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

by Christopher Lee

  “It has been ninety-five cycles since we came here. a century more since we completed the journey across the void, at your behest. You promised us this land, the land of the ever young, and yet here we suffer in Fomor, here we age and wither and decay,” said Ubara

  “My Lord? With whom do you speak?” said the servant.

  Ubara stood and cracked his neck, craning his head from side to side. “I speak to the ever silent prophet. The one whose ears are always listening. The one who despite my unending faith remains silent.” he paused and sighed. “My robes.”

  The servant girl crossed the chamber and retrieved his robes, clothing his nude body. Ubara could feel her eyes gazing at the scars upon his body. She was not one of his kind, she was one of the Fomorian, his gracious hosts and the oldest tribe of man.

  “Do they hurt?” she asked him.

  “They are reminders of a life lived in sin, a life before the purpose of faith found me.” he said. “I was a member of the court, a general. I had a life beset with riches, with women. Everything I desired was at my fingertips.” he turned and faced her cradling her chin in his hand.

  “That doesn’t sound so bad,” her voice quivered

  “It was a charmed life to be sure, but hollow. A wealthy life is a dead life if the spirit lies in decay. The father gives me purpose, gives me focus,”

  Ubara remembered his old life with a lingering sense of fondness, something he had thought he let go of centuries ago. He was just as he said, a hollow man, whose pursuits grasped at mediocrity. He’d obsessed over acquiring goods, land, of empty things. He did not differ from the rest of the twelve exiled tribes of man. That was until he and thousands of others had seen the light of the prophet and regained their true purpose.

  Ubara and a multitude of others came across the sudden stark realization that the legends of the Sumerian people, of their origins, were true. It was like waking from a dream. They had pierced the foggy amnesia of the present world and remembered a glowing mystical past where mankind lived as gods. The legend of the land of Atum, the first man, was real. Ubara had been chosen as the one to reclaim the past and shape the future. He’d spent decades in hiding, coercing rebellion in back alleys and stinking catacombs. Centuries more to build his movement a person at a time.

  “We were meant for such great things, and yet here we stand, servants of Balor and worse at the mercy of the demon King. I, the one the father entrusted with this, his sacred task, stands to beg for the scraps from King Balor's table.”

  Ubara snarled and gripped the servants face in his hand.

  “The ways of our father are not to be questioned Ubara. You above all should know this,” said a voice from the shadows. The disembodied voice, made the air feel heavy around Ubara and the girl. It was the voice of the prophet.

  Ubara laughed heartily, “It is not enough for you torment me with dreams of my failure you must belittle me before an unclean slave.”

  “You have come further than all who have come before you. Even the invincible Fae King trembles at your name, you who broke the veil and shroud. You who broke the spell. You outsmarted the Lu-Gal, you stole from the god-King, you landed in Hyperborea, stood face to face with the Great Dagda as an adversary, and you lived. You have done what all believed to be impossible. You will stand over his corpse and laugh,” said the voice.

  Ensí Ubara Tutu was convinced of this righteous crusade. He was converted in glorious purpose, to stand as a beacon of freedom for the human race. To boldly stand up and declare the injustices of the Nemeton had gone on long enough. He released his grip upon the trembling girl’s face.

  “I still remember their voices. Full of cheer, they rang in the cool morning air.” he looked into her eyes. “Until the darkness of the Cursed Grove fell upon us, and the demons emerged.”

  Her eyes darted from side to side, “My Lord speaks of the Fae. The children of the Goddess.”

  “I speak of demons born of death. Fiends who have absconded with what belongs to my people.”

  Ubara scoffed, “The Great Goddess who abandoned mankind, then shunned our people for taking revenge on her kin. It is Atum who deserves our praise. It is Atum who raised mankind to the celestial plane of the gods. I speak of they who murdered thousands of my Penitent warriors on that day, and you prophet, you stood by and did nothing!”

