Ubara grinned his teeth gnashed, and he felt the power of hatred rise within his spirit. The ancestor he had called to moved closer to Irra, prepared to strike him. Ubara was losing the battle of will, his emotions and frustration with Irra were claiming his sovereignty. He hoped that soon the prophet would show himself and save him the pain of having to replace Irra.
The cloaked druid entered the room and stood before the table of the patriarchs, his hands clasped in front of him. None could see his face, just two yellow eyes buried in a dark visage under the cowl of his hood. His posture created an uneasiness in the patriarchs as he moved closer to the table. The distrust between the natives and the Penitent people was palpable.
“Tell me, Irra, what magnificent plan have you devised to rid us of our demonic foes? What marvelous design have you concocted? How will you remove the Tuatha Dé King from his seat of power in Formene?” said the druid to the blustering patriarch.
The ancestral spirit of blood had retreated. Ubara felt his emotions subsiding. He had nearly broken the sacred law of preservation. No Penitent may take the life of another who still had Elohim’s essence within him. It had taken all of his resolve not to crush the man where he stood. Had it not been for the prophet showing up he may have lost his composure.
Irra’s haughty look aggravated Ubara.
“You are no longer fit to lead this Assembly!" Irra called out. “The Nemeton stands before us because of your mistakes Ubara!”
“My lord, I believe the Martial Lord was attempting to reiterate the Articles of Conviction.” said Sumukan the patriarch of agriculture.
Ubara grew irritated. “Do not presume to lecture me on the Articles of Conviction! I was there when they were written in the blood of the Divine. It was by my hand they were cast onto the sacred tablets!”
"He's gone mad!" said Irra
It was the final straw. Ubara's eyes glowered with white. The temperature of the room plummeted.
"Mad, am I?" his voice held an unforgiving tone. "Mad? I am the spirit of vengeance. The spear with which our people will strike down the legion of daemons that have absconded with our birthright! I am Dagda's certain demise! I will raze the Everlasting City to the ground before I forfeit the city of Elohim to the spawn of demon horde."
His voice shook the walls, "And you Irra will be my ever helpful servant from this day until I relinquish your soul back to the Father."
The ancestral spirit of blood that Ubara had summoned surged through the air and invade the eyes and ears of Irra. The howl of the patriarch rang through the halls of the dark tower. Inside the man, the corrupted soul of one of the abused took root inside him. The twisted soul now claimed his body, imprisoning Irra within his own mind.
"I take from you, your heretical tongue. I take from you, your arrogant will,” he paused. “I will not kill you where you stand, but I may have your body and your soul. Your life belongs to me, to do his bidding"
The patriarchs watched in horror as Irra's mouth sealed shut. Irra drew his knife and drove it into his eye socket. He plucked both of his eyes from his head. The man did not utter a sound until his lifeless body smacked the cold iron table with a wet thud. The body of the patriarch lay lifeless for a moment before it rose again and responded to the words of Ubara.
"I will do as you command, Lord Ensí. You are our light in the darkness, our savior. The voice of Elohim." Irra said. His eyes were no longer there and yet his vision was restored, the same seemed to be true of his tongue. It became clear to the patriarchs Ubara Tutu was no longer as weak as they had presumed he had become. He had not shown his power in many decades. In this reservation, they had grown petulant and brave. Ubara had put an end to it, from this day forth they would remember what happened to Irra. They would have countless sleepless nights and live in fear of his retribution.
Ubara's eyes were closed as he rocked his neck from side to side. The sound of his spine cracked in the silent air. The patriarchs had taken heed of the notice the tall slender man had put them on.
"Now if we could please resume." His voice carried an air of elegant decorum. He was cool, clear-headed and composed as though he were about the negotiate peace and attend a masquerade ball. Ubara noticed the slight grin that the druid displayed. The prophet approved of how Ubara had handled the situation.
"Lords of Penitent's Vow, your concern is well-founded. There has been a mistrust between our people for more than a century. I know you would like nothing more than to watch my neck snap under my weight as I swing in the gallows below the great ziggurat. However, it may come as a surprise to you that in fact, we have a similar agenda."
