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

by Christopher Lee

  The maiden stumbled to her knees and gasped as blood poured from her mouth and nose. Ubara limped into the sanctum and watched as his ally engaged with the Mother. Where the maiden had engaged with ferocity and fury, the mother engaged in combat calm and collected. She was balanced, her form perfect, and she countered and received every blow from the prophet with grace. In a contest of two, she would not be beaten.

  Ubara limped forward and summoned a spear of light, he lurched forward intent on challenging her flank. Her sword struck hard against the prophet knocking him backward as Ubara came forth to distract her advance. He thrust his spear at her three times, missing the mark each time. She dodged with an elegant grace, her thighs were powerful, her hips moved fluidly. Her dark, obsidian armor shimmered, as his blows glanced off her heavy plating. The maiden had been dressed in light array, and it had been easy to exploit, this fight would not be as simple.

  The prophet gave chase, but even though both of their advances were pressed to full advantage, she stood untouched. The earth cracked beneath her heels, and she roared. It was a terrible cry that shook the ground. She could not be beaten.

  “Go, if we both fall, men fall!” cried the prophet.

  Ubara was faced with an impossible choice. The prophet who had led him here, given him the power to bring back the glory of the empire commanded him to leave him to his death. After all this it could not end this way.

  There has to be a way to beat her. He thought.

  “No we finish this here and now!” cried Ubara

  The prophet smiled. He pressed her with wild blows upon her backside. She struck at him, he parried and dodged, and just before her final blow landed he disappeared from the inner sanctum. He watched from afar as the mother turned her advance to his ally. The prophet had not expected his retreat, and that was exactly how it needed to be. He fell back in defense counter her advance. She wore him down, inch by inch until he fell to his knees and blocked her final advance. She had disarmed him. As she looked to strike the final blow, Ubara arched and cast forth a massive spear of light. Her arm swung, but the sword stopped just short of its mark.

  Ubara reentered the room and watched as his ancient ally stood in shock. The mother, the titanic guardian of the sacred well of Annwn stood impaled by a great beam of celestial light from her left shoulder through her right hip. Her last gasps produced only three words, "I curse you." Her head fell and her voice silenced. The Earth responded with a violent quake, the walls of the inner sanctum shook and stones removed themselves from their resting places. Like the bodies immune system fighting an infection, the sanctum’s remaining power fought them. Their astral legs felt as though they weighed thousands of pounds. The power fought them for only a few seconds and then the prophet spoke.

  I banish thee, power of the well,

  Flee from those who ring deaths bell,

  Men return to reclaim our glory,

  Stand aside as we retrieve our quarry.

  The quaking stopped.

  “Without the Fand the High Priestess can no longer contact her precious Goddess. What we have accomplished here shall be forever remembered in the minds of men. We have silenced the dark Goddess. Their connection to her will weaken, and the veil of darkness will fall harder. The curse upon men will weaken, and your power will grow.”

  Ubara felt the rush of battle in his spirit.

  “Make haste, your time here is at an end, your body is gravely wounded,” said the prophet.

  The pair raced towards the cauldron. Ubara’s mental vision was fading. Though what he saw shook him. Inside the well was an infinite reservoir of power. His soul craved the power so deeply that he wanted to submerge his head in the fluid and drink from it till his stomach burst.

  “The power it must contain,” he said his voice laced with lust.

  “The power is beyond you,” said the prophet. “We must call forth the spirits of the abused.”

  He directed Ubara to put his hands above the waters of the cauldron. It hissed and bubbled beneath them. In it, Ubara could see the souls of all who drew breath, all who had died, and all who had yet to be born. His eyes stared in absolute amazement.

  We call you forth, from your watery prison,

  Souls of the abused, the forgotten,

  Come forth, to the land of the risen,

  Come forth souls of the misbegotten.

  Beneath their hands, a swirl of tepid black smoke emerged. It pooled beneath their hands and reached forth, with the mangled and gnarled form of hand.

  “Take their hand Ubara,” said the prophet. “Take their hand and become the master of their legion.”

  Ubara could feel just how twisted and deformed the souls were. They were unclean, unholy, and they sent a shiver through his senses. He had trouble following the command. There was something about this act that irked him. Though they had just smote the Guardians of the wells and stood against the darkness, now they looked to exploit the dark. Ubara froze. A blackened hand rose from the well towards him. It grasped and tensed, trying desperately to burst from the water. The surface of the water strained and pulled behind the force of the abused that begged to born again unto the world.

  “You must take their hand Ubara. Only through you may they come forth into this world. With their power, you will command the power necessary to bring forth the vanguard. You must do this now, or our chances fade into oblivion. Take their hand now!” said the prophet, his voice boomed frightening Ubara into committing. Ubara took the hand of the dark entity below and accepted his fate. He felt as thousands of the abused flooded his spirit like flies to a corpse. Ubara cried out in pain, a pain greater than the flaming sword. His soul became afflicted by a pain he could have never imagined, he was under terrible siege. The abused swarmed him, gnashing teeth and bearing fangs. Inside they devoured what little remained of his connection to the Goddess.

