“Easy now buddy, we know you like to keep the details hidden,” said Dofaar
“Did you say Duped? Similar to when you got caught by that fire haired Tuatha last night? She saw your advance coming from a mile a way. If it wasn’t for me she’d have made you and you’d be rotting in a cell right now. What would you two do without me?” Lugh lamented, “Honestly I don't think you'd even be able to feed yourselves.”
Dofaar and Feorn looked at each other and smile.
“Well we could always take your money the honest way,” said Dofaar.
Lugh raised an eyebrow.
“And what 'honest' trick do you have up your sleeve, this time, Feorn?”
Feorn pulled out a wooden cup and tipped it over onto the table exposing three wooden dice.
He looked up at Lugh with a wicked grin.
“Why we let the gods decide.”
Lugh looked on and let out a booming laughing. The brother's joined in. Their laughs filled the tavern. Lugh had lost several games of dice now to the twins, the die were enchanted no doubt. He had washed down his failure with the sweet sting of mead. Lugh approached the bar in search of more ale, by now he was well on his way to blacking out and forgetting much of the night. It was no matter he’d pass the apothecary on the way in tomorrow and pick up a cure all for his headache.
Lugh called to the barmaid, “Ale!”
The elderly man he noticed earlier was still there. It had been a few hours since he first observed the man, but he had never forgotten that lurking suspicion he had felt. The old man’s large beard was dripping in ale as he sat at the other end of the bar from where Lugh stood.
He’s Ironwood. He thought. But why does he keep looking over here?
He too was drowning in liquor. From Lugh’s vantage he looked like a war veteran, no doubt a survivor of the Ironwood Rebellion. He wore the braids and bore the scars of the woodsmen. He had left his suspicion alone at first after all Lugh did not like to attract attention to himself. But due to the excessive intake of alcohol he grew impatient and sought to identify the man.
“Where do you hail from Old Timer?” Lugh called out to the old man. He did not respond. Lugh moved closer. “Old man, where do you hail from? I have not seen your grim face before, least not in Formene.”
“Nay you haven’t, short tip,” said the old man. “We Ironwood don’t much care for the Fae, nor their half-blood pets.” His voice carried a certain disdain, a disdain that Lugh did not appreciate.
Lugh strode up to the man and gripped him by the scruff of the neck. “Pet you say?”
The old man looked at him defiantly, “What’s the matter boy? Too much faery shit in your ears? Word is the heir of the Ironwood wades in the King’s royal shit hiding in sewers and gutters like these. Trog is it? Heh, Trog was right good warrior not a vagabond like you. If only your father knew how low you’ve fallen. Or perhaps your grandfather should know his grandson still lives.”
Lugh was taken aback. He did not know this man, yet this man had intimate knowledge of him and of his very storied and colored past. A past Lugh had worked tirelessly to erase, to forget. After all it did him no good to be known for who he was. The son of a traitor, no less the son of a dead traitor. Lugh looked around, none had noticed his interaction with the man, despite his loud insinuation.
He lowered his voice and stood face to face with his accuser. “Now you listen here, and you listen well old man, unless you want your head split and your brains spilling out I’d keep that tone to yourself. I don’t know what you speak of, nor to whom you are referring. There are no sons of rebels here, now begone.”
He tossed the man from the seat and kicked him in the hind quarters. “You can cover up the past, but you can’t cover the smell of your shit. The past always returns to haunt us.”
The man left the tavern and stumbled into the night, leaving Lugh with a sick feeling in his stomach. He wondered was this just a chance meeting with a drunk war veteran, or was this something else? The drink clouded his judgment. He heard the twins call to him from across the tavern, and he returned to his merrymaking, all the while the thought tugged at the back of his mind. Did the man know his most well guarded secret?
“He’s right,” said a squeaky voice. “You can’t run from who you are.”