  Ubara walked across his chambers to the balcony. He pressed his hands against the rail and looked upon the busy city below. Their dark and sprawling city was the only way to access the Great Expanse, a land to the east of Kingdom of Fomor. The main tower atop the grand ziggurat scrapped the skies. It had taken his people a hundred years to forge this sprawling metropolis out of the sticks and mud of the Marsh. Still, it felt paltry when compared to the memory of the towering ziggurats of his homeland. In Sumer, the ziggurats scraped the sun itself blazing in eternal glory and reverence to Inanna the Mother Goddess.

  “So few of us are left,” he lamented.

  Ubara watched the native banal folk moving through the brush and trees below. Each one of them was an unclean blight on this, the fabled land of his ancestors. He despised everything about their way of life. Their customs, their culture, and their song. It was all refuse. A thinly veiled lie was all they placed their faith in. Even worse were the Fae that lived in Fomor.

  “Putrid filth,” he cursed.

  For almost a century cohabiting this land with the Fomorian banal folk had grated on his nerves. He was the Penitent Magister. A mage of immense power with an extensive knowledge of the arcane. Though men were cursed to live lives devoid of magic, he’d found the loopholes. His power came from elsewhere, and older source one that could not be forbidden by the likes of the Cursed Grove. Ubara walked the fine line between apostate and seer, ever careful not to cross the boundary that would see him in chains. The Fae did not see magisters as threats, their power was paltry by comparison to Faeborn magic. Ubara had augmented his own abilities, without tipping his hand. It had been fruitful.

  He had risen through the ranks conquering land after land in the name of the god-King of Sumer. It was through these conquests he was granted the title of Ensí, a Magister of Conviction. The Order of the Ensí was a select group of magisters who led conquering forces into foreign lands.

  “Atlanteans have knelt before the Crest, the men of Kemet, all manner of men have succumbed to the force of the magisters.”

  Throughout all their conquests the Sumerian people had never failed to claim their prize. Not in the thousands of years since the founding of Sumer. Not once had the bloodline knelt to a foreign ruler, not to Atala, not the Old Kingdom, the Sumerians were supreme. Now he stood on the precipice, being humbled, brought low by the bastard cousins the Fae and their goddess magic. He had had no recourse; his position had been weakened by their meteoric descent. He had suffered attrition unlike any other Ensí in history. So horrendous was his failure he had even suffered deserters after their tremendous failure in Hyperborea.

  Deserters! He thought. They desecrate all that makes us great. They turn their back on the Ur-Nammu.

  “Your failures have made you strong like coal pressed diamond,” said the prophet.

  It was one of the greatest offenses among those who followed the prophet. The only sin more abhorrent to the Penitent way was to lie with one of unclean blood. In his tenure as their leader, Ubara had watched his flock commit both. Where they were all once Sumerians, subjects to the god-King, made sovereign by his bond with Inanna and the land, now they were Penitent. They had renamed themselves in their religious conversion, and each of them painted their hair black in contrast of their lord Atum. Atum's hair was blond and made of the fire of the sun, and they were mere men, unable of matching his grandeur. Despite their shortcomings, they were his chosen people, they were his fist and they would use this against she who had abandoned them.

  “It is not the force of man that makes him strong. I did not bring you to here for your strength. Facing Dagda in open combat will only serve
her will, not his. It is the guile, the cunning of mankind that makes you powerful. It is the ability to twist the truth and make it serve your own purpose that makes you valuable to the father. This is how you defeat him, this is how you will achieve great wonders,” said the prophet.

  The memory of his failure still haunted him. Between the deserters and those lost in the wreckage, the Ensí had lost two-thirds of his host. Penitent forces had succeeded with less, but he no longer felt so empowered by his people’s legacy. The fault was his own, he had grossly underestimated the power of Faeborn magic. He remembered the balls of fire as they rained down from the sky. One after another vanishing before his eyes. The hulls of the vessels were ablaze in red-hot flame. Thousands of lives lost second after second.

  “Not with force…” he muttered. “My hubris killed my people.”

  He hung his head in guilt and shame

  He could do nothing to preserve their lives. They had been led astray as they traversed the void. Ubara did not know who to blame, but in his heart, he had believed the prophet had led them to this fall as a test of faith. Now it was becoming clear, he had not heard the prophet's word as clearly as he had once believed.