Another patriarch scoffed, “And what agenda might that be, savage?”
“We both seek to rebuild the empire of man. To right the wrongs of the false deity, the precious Goddess of the Fae. To reenact the old ways, and become Gods ourselves, as Elohim did.” the prophet said with confidence.
“How dare you utter the name of the most holy!” a patriarch cried out. “What know you of the old ways prophet? You’re no more a magister than the servants in this room. You dare purport you have knowledge of the ancest...” the patriarch choked.
The room filled with the sacred light of Elohim. It emanated from the prophet cleansing every impure thought within the chamber. The prophet spoke in the ancient tongue of Elohim and his glorious celestial empire. His power was intoxicating to Ubara, he felt bathed in glory as the prophet showed his subordinates what he had been shown so many years ago. The indoctrination was a beautiful sight to behold. He watched as their wills were stipped, replaced with glorious purpose.
The smug bureaucrat coughed and gagged on his own tongue. It was delightful. The other patriarchs moved about in their seats their faces ripe with holy dread for what they had just witnessed was the truth and the light of Elohim. If they kept up the tone that the Irra had, not a single soul would remain intact in this room. They now saw that each and everyone one of them was expendable.
“I believe the patriarch understands now, does he not?” The Ensí jibbed.
The fat bureaucrat nodded, and the prophet released him. His breath heaved as he regained composure.
“Forgive… me… ancestor.” the patriarch begged. “I... did not…”
The Prophet raised his hand, calling for his silence. The patriarch took the hint. Every person in the room now knew the hooded figure that stood before them was not Fae sympathizer but was a sacred prophet, the one who led them to the promised land. The room fell in silent reverence of his greatness. The patriarchs scrambled to their feet and fell to their knees in front of the prophet of Elohim. Ubara reveled in the moment of their realization.
“Now we all understand who our guest is,” The Ensí paused. “Would you be so pleased to inform the esteemed council of patriarchs of the work that needs to be done in the name of the One True God?”
Ubara watched as the prophet addressed the council. They were like children, learning from the mouth of God. Not a single question arose, the entire lot sat in silence while noting every task required of them in the grand scheme. For a moment Ubara thought, if simply being in the presence of our God, these ridiculous fops can be silenced and shown the way, why then can the Fae not realize the error of their way. How can they not see the greatness of our God?
The thought was fleeting. Ubara returned to his amusement as the pieces of the board were set against Dagda and Balor. For in their machinations the Penitent Council of patriarchs and a rogue member of the Nemeton set the chessboard of a titanic match between man and the fae. Once Ubara completed his task, millions more would flock to the banner of the Penitent Crest.
Ubara grinned as the prophet finished detailing the elaborate scheme to unseat the demon king. "As you, my esteemed Sky Lords can see, we will move against Dagda from multiple fronts without spilling a drop of precious Penitent blood. Once we have him surrounded by both monster and man, he will have no choice but to call on us for help. By then it will all be too late. I will h
ave his druids, his horde of banal folk, his winged Guardians, his daughter, nothing he treasures will remain. Have faith Lords, the One True God will lead his children to victory and bring forth a new Golden Age."
Ubara grinned. He’d convinced his lot to follow through with his plan, however, the greatest task lay before him. He had to travel to the Keep of Balor and convince Prince Bres to ally with the Penitent agenda. While his patriarchs worked to employ the smaller cogs in the grand design, he would enter the lion's den. He dismissed the council and made preparations to make the journey to the ancestral city of the Fomorii the city of Fo.
Chapter Eleven
Nastas, the pure blood Apostate
In cloaked prairie,
Nary be the fairy,
To haunt the free and the merry.