Lugh turned around and saw a mouse sitting on the bar. What would have appeared adorable or magical to someone else, a talking mouse did not phase him? He’d seen the mouse before, many hundreds of times. The mouse jumped from the bar and transmogrified into the form of a water nymph.
“Birog,” he ground his teeth. “What brings you to Formene? Don’t the druids have better things to do than to track down exiles.”
She walked towards him. “Exiles stay in exile.”
Lugh could feel her piercing green eyes searching his thoughts. “I believe I wore out my welcome in Memphis and felt the safest place would be closer to home.”
“Perhaps,” she said.
“Am I to be arrested then?” inquired Lugh.
“I didn’t save you so I could imprison you. Despite your own efforts to end up behind bars. I took you from the waves so you could be more than the commoner you’ve become. How many times am I going to tell you this Lugh?”
“Just a few more, at least until you realize it will not work. I don’t want that life.” Lugh walked towards her. He escorted her to a shadowed corner trying to hide her from the wandering eyes of the tavern patrons. “I never did.”
“Your father, what he fought for,” she interjected.
“There is no magical destiny, no crown, no heroic adventure or whatever it is you think you believe about. But I can tell you what is.”
“What is that oh wise Lugh, what has the ale shown you tonight?” said Birog.
“What is? My father is dead. My mother is dead. What he fought for is dead. Lugh is dead, do you understand?”
He pushed her into the corner and pressed his hands against her shoulders. He was a full head taller than the druidess, but he knew she held no fear for him.
“It doesn’t matter how far you run, nor where you hide. Destiny is a far better hunter than I young Lugh. Whether you believe in it, you will play the part the fates have given you. I swore to your father I would see his vision realized. That I would see his son realize it. I could have you arrested or,” Birog paused.
“Or what?” Lugh interrogated.
Birog brushed his hands off of her shoulders and walked past him. Lugh watched as she laid her eyes on his companions Feorn and Dofaar. He knew her serpent like ways. She had long twisted his emotions against him.
“You leave them,” Lugh demanded.
“What are their heads prized at these days? Fifty-thousand? No it was a hundred.”
“I said leave them damn you,” he insisted.
Birog turned to him and smiled, “Then you will do as I say.”
Lugh glared at Birog. She had out maneuvered him again. “What would you have me do?”
Chapter Eight
Madan, the Sopher of the Seræphym
Fascination and desire,
Open the way to thicket and briar,
Calling forth deadly ire.
The text on the parchment had faded making it difficult to transcribe. Madan peered at the ancient script through his magnifying apparatus. In his advanced years, his eyesight had faltered. Decades of transcribing and preserving the ancient wisdom and knowledge of past ages had taken its toll. Madan commissioned the gnomish High Tinkerer of Faleris, for an invention to aid his ailing vision. The High Tinkerer had delivered. Magnifying lenses of varying power were attached to an elaborate geared system. Madan had to press a lever and the appropriate lense appeared, from the machine. His tired three-century old eyes could now spend countless more hours reading and transcribing the chronicles of the five dominions of Hyperborea. His eyes were so often under duress from his constant study he had developed crow’s feet, something unheard of in his species. The Seræphym were ageless, bu
t he had defied even that aspect of nature as he had done for much of his life. While Madan felt as spry as a young Cherub, his years of toil had showed on his physical form. His hair had turned silver, his skin had wrinkled. Samsara had urged him many times to see a physician, but he had no time for such luxuries.
He was the Sopher of the Seræphym, a keeper of the knowledge of all things that transpired on Earth. He was appointed by King Dagda Nuada of Hyperborea, to guard and curate the history, knowledge, and tales of Hyperborea. Besides his duties as the royal chronographer, Madan and his people the Seræphym were also tasked with the duty of procuring, cataloging, and securing ancient relics of magical power.
In the First Age, before the birth of the Fae, mankind had used the magical power entrusted to them to create artifacts of immense power. Artifacts so powerful that the Nemeton deemed them to be destroyed or heavily guarded. Atum had twisted the ancient magic of the Great Goddess to create beings that served mankind. The Seræphym were one of these ancient creations, called Mal'akim by Atum and his followers. As a consequence his people were kept on a short leash by the Nemeton. The druids had always been suspicious of his kind, and him in particular.
