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

by Christopher Lee

  One by one the champions arrived on the stage, the champion of the Freemen was stout and barbarous, the champion of the Atala was thin and regal.

  Atlantean mages, unbelievably proud of their craft. How many have I bested in single combat? Was it five or six? Water conjurers, what a weak art.

  Many of the champions of the kingdoms of men were underwhelming. The Aélfaren champion showed promise, his encounters with the nocturnal people of the Vale had proven their skill in the theater of warfare. The Kentáros champion was as fierce as his champion Sreng, who stood amongst the others looking rather foolish. As Sreng ascended the stage Ubara watched to see Dagda's reaction, it was as Ubara expected, Dagda smugly smiled disregarding the Beast Rider as no threat, it was a minor embarrassment to the Fir Bolg, one that could be tolerated for now. Ubara knew Sreng's brutality would serve him well, he would undoubtedly remove the heads of many of the contestants. Sumer and Elam had sent their champions which sent feelings of homesickness through Ubara. Though he was placed properly on the opposite side of the rafters, he could see the son of the god-King, the leader he once swore his fealty.

  Look at his face. What an obnoxious little brat. His father must not be well, pity. The son has no talent for ruling. Perhaps my return to Sumer will arrive sooner than I expected.

  It felt as a past life to him, he was so far removed from the life of opulence he once enjoyed, it was but a distant memory. The Sumerian rivals of Elam had sent a champion. Ubara scoffed. Assuwa and Troy had sent fine warriors. The strangest was the tiny gnomish champion whose body seemed to be augmented in strange ways by gears and steam-driven technology. Hellas and Hebros were in their typical fashion, full of the blustering winds of logic and reason, their kind were not men of action. The final contestants were soon to approach and Ubara was eager to see what the final dominions offered. The next to offer a champion were the Tuatha Dé.

  “Hailing from the lands of Eden, the magical lands of the Fae, the lands of her most devoted peoples, I present the champion of Hyperborea, Lugh of the Long Arm, great nephew of King Dagda Nuada Starlight King of Hyperborea and High King of the Fae.”

  The champion Lugh was dressed in the finest garments of any tribute. He was a picture of opulence and regality. Dagda had spared no expense in donning his champion with finery. Lugh's flowing blonde hair and kept beard shined in the midday sunlight. The crowds cheered and chanted his name. In this singular moment, Ubara noticed the reaction of King Balor, who stood to clench his fists.

  What a wonderful development!

  A sudden silence fell over the crowd. Everyone knew the implications of Lugh being alive. Now Dagda had not only revealed that Lugh was under his protection, but was also his champion. It was a clever move which revealed the true feelings of Balor. Though the Fomorians and Tuatha had been at peace for hundreds of years, this event changed everything. If Balor became certain that Dagda wished him harm, Ubara could use it against the Fae.

  Balor and Lugh locked eyes. Ubara smiled with delight. It would now be much easier to convince Balor to unify against the Fae if his life and legacy were brought into focused attack by the Fae. Now he would finally see the treachery of Dagda. This single act could catalyze everything that Ubara had hoped to accomplish. The silence was broken by a cheer from one after the other. Lugh was immensely popular among the common folk. Based on his size and apparent skill the legends were not merely poetic requiems for the lost child. King Balor might have liked to have believed that, but Ubara knew better. Lugh averted his gaze and turned back towards the crowd, his fists in the air absorbing the admiration. Ubara noticed as he fixed his gaze on one in particular. It was Princess Arabella. It was a curious match, one that appeared to be reciprocated in her confused smile and wandering eyes. Lugh took his place, and Balor took a seat whilst gazing with his one good eye upon Dagda who did not deign to notice.

  “Hailing from bountiful lands east of the divide, the land of the Great Kings of Fo, I present to the champion of Fomor, Prince Bres, son of King Balor, Lord of Fomor and Great King among Men.”