The sanctuary of the exiled was quiet as Nastas emerged from his hut in the morning. The sun’s first rays penetrated the forest canopy from the east. His bushy copper hair blew in the cool morning breeze. He squinted his turquoise eyes he forced to awaken. He was an earlier riser. None of his kinsmen had yet rise to greet the day though Nastas noticed one had become comatose in front of his hut. He stepped over the inebriated man. Nastas assumed many would not rise until after midday. Their forest revelry often kept the majority of the tribe awake into the dark hours of the night imbibing in everything from fermented tree bark to the spirit leaf. It had been this way for his entire life. Nastas believed his kinsmen were fools not the dangerous sorcerers of legend.
How could these addicts and drunkards be dangerous? He thought. Is this all that is left of the Celestial empire?
The fire pit in the village center still smoldered. Once again they hadn’t bothered to put it out. Nastas walked towards it and doused the coals with water. It wouldn’t have been the first time the revelry had led to a burned down hut.
His small tribe of one hundred and forty-four were the only remaining tribe of the old blood. Nestled in the deepest thickets of the Greatwood forest they had found refuge from the hooded demons. It was here the last pure blood descendants had lived for five thousand years. They were the remnants of ancient man and the only tribe that retained the pure blood.
Far from the control of the Nemeton, they could manifest their magical gifts in peace. Nastas shuddered at the idea of living outside their haven. It was said the tribes that lived outside the sanctuary lived in constant fear. Hooded demons would arrive in the night and tear screaming babes from wailing women’s arms. Nastas himself had never experienced such horror, but the campfire tales of the tribe’s elders sung of a dark history. A history that Nastas prayed his people would never relive.
Nastas and his kinsmen were apostates. They once lived under the yoke of the Cursed Grove until their deliverance from the dark times. He recalled the tale the tribe’s Enchantress told every year of the dark era before the sanctuary.
After the wars of the first age, the last of the pure-blood descendants of men fled to the deepest and darkest corners of the earth. Legends say they went to the edge of the world in great flying ships never to be seen again.
Those who did not escape were captured and purified by the Tuatha Dé King and his armies. Their magical essence removed from their blood by way of dark magic. Those who refused to submit were slaughtered in droves.
The remnants of magical men were hunted to near extinction. No matter where they hid, the Fae, and their cursed Nemeton found them.
It wasn't until the Goddess saw the plight of her first-born children, that she acted to save them. To save us. In her infinite grace, she gathered those in hiding and provided them this sanctuary. The Greatwood has sheltered the first tribe of man for over five thousand years.
Here we must stay if we are to survive. Here we are safe.
For the past thirty generations, none of his folk had left the sanctuary. Fear of persecution kept them inside those boundaries. Humans were persecuted in every dominion. No matter if they were progenitor, forest man, or beast rider. Men like Nastas, men of pure blood were particularly hated. Other men would be ridiculed or beaten. For Nastas that reality was a death sentence. At least that was what his tribe believed. He maintained that the Fae, and the Nemeton believed his tribe was a myth, or extinct.
He was a young shape-shifter whose hair matched the color of his fox familiar. His eyes were brown though when he used his talents they shone as blue as the sky. He assumed he was an attractive youth though his nature had not led him to invest much in the realm of romance. He was too busy. His apprenticeship under the tribe’s Enchantress was his life.
Every last one of his kinsmen had magic flowing through their veins. But centuries of complacency had dulled their talents. Nastas felt he was the only one who dreamt of realizing his ability to its full potential. The others were content with remaining stagnant. They were descendants of the powerful mages, men who once ruled the land as Gods. Now their progeny were little more than illusionists. They used their talents to stay hidden. Some shifted their shape, others had a talent for invisibility or camouflage. It was a history that Nastas adored and often studied. It was kept in a book under the care of the Enchantress. Nastas knew it front to back and often regaled his kinsmen with its contents.
“Not that any of them care,” Nastas mouthed.
This was how every day began. He woke, he went about his duties and he questioned the sanity of his kinsmen. His mind was always working, questioning, and reviewing the histories he had learned. His attention was fixed on the legacy of mankind.