Since the instrumental insurrection led by the Lightbringer against Atum. Madan felt that his mandate mimicked the wishes of his ancient ancestor. The Seræphym had served the interests of the Sacred Grove since the Light Bringer broke the chains. In return for their freedom from mankind the agreed to hunt men who used unauthorized magic. It was in this service they escaped the fate that awaited other “abominations” like apostates.
Madan's quill moved over the fresh parchment dying it with dark ink as he copied the text of the account of his ancient ancestor Ballaton. His eyes drifted and caught sight of another mechanical wonder the High Tinkerer had offered him, something he called a printing press, by which he could transcribe tales with unbelievable alacrity, but Madan had never seen need to use it. He preferred the old ways, the feeling of parchment and the smell of the alcohol in the ink. These were the time-honored traditions of his people. The words were still as fresh in his mind as the first time his grandfather Astaeroth had read him the tale.
Madan recited as he transcribed.
“Ballaton, the noble watcher lived in a time where the land of Hyperborea had become afflicted by a great famine. The farms of men, the orchards of the Aélfolk, and even the quarries of the Dweorg ran dry. A famine which lasted for a century, spreading even to the gates of the Everlasting City of Formene. The decay was so widespread, the streams and lakes dried. Even the stone walls of strongholds disintegrated.” he paused and dipped his pen back in the ink.
“It had been Ballaton who discovered the famine had been perpetuated by the spirit of an ancient sorcerer. A sorcerer that in life had lusted for knowledge and power of the arcane arts such that when his body failed him, his spirit became a liche. As a liche, he consumed the livelihood of the living to increase its own power. It took the joint power of the Nemeton, the Tuatha Dé, and the five legions. In the end, Ballaton banished the spirit of Salos back into the void. It was Ballaton's halberd that struck the final blow in the epic battle that ended the Third Dorcha.”
Dorcha, he thought. A curious word for a curious concept.
While the tale had personal significance for Madan, the history of Ballaton's victory over Salos was not what he sought. Madan believed somewhere in the accounts of Ballaton was a coded message, a message that contained the location of the Lost Tribe of Atum. This was true of almost all ancient accounts as Madan knew. Within each tale there were many stories, it was the way of the ancients. The ancients were obsessed with metaphor, in such a way that they seemed to be afflicted with madness.
What would Ballaton have done? He wondered. Madan had often idolized his ancestor, fashioning his own research and ancient investigations in the image of Ballaton. He too wanted to achieve the glory of defeating the evils that surfaced during a Dorcha. It was an uncommon feeling in his species.
Glory was made for men, he recalled the words of one of his tutors.
Though it had been ages since he had been tutored, Madan could remember his lessons with perfect clarity. They had been so closed minded, stuck within their old ways. His daughter felt the same way and her clear disregard for the law had acted as ironclad proof she came from him.
“Why should this be so,” He paused. “Why should they be so fortunate?”
Madan pushed the tale of Ballaton aside and took a long hard look at the research journal he had confiscated from his daughter. She believed it destroyed. He had been unable to calm the storm between them. In fact he hadn’t even spoken to her in days. Despite his attempts to quell her anger by giving her access to privileged material for her commencement thesis. She remained as stubborn as he was. She had voiced her concerns over his devotion to the troublesome mystery. It had never brought him anything but trouble and disappointments. He assumed that was why she had taken it on herself. Her ill advised research illustrated the seriousness of her concern. The Nemeton had sent countless messengers asking him to abandon his infernal quest, but they could not command him to stop. It would have violated the blood oath sworn by the Nemeton and the Light Bringer. Still, they had done everything in their power to deter him from achieving his aims.
Damn those hooded vipers! He thought.