  “You have the power of light within you Ubara, you must command them to cease, you must make them obey.”

  Ubara heard, but he could not disregard the stench of fear that breathed down his neck and filled his nostrils with abject horror. What had he done? Was this the path that humanity would have to take to regain their freedom? It could not be. The pain grew and grew until Ubara could handle it no more. He cried out, “My Lord God Elohim, Atum, child born of the first light I call you forth, I summon your shield, your protective light to guard against this darkness. By your light, I command the forces of darkness to cease and take their place as servants of the light!”

  The light burst forth from him in streams that wrapped around his astral form. He cried out in pain but felt as the legion came under his dominion. The power intoxicated him as he gripped the power and tore it from their grasp. He stood empowered, the pain now ceased. The prophet addressed him one final time.

  “Our Lord God bids you one more task. Obtain the blood of Dagda before the ritual of Conclave is complete during the solstice of the sun. This will be the final piece needed to release the Vanguard and his minions. You will then return to Penitent's Vow and await the Harbinger. Do this and be further rewarded when the Heavenly Host descends upon the realm of man.”

  Ubara rose his head and bowed in obedience to the prophet of Elohim’s light. That part of Ubara the ambitious conqueror and righteous servant of God was still inside but muted by the ever-present will of God, pressing against and dampening the light of his own soul. It was a crushing weight that felt as though it would last for eternity.

  “Now go forth to your body, there is much work to be done, your wounds must be hidden. Sreng and Bres will need your guidance in the depths. The Seræph must be made ready. Men must turn on Fae, Fae on men. When they do she will be forced to embrace the darkness, and become emptied by her hate and rage. Only then can the harbinger be born unto this world. Her soul must become abused in the long deep. Fill their heads with confusion, madness, and hate. Do this and they will crumble.”

  The prophet waved his hand and Ubara's consciousness fled from
earth returning to his body. The entrance back into his body was rough as though the body knew something foreign had returned with his soul. Like an infection, his body was hot with fever and his perception dimmed by the corporeal prison. He felt sick and began to vomit. Ubara summoned all the strength left in him and he reached into the void of the underworld sending forth dark messengers. The souls of the abused sprang out of him and crashed into the ground. He choked and coughed trying to regain his composure as he collapsed into a pool of his own blood. Before his eyes shut he grinned.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Nastas, the pure blood Apostate

  Your life for another,

  The lesson of the Great Mother,

  Protect mother, sister, father, brother.

  It felt like only a few minutes had passed before Nastas opened his eyes again. One minute he was being carried by the black-winged angel in his human form, the next he was in the middle of a meadow. He was in the form of his spirit fox, not at all what he remembered before his vision went black.

  Something wasn't right, was he dreaming?

  His eyes told him he was awake, but there was a strange feeling in the air, everything around him was covered in a strange fog. It was thick, full of a yearning as if it were about to speak to him. It was then that Nastas remembered what had happened to him, to his people. He’d been wounded but as he stood he was unharmed. He appeared to be alive and well, and a slight breeze could be felt upon his cheek. It caressed his skin and spoke to him; he felt this was not a normal breeze.

  Then something climbed out of the shadow of memory. It was something the Enchantress had told him about the spirit of the wind. If one listened to the wind, one would hear the words spoken by the spirits of the dreaming. He had never been to the realm of dreaming. She had always told him it was too dangerous. If one was not careful, they would become forever lost in its wake. Only the most skilled, most powerful practitioners could safely enter and sail across the land of dreams. Nastas believed if he had found his way into this realm he had passed beyond the physical realm.

  Am I dead? He thought.

  “No, not dead,” said a voice upon the wind.

  Nastas viewed the surrounding wood, searching for the genesis of the voice. There was nothing but trees. He continued to turn about, seeking, hoping that someone else would be there. Someone to tell him what was happening. He tried to resume his human form, but something stunted his power.

  He cried out, the voice of his fox squealed. The whine mimicked the cry of a child. It was fitting considering his current emotional state. He was lost, cast into the wind on as ship with no sail. His Mistress was gone, he was Goddess knows where, and his kin had been taken.

  Help me. He lamented.

  As if in response to his cry before his eyes, a small green light whipped through the air whimsically. Its color pulsed, calling to him. He remembered how the Enchantress told him to be open to the calls of the Greatwood, there would be many, and the spirit of the wood would guide him to where he needed to go. They’d had little time to prepare. She passed on what knowledge she could to him to aid him in his journey beyond the sanctuary, but it was too much to grasp at once. She had said the Greatwood had many truths that would only reveal themselves if he were open to the journey. Nastas could not help but sense that something was off, or wrong, but wherever he was there was something to be learned, something to be gained by the experience. He opened himself to the possibility that within this place, a key, an answer existed which would help him find his way.

  Nastas understood how old the forest was and wondered if it was the forest itself calling him towards a mysterious purpose. The purpose that had been nagging at his soul ever since he was given the power of his ancestors. He was transfixed by the dancing blue orb. Trotting off he followed the orb as it led him through the winding wood. The orb picked up speed, floating deeper and deeper into the thicket. Nastas was in a dead sprint. Ducking and weaving under and over branches, deeper into the darkening woods.

