was complicit in this insanity. Or could he have been? Samsara no longer knew what was true, or whom to trust.

  She thought for a moment and then it came to her. Her father could not have been taken by surprise. He must have left something behind, a clue for her to find. If he suspected the Nemeton had foul intentions, he would have put a contingency plan into effect. He would have planned ten steps ahead as he did with everything. In the past she had written it off as part of his obsessive nature. Now, she realized that all of his obsessive planning and all of his care made him far greater than a keeper or even a Sopher. Her father was a leader and a champion of her people. And now it was her time. Time to take up the mantle of her father, even in her grief and despair, and push herself to become something more than she ever thought possible. She had to be a leader.

  Sam wracked her brain for any clue her father might have left.

  Did he say something? What was he doing right before she left?

  There was the Tale of Ballaton, the cylinder with her orders, the cold chill. She knew now the chill was she felt was the imposter. That impostor must have known she was there, he may have even baited her into calling the Guardians to further cement his theatrics as act of being the Sopher.

  Why was her father studying Ballaton? Think Sam, think, she lamented.

  Ballaton had been the leader of the Guardians during the dorcha of Salos. It was one of the worst to have fallen. It occurred after the Conclave in Tara over two thousand years ago. Now there was talk about another Conclave, thus another darkening was set to befall the dominions.

  What did it have to do with the Lost Tribe?

  Sam tried to think like her father. How would he have proceeded?

  She remembered something her father had said before he had dismissed her. Samsara felt she could feel his presence now, guiding her thoughts. She could even hear his voice, somewhere lingering on this plane of existence, between the worlds.

  Our destinies lie within our own deeds. She recounted.

  Sam looked at her lifeless body on the marble floor beneath her. Her fists were bloodied, her clothes torn from struggling against the door. She felt defeated in a way she’d never experienced before. All of her training, countless hours spent steeling her resolve against the toughest challenges, all crumbled as she faced the evil of the creature that killed her father. How did she believe she was ready to be an adult? From her perspective time stopped during her time indulging in self-pity.

  She had always feared being resigned unto the will of another person. To live a life underneath the decision or idea of someone else. Destiny felt like a heavy yoke, and she had always shirked the responsibility of such things. She wanted to craft her own destiny, but hers were always handed to her. Handed to her by her betters, her elders.

  Suddenly it became clear. Her destiny was handed to her by her superiors by way of the ashen cylinder. The cylinder her father had given her!

  She wondered if the Guardians had searched her.

  There would be no reason to assume she carried anything that could have resembled a threat. The imposter had her journal, and thus all the information pertaining to the crime. The cylinder itself would fit in her palm, so it would not have been visible without a search.

  It doesn’t appear they searched me. She thought.

  Sam wore the same clothes though they had confiscated her flight belt. All she had to do was end this trance and come back to her body. Her mind raced through the endless hours of study in counter magic. The magic the druid would have used was archaic, and well beyond the ability of most students. Samsara was not most students.

  All curses and trances can be stymied by applying the proper counter. Sam reflected.

  He used the language of the abused. She had only come across it's like in her studies of Ramiel. Sam knew the abused language was an angelic language, so all she had to do was use the root structure of the ancient language of the Seræphym.

  By Gabriel’s flaming sword I renounce any power I have given over to another.

  Sam’s astral body slammed back into her physical body. Her eyes shot opened, but she struggled to move herself to a seated position. When she had gotten her body to cooperate, she reached into her pocket and retrieved the cylinder. It was intact and untampered. He had told her not to open it until after her pilgrimage, and she hadn’t noticed the significance.

  Samsara opened the cylinder and read it contents with eager eyes.

  Dearest daughter,

  You are reading this because I fear the worst may be about to happen. I have failed you as a Sopher and as a father. I have risked my own safety, the safety of our people, and yours, worst of all, just to further my search. I have been working with a man who I thought shared my obsession with the Lost Tribe, a man who I thought served the Nemeton. It is clear now that I was deceived. His aims are far darker than mine.

  The thirteenth tribe of men is the key to the salvation of not only our own people, but of all creation. He will use them to bring death and suffering and darkness to the world. He must be stopped. I have contingency plans in place. The Guardians have been instructed to confine you to your chambers should anything suspicious happen to me as a failsafe to protect you.

  I cannot hope for your forgiveness, my sweet Samsara, I can only hope you will heed my warning. You are in DANGER! I have prepared an escape route within your chambers. There is a passage hidden beneath your nest. Follow it and take what you can from the supplies you find.

  Flee, Samsara, and find the thirteenth tribe. I have combined your brilliant research with my own notes and I believe they can be found in the Greatwood. If I have discovered this, this monster cannot be far from discovering it as well. You are to be my weapon against him. The forest is vast and it may seem daunting, but you must find them. If even one of them can be saved from whatever fate he has planned for them, then there is still hope for the world. Do not worry about saving me, or clearing my name, it is all inconsequential. I believe in you and I love you, now and forever, my dearest Samsara.