Beside the journal lay the correspondence he had received from his druidic handler. Instead of implicating Samsara in the research, Madan had presented the findings to the druid as his own. He hoped that the druid would be none the wiser. He wanted Samsara as far away from this problem as possible. His dishonesty brewed feelings of guilt and shame within his gut.
“Of all people to lie to. You had to lie to her,” he said. “You foolish old fop.”
Madan had been obsessing over the thirteenth tribe for the better part of a century. Samsara had followed every single clue he had. Twelve tribes of men left in the exodus from Eden after the defeat of Atum. Each gifted with an artifact that linked them to Atum. Each of the twelve tribes also carried a part of Atum's original bloodline, a piece of Atum's power. She had followed it with meticulous accuracy and she had made him exceedingly proud.
The Nemeton had seen fit to divide mankind into the twelve tribes to prevent man from unifying power. In the beginning each bloodline had a watcher, a Seræphym guardian who watched over and guarded the bloodline. Though the Nemeton and the Fae begged the Goddess to destroy Atum's power, she refused and instead suggested they keep watch over each tribe as a preventive measure. Over the vastness of time, one of the sacred bloodlines of Atum was mysteriously lost. Without knowledge of where the bloodline had vanished. The Nemeton denied their involvement in the disappearance, but Madan had theorized the Lost Tribe was captured or destroyed to prevent Atum from returning to the physical world. For three thousand years the location of the thirteenth tribe of Atum had been a mystery. A mystery that consumed him. He would find the location now or it would be lost to the mists of time forever.
As the parchment of the original accounts faded, the memory of his ancestor's tale remained fresh in his mind. He wondered if his legacy would live on as Ballaton's had. The Archive, the Reliquary, and the Gallery of the fallen heroes were his legacy. Madan’s daydream was ended by the soft voice of his beloved daughter as she walked into his study.
“How many times are you going to read that dusty scroll? Surely, there’s more important things you could be researching.”
Madan covered the journal with the tale of Ballaton. He smiled and turned to his daughter, lowering his spectacles. She’d not let it go just yet. He wanted to chide her but her beauty stunned him.
She stood before him dressed in the traditional white robes of their people. She was a complete contrast to the traits of their people. Where most had blonde hair and blue eyes, she took after their traits of their ancient ancestor the Light Bringer. Her long wavy jet-black hair matched the shiny obsidian color of her powerful feathered wings. She was his pride
and joy, and one of the greatest hopes for her people’s future.
“Samsara, why are you awake at this hour? Have you been woken by the Night Mare again?”
Samsara shook her head in disagreement. “Just excitement I guess. My wings are restless.”
“Nervous to give your commencement speech?” he asked. “I believe your impassioned words will be well accepted by your fellow youth.”
“Not for a speech, for our people, father. Something approaches a darkened horizon. I can feel it.” she said. “It’s probably nothing, the Night Mare as you said.”
She walked towards the scroll he was copying and stared at the words, her eyes were foggy and tired, but she stirred inside.
“Ballaton’s memoirs,” she said. “One of my favorites.”
Madan looked at her with concern, he had always been disturbed by the terror that gripped his daughter in the night. He often wondered if it was his work decoding the forbidden that had led to her suffering as a child but had found none evidence she was touched by darkness. Druids, priestesses, wise men and women from all over the dominions had answered his queries and none knew of any ailment that could have such effects on a child. Samsara affliction was a mystery. He looked at his daughter and smiled. She fiddled with the parchment on his desk and spoke.
“By now you have every word memorized, how much more magic could that old tale hold for you?” she paused. “Or are you working on something else? The thing the druids told you not to do? The thing you told me not to do?”
Her tone was veiled in the rebellious tones of youth. He knew she approved of his challenge to authority. She had never liked authority, and Madan didn’t see that changing.
A hearty laugh escaped from him before addressing her question. “These scrolls were left out by one of the younger scribes, now they have faded.” he said.
Nemeton: The Trial of Calas (Hallowed Veil Book 1) Page 9