“I swear by my blood. To surrender my life for the good of the people,” said the champions in unison. Underneath each palm a razor edged spine rose from the flat surface, drawing the blood of the sacrificed into a chalice below their hand. Each grimaced at the sudden sharp pain in their hand but none removed their hands from the pain. Their resolve was commendable. Though Pythia herself knew just how miniscule this pain was in contrast to what they would face.
Pythia raised her hands to the sky. Her ceremonial skirt and headdress made of vine and leaf blew in the stiff wind that summoned by their oath to the Earth. They would be forever changed by their Oath. Should they live to see the light of day once more they would rise as agents of the Nemeton. They were now bound to defend the realms against all darkness and corruption. She raised her eyes to the sky.
Around the hilltop were four pyres marked in the directions of the cardinal powers. At the circle's center was a lone pyre made of birchwood. Pythia closed her eyes. The power of the natural world would soon consume her body. In her minds eye she visualized the strength of the Earth channeling through her feet. The wind spun around her in a vortex of untamed energy. The eyes of millions were upon her, they had all come to glimpse the power of their deity. The eager feelings of each pilgrim flooded her mind. Their voices overwhelmed her. She heard their prayers, their secrets, their hopes and dreams.
“I call to the spirits of the East, the spirits of Air, the wings of the wind, the breath in our lungs. Join with our champions and bestow upon them your wisdom, your power, and your blessings,” she said as the eastern pyre was lit by one of the bards.
“I call to the spirits of the South, the spirits of Fire, the dragons of the deserted plains, the burning passion of our spirits. Join with our champions and bestow upon them your wisdom, your power, and your blessings,” she said while the bard lit the pyre in the south.
“I call to the spirits of the West, the spirits of water, those who dwell in the deep waters, and the blood in our veins. Join with our champions and bestow upon them your wisdom, your power, and your blessings,” she said commanding the western pyre to be lit.
“I call to the spirits of the North, the spirits of the Earth, the fair body of our mother, and that which our own bodies owe allegiance. Join with our champions and bestow upon them your wisdom, your power, and your blessings.” The northern pyre burst into flames completing the benediction of the cardinal powers.
“By my power, by my will, I cast forth this circle of protection. May all who stand within it be purified and made whole for their journey into the underworld. May they pass the keeper of the gates, the Dragon Lord, the guardian of her sacred spirit.”
The crowd was silent as they watched Pythia perform the ancient rite. Pythia was handed a crystal chalice containing the blood that had spilled from each of the twenty champions. She raised it towards the heavens. “I bless this blood, the sacrifice of our champions, may it bind them in their task, may it rout out all unworthy souls. May it reveal those whose hearts are impure, may it devour them who stand before the sacred altar of the Great Goddess from within. May those who seek to destroy her divine will be torn asunder to dwell in the deep.” Pythia took the chalice and drank from its contents. Her eyes rolled back and the whites of her eyes shone with brilliance of the sun’s light. She looked at the champions, her eyes burning through their masks and revealing the true intentions of each of the champions.
The High Priestess then lowered her eyes from the heavens and focused her attention on the pyre at the center of the circle. “I summon forth the spirit of the Earth, the ever-watchful serpent within, the guardian of the underworld upon his back. Come forth Arawn son of Bile, Lord of Death. Come forth in flame and fury. Purge this circle of all ill intent, cast out the corruption within their hearts, and sunder all who stand against her.”
A fire burst forth from the wood, commanded into existence by the High Priestess.
“The dragon stands in judgment.” she paused. “Dheukō oljoi oljāi olja skelos.”
Cries burst from two of the champions. The spectacle captivated the eyes of all. Blood poured from the orifices of the afflicted as their eyes boiled within their skulls. All watched as their skin blackened as if burned from dragon fire. The sacrifices of the tribes of Assuwa and Elam burst into flames and fell to the Earth as ashes. The raw power of the trial became clear to all non believers.