  Madan

  Last Sopher of the Seræphym,

  Your loving Father

  Her heart crumbled as she finished reading the scroll. It was certain now that her father was dead. He had died defending her, and his people from the terrible plans of this mysterious impostor. She couldn’t believe he was gone. Tears had streamed down her face as she read, but as she realized her purpose, her sadness hardened into a steely hunger for vengeance. Sam flipped the parchment over. On the opposite side Madan had placed the key elements of her research and a map to where he believed she should begin her search.

  Sam balled her fists and climbed to her feet. She walked towards her nest, her eyes burning with righteous anger. Sam stretched her wings and with a singular thrust commanded the air to crash through her bedding. She opened the hatch and headed down. Sam closed the hatch behind her and reengaged the ward. It was dark and the smell of
salt and dank water filled her nostrils. She wondered when and how her father had created this escape route. The dark tunnel continued downward hundreds of feet. Samsara followed it, keeping her footing. The path was narrow and full of easy missteps. After several hurried minutes of descent she came to a large opening, a cave that rested beneath the tower of the island. When she entered, she conjured a light to guide her path. A blue flamed orb appeared. She watched as it hovered three feet above the ground. It crept away from her, working its way down the passage. With little time available she followed the hovering orb. It led her to an opening in the cave that showed in the light of the moon. Along the cavern wall the orb illuminated a stone bench that held a few items. Samsara stepped up to the bench. Her father had a meticulous mind, and he had prepared her well. Atop the bench was an array of tools and weapons. Samsara took a moment to select the appropriate load out. Her training with Sariel was coming in handy.

  She picked up a short poled halberd, used for close combat defense, a wrist mounted crossbolt, and a flight apparatus complete with goggles and a flight compass. Sam hurriedly outfitted herself with everything she could before approaching the mouth of the cave.

  The moon burst through the opening illuminating her. Above she noticed the dark wings of four Guardians taking flight towards the mainland. They’d already discovered the location of the tribe, but they’d also lead her straight to them.

  Sam looked at the moon once more and took in its light. She had surety of purpose, she was armed with both spear and vengeance, and she knew what she had to do. She looked to the sky and with uncanny alacrity lifted her body into the night sky. Her wings carried her higher and higher until she could no longer see the diminishing island home of the Acropolis. Sam had never left the island.

  She had imagined that her first departure from the land of her ancestors would have been under happier terms. Her ideals of what it was supposed to be like fell away as her heart hardened and her mind steeled itself against the coming private war she planned to rage against the creature that had taken her father from her.

  Sam reached cruising altitude, and checked her gauges. At this altitude her trip through the upper atmosphere would take her mere hours, compared to the time to travel across the water and across land. The Greatwood forest was a massive sprawling ancient wood. One could easily lose themselves. The Guardians had a head start on her. She would have to press harder than she had ever done. Sam was an accomplished pilot, but the Guardians flew at unbelievable speeds. They would arrive at their destination in great balls of fire, descending upon the Lost Tribe and leaving little time to retaliate or even flee.

  If her father was correct, and the tribe had diminished to a meager number of one-hundred and forty-four, then Samsara would have little if any time to salvage part of the tribe. Worse yet, she would be forced to take the life of one or more of her own kin. She only hoped that the impostor had only dispatched a single legion of four. Over one legion and Samsara would be outmatched, and her quest for revenge would be calmed in one blood red sunrise. If she were too hasty Sam could find herself caught between men who maintained the purity of their blood, who wielded unknown and ancient magic, and the most highly trained and powerful members of her species.

  Chapter Ten

  Ubara Tutu, the Ensí of Penitent’s Vow

  Stoic fealty, enduring faith,

  Breed and nurture patient men,

  Keep at bay the bane, the wraith.

  His boots squished in the wet mud of the settlement of Penitent’s Vow. His watchful eyes oversaw the faithful settlers broke their backs under the Crest of Conviction. The standard hung in the middle of the square outside of the ziggurat for all to see. Ubara observed the common folk. He walked among them daily. He believed it was imperative for a leader to understand the plight of the people he governed. They were his living weapons. The people who had given up hearth and home for something greater than themselves.

  Penitents was the name they had chosen. The movement had sprung from the disenchanted hearts of men in every city in the known world. Thousands had flocked from the far reaches of man’s domain. Ubara watched how they labored for a common cause, for freedom. His own faith seemed paltry compared to everything they had given up. Men had left their families behind to brave this savage world. Countless souls had lost their lives when they had arrived, but for each death five more had taken their place. It was a soothing balm which fortified his faith.

  “Hail the Ensí,” cried a crew of men setting the beams for a new dwelling.

  “May Elohim bless you Ubara!” cried another.