Today young Nastas was on his way to retrieve herbs for the tribe's Enchantress. One of their few remaining gifts lay in their knowledge of plant life and the minor manipulation of the elements. Herb lore was the one way the tribe now superseded the Fair Folk. Once he had filled his pouches with flower, herb, and root he would return to the Enchantress’s hovel. There he would dry, grind, and store the herbs for his mistress. Being the apprentice of the Enchantress was a position of great pride. Nastas had always marveled at the magic in the spirits of plants. Under her tutelage, he had become adept. Soon he knew he would learn the secrets of her personal grimoire. Inside the grimoire was the knowledge he craved the most.
Its pages held the knowledge of every Enchantress and shaman in the tribe's history. Rumors among the youth of the tribe held that its secrets stretched back to the first age. Nastas had a lust for such knowledge, others within his tribe did not share his wild ideology. It was seen as dangerous to harbor such an unhealthy curiosity. He felt his tribe had become complacent. Millennia spent in the Greatwood had whitewashed their ancestral memory. A memory of a past when humankind did great things. Nastas dreamed of the magic of the old world. Even the world outside had to be better than this cloister. At times, this thirst for knowledge felt like madness. His hunger for a life that offered more consumed him. A calling deep within his soul told him his people deserved more. They could become more. They could right the wrongs of his ancestors if they were but given a chance.
By the time he had finished hanging his freshly cut herbs and flowers on twine inside his mistress's hovel, he heard the Enchantress's feet dragging through the grass. She was the most powerful within the tribe but her years had made her physically feeble. Her aged hips barely moved causing her to shuffle her feet as she walked. She was slender in her advanced age, but it was only noticeable by her long sinewy arms protruding from her silken robes. Despite her age, Nastas believed the Enchantress was still as beautiful as she had ever been. Age had given her a graceful beauty that suited her titled. She was a truly enchanting woman.
“Has the Goddess graced you this morning?” The Enchantress greeted him.
“She has,” Nastas replied.
The Enchantress set down her basket of vegetables on the table next to the cauldron. “It looks as though she has blessed us all this year. It has been many years since I have seen so much skullcap and cat’s claw in the wood.”
“Aye, the spring has brought us many new plants, some of which I h
ave never seen.” Nastas turned and grasped a bundle of cherries, “By what name do you call these?”
The Enchantress looked elated by the sight.
“These I have not seen these since before your mother was a maiden. My mother called them Bird Cherries. They only grow during times of plague, war, and strife. The last time they grew was during the time of the Cian’s rebellion. Before you were born.”
Because of their seclusion the tribe heard next to nothing of the outside world. As the spiritual leader of the tribe, the Enchantress or shaman was the conduit for communicating with the Goddess. She was their only window to the outside world. Each year around the time of the Solstice when the veil between worlds was thinnest she would scry. In these mystical rituals, she would envision the goings on in the realms beyond their sanctuary. Nastas loved hearing about the visions the Enchantress had during her scrying sessions. To him, they were the most enchanting tales he had ever heard. Tales of a land he would never see with his own eyes.
Nastas returned his focus to what she had mentioned. “Does it mean a war will soon descend?”
“Potentially,” she said. “Or perhaps worse a dorcha may fall.”
“A dorcha?” Nastas inquired.
“They are times of darkness, where ill fate befalls creation. They are times of war, famine, and death. Few truly understand what they are. To those uneducated, a dorcha appear to be a natural event, occurring randomly like a storm. What they are is a residual effect of the Great Celestial War between Atum and the Goddess. The Nemeton combats the darkening by way of the ancient rite of the Conclave, through the birth of a new Derwyddon. This Derwyddon will battle with the darkness that descends upon the world. They manifest as a war, the eruption of a mountain, or another great and terrible event. As the Nemeton call forth a soul into their service, so too does the residual darkness of Atum. For every Derwyddon rises a nemesis, a Dorchabirth who represented the echoes of Atum. This cycle has been recurring since the end of the first age. It shows no sign of ending, and we may be caught in a never-ending loop, a representation of how Atum's betrayal has tainted the world.”
Nemeton: The Trial of Calas (Hallowed Veil Book 1) Page 13