The forces of the Earth raged within her. The dragon had risen and purified the circle of tributes. Those who remained exhaled in relief.
“The rest have been judged by pure merit, and are granted passage into his dominion beneath the Earth,” said Pythia. “I summon forth the gateway to the realm beneath all realms, the world underneath the world, whereby our heroes will undergo the Trial of Calas. Beneath our feet they will be tried that they may be proven worthy of the Sacred Grove. Should they survive they will be granted the strength to combat the darkness that descends upon us all. Before they rise as champions of our Great Goddess they must make the journey into the long dark. There their actions will prove their worth. There they will be judged by trials of the Dragonlord of the deep.”
The stone singers opened their gifted vocal cords and from the Earth emerged an opening to an enormous cavern. The mouth of the cave appeared to have the teeth of a great high dragon. Eyes were transfixed on the portal to another world. Across the threshold was the home of the pitch dark realm of the underworld.
“They will enter the deep, and three days hence, the mouth will open once more to reveal to us all who shall stand as defenders of her divinity. Go forth champions of the people. Claim your sacred power from the bowels of Earth.”
The sacrificed stepped forward. One by one they entered crossing the barrier between light and dark, between the realm of the living, and the realm of the dead. Pythia watched as the brave souls descended into the underworld to reclaim their sacred power, to claim their totem. Their first test was about to begin.
As the final champion stepped through the portal to the underworld, the cavern descended into the ground. There was no way but forward for the champions. Pythia felt the forces of nature leave her. She rested, collapsing to a knee. Though the ritual should have left her depleted, she sensed something within her give way. Her breath seized and her knee buckled. The crowds gasped and Amyrannii raced to her aid.
“High Priestess,” he said. “What is it?”
The other members of the circle had also run to her aid.
“I, I don’t know.” she replied.
Pythia searched her heart. It was like someone had stolen something very sacred from her. Where she had a full heart before the ceremony, she now sensed a gaping hole. Her limbs ached and her head felt as though it were in clouds. She was disconnected, and unbelievably alone. It was not a feeling she knew. She was ever connected to all things by way of her connection to the Goddess. Now suddenly, after thousands of years, the connection had been severed violently. She called to her companions, the Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone. Pythia reached out with all of her might.
“Goddess,” she said. “No, it cannot be. No. NO!” Her cries rang out in the sky and ripped through the wind. Lightning crashed in the clouds above, and a thunderclap crashed against the sky creating a rumble in the Earth. The forest howled as the trunks of trees stressed against the wind. Her eyes glowed with hate as she watched the images of her closest companions lie dead in the inner sanctum.
“Who has done this?!” she cried as she staggered to her feet pushing Amyrannii away from her.
A whirlwind appeared around her and in a flash of light the High Priestess had vanished from their sight. Pythia found herself inside the holy sanctum. She walked with care, trying not to step in the pools of blood that had formed around her fallen friends. The butchery told a tale of a malevolent hate. A pain greater than any she had ever experienced consumed her heart, and Pythia watched as the world spun about her. She crouched near the corpse of the Mother and wept uncontrollably. Her
hands cradled the head of the friend that had been at her side for millennia.
Amyrannii, Dagda, and the Morrighan appeared in the inner sanctum. Pythia looked at them with tears dripping down her cheeks.
“This is the work of men, their stench is upon it all.” said Pythia.
“We do not know that Pythia, it could have easily been the warlock. It was he who invaded the sanctum. You yourself saw him.” said Amyrannii. “You must let your senses return to you.”
“There will be no safe place.” said Pythia. She rose to her feet. “No haven that can keep the ones responsible from my wrath. I will unleash the spirits of earth, fire, water, and air upon them in an unholy blight upon all who had a hand in this butchery.”
“Pythia, you must breathe,” said Amyrannii. “We will find who did this. They will pay dearly, but you must control your rage. If we lose you now, we lose everything.”