  Of all the other champions, Bres was the one who Ubara felt had both the breeding and training of a true champion. Bres was the heir to the largest dominion of mankind, and a beacon of hope for the many disenfranchised peoples of man. He was tall, elegant, and appeared built of marble. He was as fair as any and Ubara watched as many eyes were directed towards his presence with admiration. The crowd cheered his entrance, which carved a rare smile into the face of the grim King Balor. Upon the Prince's stout shoulders had Ubara placed a great deal of hope. Ubara analyzed the reactions of Dagda's family. Most notably he recognized the reaction of the young Princess and heir to Dagda's throne. She smiled briefly but curtailed her enthusiasm. He wondered if the mere appearance of Prince Bres had piqued her interest. The marriage of Bres to Arabella could deem useful if it met Ubara's needs, especially if he could not exploit the anger of Balor towards Lugh.

  All but one champion had been presented. Ogma took center stage. The crowd awaited the final announcement with anticipation. The events at the Acropolis had sparked the interest and concern of all who drew breath. An entire age of knowledge had been lost to the waves of the ocean. Making matters more difficult for all, more than half of the Seræphym had been declared rebels against the Nemeton, including the one whom they had in their custody. The very same one that would now be announced and presented as the champion of their people. Ubara had heard much of her involvement in the debacle of the thirteenth tribe of Atum. The thirteenth tribe had never concerned him, but they were men nonetheless. If the legends were true, they contained a purity of blood that not even the Fir Bolg could match. On one hand he was thankful to be rid of them, on the other, it was another offense of the Fae against mankind as a whole. He fixed his attention on the stage.

  “Hailing from the once proud Unreachable Isle, home of the winged warriors of heavens and the scribes of all knowledge, I present to thee the rebel, Samsara, daughter of the traitorous Sopher Madan, whose actions have brought about the deaths of both man and Fae. Though she has conspired against the ancient peace, she has been chosen as tribute to the Goddess, by the Goddess, and she shall be recognized.”

  His eyes glared as she stepped onto the stage. She was as beautiful as Neith, and walked with the same power as the giantess Skadi, yet something within her appeared terribly broken. Her face was grim and filled with a passion that was thinly veiled. What Ubara saw was someone who had become completely fed up with the duplicity of both sides of the conflict. The crowds booed, and a few threw whatever they could grasp at her. The Bards swiftly removed the rabble rousers from the crowd, but the crowd had made up their mind about the young angel. Ubara wondered if perhaps he could reach this broken young soul she too might become a useful ally. While she at first appeared to have potential, a more careful examination of her revealed to him she would be a thorn in his side. The crowd was silent, they simply watched her. She was strange to them, her kind was not known to have black wings, to them she was more demon than angel. She represented all that was unholy, she was tied to Atum's rebellion, and now to the offensive bloodshed during a most sacred and holy year. She calmly walked to her position the last of the twenty champions that had been presented to the crowd.

  “Ladies, gentlemen, Fae of all kinds. I present to you your champions! The Festival of the Great Goddess has begun, Let the merrymaking begin!” said Ogma. The crowd cheered and music began to play. Colored paper was flung into the air and casks were broken open for the pilgrims to imbibe. Ubara cringed at their pagan zeal.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Bres, the Crown Prince of Fomor

  Step forth from shadow,

  Into the light,

  Take up their plight oh mighty knight.

  Prince Bres walked from his father’s tent upset. The giant man was resolute. He would not attend the feast of champions presented by King Dagda. He had taken a personal offense to the emergence of this Lugh. The druidess Andraste
had arrived to give counsel to the maddened King. Bres knew of his father’s strange belief in the prophecy, but he didn’t see how this young man, who had remained hidden all these years could be a threat. Common sense dictated that this Lugh had not wanted to be found. He was wanted by the rulers of the two largest kingdoms on earth. King Dagda had simply wanted to spare his beautiful daughter Arabella, yet Balor remained convinced.

  His father’s presence would be missed, but Bres had little care. He was still riding high on the cheers of the common folk. The spectacle had made him feel invincible. He stood among the titans of his age, the heroes and champions of the world. It was everything he had ever dreamed it would be. Tonight he would feast with them, they would share tales of their glory and make merry. In the morning they were to leave the city and go to the whispering hills. There he would be tested, there he would see what all of his breeding, training, and study had produced within him.