  He was well loved by the people despite his disastrous failure. Ubara only wished that the bureaucrats and nobles that had funded his campaign held the same feelings. He had summoned the Patriarchs of the Faith to the chamber beneath the people’s altar in the ziggurat. They would complain, whine, and bluster. Their titles afforded them the power to administer the governance over the people. Though they did not see Ubara’s true vision of freedom from all bonds of oppression, he needed them, for now.

  Ubara left them to their own devices, allowing them to become frustrated. If they were off balance, consumed by their emotions they would be far easier to manipulate. He entered the room a full hour late for the appointed time. He had planted information within their circles to unsettle them. They were a divisive group, few worked well with each other. They had come from the courts of kings and queens, giving up a life of wealth and prospect for Ubara’s cause. Underneath their pitiful facade of faith in Elohim lay old grudges, biases, and bigotry. He stood outside of the room for a moment to eavesdrop on their argument.

  “Where is the Ensí?” said one. “Shamash hangs in the sky, it nears midday!”

  The rest bellowed like the old foolish men they were. Ubara flung open the doors and entered the room. He was dressed in common robes. He removed his hood and revealing his face. It was covered in tattoos of the ancient script of the priests of Elohim. His mouth bore the scars of the Penitent. He could still feel the binding that once tied his lips shut in reverence for his God.

  “Ubara, you bring an emissary of the cursed grove? To Penitent’s Vow, it is blasphemy!” insisted Alalgar the patriarch of conviction.

  “The chosen descendants of Elohim do not seek the advice of a heathen, nay a charlatan concerning matters of state.” His tone was loud, boisterous and full of all the pompous blundering that Ubara had become accustomed to in his time leading the Penitent people.

  “The Nemeton has ever been a thorn in our side. Why now would the Nemeton shift its interest to favor man?” cried out Amenhotep the patriarch of architecture.

  "When we agreed to follow you, you promised glory and riches beyond our wildest dreams." said Enmerkar the patriarch of erudites. "We betrayed the god-King and left our homeland based on those promises and look what you have delivered. Nothing more than a soaking wet patch of marshland we pay tribute to occupy. We are subject to a foreign king who has used us as human shields to keep his banal folk safe from the Beast riders."

  Ensí Ubara Tutu rolled his eyes as he stood with his back turned to the table. Among the many issues he faced, the patriarchs were his greatest annoyance. They were useful as they saw to the day-to-day operation of the city of Penitent's Vow. But they were bureaucrats, born and bred to serve one purpose, to control the populace. They lacked vision. Though they were efficient, their elevated social status gave them an audacious nature. If it weren’t for the law, Ubara would snap their necks this instant. The desire was overwhelming. It was advantageous to the patriarchs. The only thing Ubara clung to more than his vision of victory over the Fae, was his adherence to the divine blood laws handed down by the prophet. He had suffered through three centuries of complaints and fears from these pedantic bureaucrats since he received the word of God by way of the prophet. Every time these whiny bureaucrats blustered he would take himself to the windswept summit where he found purpose. Just as the wind persists, so too did their incessant mou
ths.

  "What more can this druid tell us of this wretched land we don't know? We've sent thousands of expeditions forth into the lands of the Fae and they have brought us no closer to defeating the demon horde," said Irra the patriarch of the martial fields. "We cower behind these walls day in and day out and watch our people decay and die. Without a sure purpose, what good has this magic done us? We have collected thousands more followers. Each year thousands more, yet we hide."

  "Cower you say?" Ubara questioned his own sanity.

  "You told us we would reclaim the throne of the Old Empire. That you would unify the disparate dominions into a Grand Empire in the image of the one True God. That we would all be Kings of men and crush the demons! Where is your God Ensí where is this prophet with whom you claim to commune? Is it fear that grips you so tight? Fear of Dagda and his Tuatha Dé? Fear of your failures!"

  Ubara had had enough.

  "Fear... You speak to me of fear?" he whispered. "You know nothing of fear."

  He turned towards Irra. "Fear... Cowering?! You think I fear the red-eyed demon that stands where our ancestors did? The demon who dares place himself upon the Throne of GOD!" His voice boomed and crackled like lightning. "I will show you what fear is!"

  He reached for his blade and drew blood from his wrist while whispering in the language of his ancestors. Irra was so wrapped up in his rant he did not see Ubara call to the living river of blood. The other patriarchs noticed and cowered in fear. They had seen this many times before, as Ubara had questioned prisoners, spies, and Kings. The blood dripped to the floor into a dark puddle. As his words came forth so too did the spirits within his blood. It was an ancient art, one of the few ways that mankind could harness magic. Ubara’ s blood commanded the spirit of his ancestors to do his bidding.

  Irra continued his rant. "We have been marooned here in this god forsaken land in the heavens for centuries. Without hope of reinforcement! Not even a way to retreat! I grow tired of waiting here behind these walls. I move for us to rebuild the fleet and return home. By now the inquisition has ended. If not return home, then should we not meet the demons head on? Will not your precious God save us?"