Dagda drew his club, Pythia glared at him.
“Stand aside, I shall bring her vengeance forth in her name!” said Pythia.
The Morrighan moved in front of Pythia. “Sister, you must desist!”
“Stand aside!” her cry wailed through the walls of the Grand Temple like the cry of a Banshee.
Pythia saw the fear in their eyes. Her body brimmed with the untamed strength of nature. As she moved to strike them she felt him. He moved within her, calming her.
Do not fear Pythia. Said a familiar voice.
“Falbanach,” Pythia said with her eyes rimmed in hateful fire before collapsing into Amyrannii’s arms.
Chapter Thirty-One
Lugh, the half-blood Vagabond
Beyond the portal,
Demons chortle,
Craving flesh of the mortal.
The darkness was all-encompassing. Lugh could see nothing in front of his face let alone any of the other champions. He gripped his steel tightly in his hands. Each of them had been equipped with a sword of equal craftsmanship. He could feel the blades were well forged, but what use was a blade if he could not see his own nose. The other champions were as silent as he was. He knew several champions would have an answer to the darkness. The Dweorg would not be challenged by the darkness. Lugh perceived the feet of the other champions shuffling around, but no one said a word. He wondered if they were all just as terrified as he was. They had just watched two of their fellow champions burned alive by some unseen draconic power, and that was before they had entered the deep. None of them had been told what to expect, what they would come across. All they understood was not all would return.
“So this isn’t so bad, right?” said Lugh to break the silence. His thinking regarding this trial was to work with the others. He wanted to play off of their strengths and figure which champions would be the most useful. He had no intention of dying when he had stepped through the black veil, and nothing had changed. Lugh wanted to see Arabella’s face one more time. He would not die down here. “Did anyone think to bring a torch?” he inquired.
Each of the sacrificed had been invited to bring one item with them. Lugh had taken with him the spearhead of obsidian he had found lying next to him when he awoke from his drunken stupor in the woods. His memory was foggy, he was not sure what had occurred. It could have been real or the entire scene could have been a dream, he was none the wiser. There was something about the spearhead, when he held it he felt impervious to attack, though he didn’t care to test the theory. At least not yet.
Lugh heard feet shuffling and someone rummaging through cloth or leather. Then out of the darkness came light. His eyes reacted to the light with sharp pain. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed since they had walked through the veil, but reason told him it had only been a few minutes. That few minutes had seemed like days. Their eyes hurt as the flame from the torch reached their retinas. It would appear that their bodies were also affected by the strangeness of time. Lugh took note that the champion from Troy had been shaved as was their custom. Yet now his face showed the growth of a day upon his face. Time itself was moving faster, and it was affecting their physical bodies.
Entering the underworld in a living body defies the natural order. The air itself will fight your advance, it will sap your strength and take from you hope, sanity, and reason. Lugh recalled the lessons of the Morrighan.
This place would fight them at every turn. Though all the sacrificed were young, none above the age of twenty-five, they could not afford to lose time loitering. The advantages of youth and vigor would only serve them for a time.
“We should move forward,” said Prince Bres. “Time will be scarce. We should not linger.”
He too had observed what Lugh did. Lugh looked around at the faces of each of his companions. One was missing.
“Where is the Stoneskein?” asked Sreng.
“Damn little blighter is already on his way forward, the shit can see in the dark,” said champion from Hermagoras.
“Can he do that? Were we not supposed to stick together?” asked Iason.
“There be no rules down here,” said Sreng.
The company set out. The path was narrow. Jagged rocks jutted out. The stability of the cavern passage was questionable. Several hours into their journey they had experienced a cave in twice. Danger lurked around every corner, but none had fallen yet. Hour bled into hour and the troop continued down. Lugh estimated that they had marched for half a day when they came upon an area large enough for the champions to set camp and rest. Many had not rested since before the revelry.