  He made his way to his private quarters. There he readied himself in the finest cloth, armor, and regalia that his kingdom offered. He had long stood in the shadow of his father, patiently waiting for his time to shine. That time had come. Bres saw it as an opportunity not only for himself, but for all men. He likened himself as a champion of freedom, like his mentor. Ubara’s imprisonment had placed distance between them, but Bres and Ubara had never been closer.

  He shared the vision that Ubara had for men. A world without the meddling forces of the Nemeton. He no longer wanted to see his fellow brethren under their thumb. If he must he would stand beneath it and lift it as a hero of mankind. It was a vision that Bres believed he could achieve if he only set his mind to the task. He would need the other champions of men if he were to succeed in his task. Bres stopped and looked in the looking glass that hung in his private quarters. He gazed upon his face.

  Was it the face of a hero? A champion? He wondered.

  While he was elated by the cheering crowds, he hadn’t noticed a true change. He felt the same as he always had. Like a little boy who had never grown. He supposed this was how all men were. He wondered at what point he would make that choice as Ubara or Balor had. Perhaps after his triumph in the trial. Both of the men he looked up to had passed through fire to ascend as they had. He would have to do the same. He recalled his father’s words before he left the tent.

  “The manner in which we triumph makes us men Bres, remember that and you will rise above all men.”

  Would Ubara feel the same? He thought.

  Ubara wanted Bres to rally the disparate groups of men into a unified force. Whatever happened in the trial on the following day he knew this to be wise. He did not however see how dispatching the Fae set men above them. Though Ubara was a passionate leader, and competent, Bres often thought his methods mimicked the brutality of the Fae and their cursed grove.

  If men were to rise again, would they not have to be better than their rival? He thought.

  The questions ate at his psyche. He wanted to please both men, but actions would lead to only one course. Bres could not guarantee the Fae would not do the same as Ubara, and thus he must be prepared for anything. He looked in the mirror. His mind decided. He would become the champion that Ubara said men desired.

  Bres left his quarters and headed for the massive pole that ascended into the night sky. Beneath its canvas was the merry Starlight Promenade presented by King Dagda. For all the faults of the Fae, they knew how to throw a revelry. Bres could hear the merrymaking already. He quickened his pace and sauntered up to the guard at the entrance.

  “State your name for the Herald,” said the guard.

  “Prince Bres of Fomor, Champion of the Conclave.” he said eagerly.

  The guard bowed and pulled the canvas, opening the way into the grand tent. Bres ducked and passed through. His eyes betrayed him as though they were fixed by a spell. The grandeur of the sight entranced him. Roasted boar sat on silver platters, with the finest fruits. Pixies fluttered about showering fairy dust upon the guests. He’d heard of the dust before, it was said it bewitched men. Bres did not feel bewitched, but calmed and full of the spirit of celebration. The song of harps and fine voices whirled in the air. At the center of the tent was a great bonfire. The tent’s center was fixed by some magic, no pole was present. His eyes ascended to see the sky as clear as night. Fairy magic to be certain, the stars twinkled and bore their light upon the guests of the revelry.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen of the Promenade, welcome Prince Bres of Fomor, Champion of the Conclave!” cried the Herald.

  In unison the guests clapped and cheered, “Hail Prince Bres!”

  Bres was taken aback by the welcome. He was unaware that this event would look so favorably upon the men. It was a breath of fresh air in an otherwise tense world. He walked to the center of the tent and greeted several people in the appropriate manner. He bowed his head and moved on. As he made his way through he lost his sense of caution and bumped into someone. Bres turned.

  “I am dreadfully sorry,” he said. “I must have lost all sense.”

  The sheFae turned to him. At first he felt his eyes lied to him. She wore a tiara made of starlight, her dress was made from the petals of the finest flowers. She smelled of the field and fresh air, and her eyes sparkled with a fiery passion. Her hair was cut short as was the custom for the Fae. He stammered trying to regain his composure.