  “Trust your instinct,” the voice said.

  Every part of this woodland was full of an ancient magic, even the dreams. Nastas heeded the advice and barreled deeper and deeper into his subconscious mind. Darker and darker it got as he followed the orb into a hole in the ground. In this world nothing was solid, everything existed in a state of flux. Here he had the power to shape the world, to discover its secrets. Nastas tunneled into the depths of the Earth itself. Towards its center he followed the orb of light until he reached a precipice. At its edge Nastas stopped and peered into a deep chasm. He perceived nothing but pure darkness at its center. For miles around him, there was no way to breach the veil of darkness. He had reached the limits of his power. The orb continued to fly until it disappeared into the void. Nastas looked around but saw nothing, not even his paws. His form transmuted from fox to human. Whatever had kept him from changing form had now relinquished its command over him. The force behind that power was sure to show itself. He was not sure if he was dealing with a demon, a god, or the darkness of his own mind. The rules of this realm were unlike the rules of his waking life. Here anything could occur, here there were beings much older than time, older than man or Fae. He prepared himself, fortifying his mind against all who would seek to use him and his power. Then it began.

  From out of the pitch, he heard strange whispers. At first, he did not understand what they said. They were in a language he did not comprehend or they were speaking gibberish. He focused his ears and listened. The garbled tones passed through him like air through the trees. Thousands of voices spoke at once in a cacophonous mess of sound. He focused his mind, trying to pick up on one or even two voices. There were many, all calling out to him, asking for an audience with the living. Some cried, some spewed anger, others whimpered. Here in this deepest reach beneath the world was the final resting place of the soul, the well from which all things pass into birth and return unto death. Nastas sifted through the voices, searching for his mistress, or someone who would give him answers. He passed over the voices, drowning out those who made no sense, until he found one that showed promise.

  “She…” said the whisper. It was the first thing that Nastas made out.

  “She?” he asked. “Who is she?”

  The darkness before him burst into a flash of red light. The luster of what he saw exceeded the luminosity of the sun. His eyes burned while he looked at the blinding light in awe. He yelped in pain and hid his face, the light still shining through the cracks of his fingers, illuminating his mind with the terrible vision of what transpired in the Greatwood. The realization of all that had happened felt like a knife driven straight through the top of his head. He tried with all of his might to banish the images from his mind, but they would not cease.

  Nastas cried out, “Enchantress! Enchantress!”

  The assault on his senses continued with a bellowing horn that shattered his eardrums. The force of the sound whipped the air through the cavern and out of the tunnel he had created. His skin flayed from his body. He dug his fingernails into the soft earth of the tunnel leading from the depths with his eyes still closed, hanging on for his life as the phenomenon intensified. The discord, the blinding light, and piercing fire stripped him of his defenses. Yet Nastas held on tighter than ever. He would not let it end this way. His work was not done, his people were counting on him.

  “You must let go.” He heard the familiar voice of the Enchantress.

  “Let go of what?” Nastas lamented.

  The pain was unbearable, he felt like he was being torn to bits. As if every part of the fabric of his body was being separated.

  “To know her is to understand destiny, to understand destiny is to change it. If you are to become what you feel in your heart, you must pass through the eye of the needle. Only when you release yourself unto her fully, will you be free to choose your path.”

  Nastas was utterly unprepared for such a test. His mistress had been killed, her power now transferred to him. In
his first transference he had fainted, but in this he felt as though the power itself would ignite his soul and destroy him.

  “Listen to her words!”

  Words? What words, Nastas wondered. All he heard was the unbearable sound of chaotic thunder. He had long hoped for a vision of this significance, a spiritual experience that might explain what his great purpose was, but this was not at all how he had imagined. There was no beautiful garden, no lucious paradise, no realm of the gods. There was only the primordial forces of nature so dominant, so robust that no human mind could hold it. The titanic forces that existed before creation were beyond any man. The world he had envisioned of personified deities and epic battles of good versus evil was a farce. A truth was unveiled to him that underpinned the essence of existence. There was no great answer, no underlying secret. It was all a chance, a hope, a prayer against forces that did not think, did not eat, did not sleep. They were unlike man, terrible and vast. His eyes looked upon the chaos that existed before the world of creation and his heart held unending despair.

  “How could men stand against such antipathy?” he asked. “Who can look upon this truth and find meaning? To comprehend that at the edge of all things awaits such devilry. Who could bear living?”

  “To look upon the dragon is to see the dragon within you.” said his mistress. “You must look at it without fear, for if you fear if you let it smell your retreat it will burn you to cinders. The purpose of man, the strength of men is to look into the abyss within him. The same abyss you see at the edge of creation, and to conquer it. You must do this Nastas, you must show them the way.”

  Nastas did not believe this was the way. Fear ate at the walls of his spirit. He closed his eyes in retreat, hoping if he did not acknowledge it it would not be so. In his heart he knew the only way forward was through the darkness, to be reborn. But he could not summon the courage. He was only soul among an ocean of many. He was no hero, despite his delusions of grandeur.