  “I watched as they slammed into the shore in fiery balls of fury. The screams of innocent children, the horror. It wasn’t until I saw the last of the vessels crash to the earth that I realized I had failed. Do you remember it?”

  The voice was low, “The path to victory lies upon the bones and the blood of the faithful.”

  All told the expedition had lost most of the armed forces, and what little remained were women and children. Though many valuable constituents remained, the success of their conquest had been dealt a serious blow. Not one of their vessels had remained intact after the crash. There was no hope of a return journey back to the old world. The casket of arcane relics had burnt in the wreckage. Three centuries worth of broken backs and blood spent were wasted. He felt as though his arms and legs were amputated with cold steel.

  “Then the demons came. Not just Hyperboreans, but those meddling fools of the Order. Came to mock, to jeer, to show us our place. To cast from Eden like our father.”

  “It is the greatest fear of the weak-willed. Those mediocre minds know nothing, their only recourse is to mock those who reach for the stars as your people did,” ensured the prophet.

  “How do we stand against such power and hope to win? The land we stand on curses us makes us weak strips me of my true potential. As I am now, here in this city, I am incomplete. I can no more defeat the pix of the wild than my Burugaz could all those years ago.”

  “Then he came his armor shining in the sunlight. That smug grin and that arrogant saunter. Granting me, Atum’s chosen, amnesty. I stood and shook the hand of the demon that laid low my Lord, our one true God. How can he now after such failure still believe in me?”

  The show of force Hyperboreans brought against Ubara was impressive. It drove fear and doubt into the heart of the Burugaz. The herds of the Kentáros, the stone throwing siege works of the Dweorg, the sheer size of the Jotun. If the worst nightmares of men were realized it existed in the army of the Fae King. Terrible beasts and demonic creatures whose sole purpose was the subjugation of mankind. The Tuatha Dé King assured Ubara there would be peace between their people, but Ubara had not listened, he called for a charge headlong into Hyperborean encampment. His warriors fought with such zeal and passion, their swords gleaming in the sunlight as blood bathed the grasslands beneath their feet. Many fell, but many more Fae fell. Ubara felt that victory may still be achievable for the human race if the last of his forces died as martyrs. Just when he believed his task could be realized in such a manner the Nemeton interceded in the conflict. Their hooded magicians and bards unleashed their dark speech upon the battlefield and all who held a sword fell into a deep sleep. The battle was over and the Nemeton would pass the sentence. Ubara had hoped they would kill him and his people so that all of mankind could unite against them. However, the Nemeton was wiser than he assumed. They recognized the right of the Fir Bolg to express their concerns, they recognized that they were persecuted by the dominions of man. After much deliberation the decreed the Penitent people were welcome to settle in the lands east of the Vale of Enon in the Marsh a territory under the control of King Balor.

  “With a bent knee, I accepted terms of surrender to the demon. To be mocked behind my back by my people, my loyal overlords,” his voice was rich with sarcasm. “They're all seditious halfwits. Calling me a fool.”

  “They will fall in line when you ascend to your rightful post. But you must trust in my guidance if you are ever to be Atum's sword in these dark times. To accept the gifts, our Father offers you, you must first be stripped of your pride, your old ways, you must surrender unto his will and his way.”

  “Why now do you show yourself? After ninety-five years of silence do you come back? You abandoned our people, our cause in our most eminent time of need. Do you understand the hel you’ve put me through?”

  “It is not for you to ask why,” said the prophet. “These are celestial matters, far beyond logical comprehension, you must trust in faith to be your guide. You have done well in my absence. Thousands have flocked to your bravery, millions more speak in secret circles across the dominions of man. Have you not also outlived your fellow man? The gifts Atum has bestowed upon thee are as many as they great.”

  This answer did not sit well. An entire generation was born and had died in this foreign land; yet the Ensí lived on, cycle after cycle. His focus fixed on rebuilding his conquering host and completing his quest, faithful in his tasks, watching his people suffer and yet he was awarded no more understanding than a fly has of why its life is so short. Regardless of his disappointment in the prophet's words, the words rang true, Ubara must continue on.