  “Princess Arabella, I..” he paused. “I mean.” he bowed in front of her attempting to match their style.

  “Not too bad,” she said. “Except you must lean forward into it more.”

  He laughed. “Hard when you are heavy laden with armor.”

  “A fine steel, folded I presume?” she asked.

  Bres looked at her in shock, “You know something of smithing? Impressive Princess.”

  “Only a thing or two,” she said. “Though your smith should have implemented a hotter temperature, and he could have mixed in the bark of the ironwood. Would have strengthened his work tenfold.”

  She was impressive. Not at all how he had imagined. Among the realms of men, the princesses were often concerned with little else but finery, bearing children, and engaging in conversation. At least that had been his experience. This entire gathering of dominions had proved his bias to be grossly false. There was this Arabella who exceeded expectations. The Princess Neith who showed great promise at the presentation of champions, and even the Blessed Daughter of Sumer who appeared strong enough to cleave a man in half. The notion that women were weak and ruled wholly by their emotion was being dispelled by the second.

  “You must excuse me Princess, it’s just that you are not at all what I expected.” he said.

  “So few things are Prince Bres, I assure you I will never cease to amaze. Especially not for the man brave enough to sit at my side.” she said before walking away. She shot him one more quick glance over her shoulder before making way to the merry dancing circle. He watched her dance. Her bare feet met the earth with a heavenly grace. Her wings glowed as brightly as her smile.

  “She is quite the specimen,” said Ubara. “Enchanting, and wiley.”

  Bres could not wrest his eyes from their quarry. “She is.”

  “Be careful to not be taken by this spectacle. It clouds the mind with thought of desire. A man can become lost in the passions of the Fae. We must steel ourselves against their deceptive magic.”

  “I must admit this was not what I expected,” said Bres.

  “As she said, so few things are.”

  “You must forgive me Ubara, I have not forgotten the importance of our task. It has been an intoxicating experience for me. The crowds cheer lift me to such grand heights.”

  “Well deserved praise, young Prince, and I would not tear you from such revelry, not on this esteemed eve. You must make your way among the champions. Assess them, determine friend from foe, and do what you can to impress all here. I must retire soon, but first I must speak with my brute. May you have a merry evening young Prince. I look forward to welcoming
you upon your return.”

  Ubara bowed and Bres watched as he approached the hulking beast Sreng. Ubara commanded him as he would a common beast. It was curious. The Beast Riders were not known for a docile nature. They were much feared by all who shared a border. How the sinewy Ubara had commanded him mystified Bres. He watched Ubara hand Sreng a handkerchief, and then he pointed to the Princess Neith. Ubara was always playing a mind game, this was no different. Whatever the purpose, Bres was sure he would not decode it. He disregarded the whole scheme for a moment and let the revelry take him.

  Not long after Ubara departed, Bres found himself at a table with the Champions of Hebros, Hellas, Troy, and Assuwa. The men had segregated themselves from the Fae champions who seemed to act in kind. His task wouldn’t take much effort it seemed, the division was clear. Bres soon discovered the realms of men were as divided amongst themselves as they were with the Fae.

  “Do you know what chance this for men?” Bres exclaimed. “We here have a chance to claim a noble and decisive victory for our people. Should we not grasp that chance with all of our might?”

  The champion of Hebros, Iason scoffed, “What makes you think any of us stands a frozen chance in Hades against that titanic mistress from the north?”

  “Or that hooved centaur,” said Hermagoras, the Champion of Hellas. “His arm is as big as my head.”

  “Did you see the skin on that stout little blighter,” said Lycaon, the Champion of Troy. “It looks to be made of stone. What blade can cut through stone?”

  “They’re Fae, it’s all smoke and mirrors. If they were as you make them to be, they’d have no need of the grove. Face it men, the Prince is right. If we go into this thing tails between our legs, none of us is coming out alive.” said Lycia of Assuwa.

  “Lycia is right,” said Lugh.