“This appears defensible,” said Bres.
The group set watch and allowed a few members to close their eyes. Lugh kept his eyes sharp. None of the Fae rested, they remained resolute. They had fixed their attention on the dark corridor ahead of them.
He’d already approached the men, and he sensed he held rapport with them. He needed to bridge the gap between himself and the Fae. It was up to him as a half-blood to bring the two disparate groups together.
Lugh approached the champion of the Aélfar. “Where do you hail from Mistwalker?”
The Aélfar turned and stared at him. “The Quiet Lakes, just outside of Moon Grove. Why do you ask half-blood?”
“I have friends who come from the Vale. They’ve told me of your kind. Said you were shifters, said you rode the timber wolves into battle.”
“City Aélf’s believe too many of the Elder’s tales to be true,” he said. “Like these Fae here. They stare into the dark, waiting for death. They don’t know it won’t come at the hands of the dark. It is more likely to come from the hands of those in their company.”
“Neither man nor Fae will walk out of here alive if we are divided.” said Lugh.
“I didn’t plan to walk out half-blood. I know my death lies in these tunnels. Regardless of if we leave here still breathing, whatever we left up there is gone forever.”
The words stuck in Lugh’s mind. The Aélf was right, if they lived, and they managed to pass the other trials, they would never be the same. Lugh joined the Fae as they kept vigil. Some of the men rested. A couple hours passed before a crashing sound shook them back to reality.
Men leaped from their positions and the Fae readied their blades. Each one of them peered into the abyss with caution. The men stood and questioned this, and noted that aloud, each one blustering. Lugh was part of both worlds, and he was not sure who to follow. The Fae reeked of fear, the men appeared incompetent, and then there was the Seræphym. She walked towards the edge of the torch light’s domain. He followed her, her eyes peered ahead.
“What do you see?” he asked her.
She did not reply.
The Kentáros approached, his hooves clopping against the stone beneath them. Lugh turned back to see if he could get an answer from him. The champions of men babbled back and forth about what they heard.
“Good Kentáros, what do you see?” asked Lugh.
“Listen, do you hear it?” he said.
The champion of Atala stepped forward, “I do it! It’s the thump
thump of his fearful heart!” he laughed heartily and patted the Kentáros on the back. “Come on give me a ride. Atlantis has so few horses.”
The sword of the half-horse, half-man unsheathed with such ease that the Atala hadn’t had time to breathe. “Touch me again man-filth, and you will know what true fear is.”
Lugh interceded, “Alright alright, we’ve already lost three, and we’ve not even begun the journey down. We can’t come apart right here and set to killing each other.” His hand braced the arm of the Kentáros. The tension escalated as men gripped the hilts of their swords. The lines were clear. Fae and man were not willing to work together unless someone made them. That someone would have to be him.
“He’s right,” said Bres. “What we face down here will require all of us to defeat. I suggest we men show the Fae the meaning of courage and valor.”
The Kentáros grunted, but shrugged off Lugh’s hand, “The warning stands,” he paused, “For you too half-blood.”
Lugh walked away from the massive creature. He estimated that the beast approached the weight of ten men and could fling any one man against the stone cavern walls with ease. The crushing blow would kill most of them. The giantess stepped forward, and the men continued to joke about the Fae. Lugh assumed it was their way of calming their throttled nerves, only Neith excluded herself and made her way forward where Lugh, Bres, and the Fae stood. Lugh peered into the darkness as he focused it began to call to his ears. It was gentle at first, but it grew louder. It was a knocking, a clattering that called to them as if by some enchantment. The sound multiplied.
“What is that?” cried Lycia
“Make it stop!” yelled Lycaon.
The light from the torch held by the giantess only illuminated the surrounding area. Darkness closed around them. Lugh saw the light diminish. Though the torch continued to burn, the light fled.
Nemeton: The Trial of Calas (Hallowed Veil Book 1) Page 39