  “The achievement of great things are built with sacrifice. Even the Great Goddess herself sacrificed much to bear Atum, so Atum did for our people, so we shall do,” Ubara said to himself. “What would you have me do?”

  From the skyscraping black tower the dominions of the Fair Folk sprawled out before his eyes. From the Ancient Heights to the Shimmering Peaks the peace mocked him. His heart clamored for war. He was stranded in a foreign land. A land he had promised his people he would subjugate. His only ally was his dogged persistence in the belief that it was his destiny to rule this land as his ancestors did.

  He cringed and shouted from his view atop the sky tower. “Damn the blight upon this land.” Few if any could hear him from his raised vantage point. He turned, his robe flapping in the spring wind. He returned to his study and paced. His thoughts raced.

  “You must go to Dagda, under a banner of truce. Make him see you have found the error in your ways. That you’ve come to glorify the Goddess.”

  “I’ve gone mad,” Ubara said under his breath. “This must be a trick.”

  Ubara glared at the invitation on his desk. The seat of Man remained empty at Dagda's council of dominions, thus the invitations to attend his court continued. Ubara could not imagine taking a seat of subservience to the demon King. Not even the Fomorian King Balor accepted such invitations anymore, largely due to Ubara's meddling. The thought of sitting across the table from Nuada turned his stomach into knots. He imagined the invitation was the demon Fae, his mind set aflame by his anger. He had met with the Fairy King on only three occasions in the ninety-five cycles that the Penitent people had been refugees. Each time the King begged him to bring the Penitent people into the fold, to join the Fae Kingdom. It confounded Ubara why would Daga desire to become allies with him? It was Ubara who set the world ablaze in defiance of Dagda. Perhaps King wanted to keep Ubara under a closer scrutiny. Then it became clear to Ubara why the prophet had chosen now to return to him. His fists clenched as the prophet's word had shown him the way.

  “You must make him believe you are his most loyal servant. You are the leader he craves, the one to unify mankind in subservience. The one to redeem it. Either you
or the fair prince Bres must take the mantle of mankind. Balor will remain as stubborn as an Ox. You will have the blessing of the Nemeton, and thus Balor cannot contest. With Bres at the table, and you acting as the serpent’s tongue in his mouth you will succeed where you have failed in the past.”

  “You would have me crawl so low?” Ubara’s voice was wreathed in fiery malice.

  “It is not I who call you to your purpose. You will do this or you will perish here. A failure, no son of Atum. Need I remind you of whom you serve?”

  “You do not,” he paused.

  “There is more you must hear, but I will reveal it in person. I shall arrive within three days to deliver the news to you and your Fir Bolg.”

  “You come here to Penitent’s Vow? In the flesh? A druid, their great prophet?”

  “You will need me there, in the flesh, if you are to convince the patriarchs that we will lie low the injustices against our people. ¨

  Ubara had seen the prophet in the flesh only once. At first, his eyes could not believe what they reported. The voice he had spent years following was that of a druid, one of the hallowed Order of the Grove, a traitor to his own oath, and now a warlock.

  “This attempt to subvert Dagda from within flies in the face of everything you have told our people. Convincing the faithful they have followed a member of the Nemeton for three hundred years will be near suicide.”

  There was a long uneasy silence and Ubara wondered if he had overstepped his boundaries, but he had so little left, his lament was genuine.

  “So be it,” the prophet said. “I will fill them with righteous terror, but it is you who must convince Balor to move against the Fae. Then I shall call to you when you arrive in Tara. There you shall be made whole, there you shall see the true power of Elohim.”

  It sickened him to the core. A tempest buried within him came forth. His hands clenched, and from his straining muscles emanated a dark black energy. Energy pulsed with his labored breathing. The surrounding atmosphere snapped and popped as it cooled, becoming utterly frigid. A glass of water on his desk froze solid and shattered. The metal walls glossed over in a crystalline frost. They wailed as the stress of the energy taxed them beyond their limits.