by J. M. Briggs
A strange dull but echoing sound came from Chernobog that shook the whole hillside. Alex brought her hands up to cover her ears and hunched over. Her insides were quivering and each breath felt colder and colder. Dark clouds began to roll in from around the hills, swirling and curling in the sky and casting twisted shadows down upon them. Alex raised her eyes and looked up the hill towards Arthur. He was standing perfectly still and gazing out at the lake with a fearful and nervous expression. Alex saw him glance over his shoulder towards the car and wondered if they could make a run for it.
Then Chernobog stopped the terrible noise and moved quickly through the water. Nervously Alex looked over and tried once again to call some of her magic. Chernobog was almost at the shore now, his huge form almost completely out of the water, but suddenly he stepped back into the water and sent waves crashing onto the shore. Alex frowned and scanned the lake for why Chernobog had suddenly changed his focus. Her heart was pounding and she wondered hopefully if Merlin or Morgana had done something.
Her eyes widened and Alex fumbled into her pocket to pull out her phone. With frozen fingers, she made a simple text: lake north help and sent it to Morgana and she hoped to Merlin, but her cold fingers slipped. She looked back at the lake and gasped softly as the surface of the water in the center of the lake near Chernobog began to ripple. A growl escaped Chernobog and he lashed out with one hand to strike the water. It slipped through his fingers and flowed back to the surface of the lake.
A roar escaped the being and he clawed at the surface of the water but around his long talons a wave of water began to rise up from the surface. The water swirled together, shimmering with its own light and casting back the oppressive darkness. Something gleaming rose out of the water as the water spun around it to create the rough form of a humanoid. The water dripped down the form, creating details of a gown and a face. A veil of water surrounded the form for a few seconds before it stepped through and showed itself.
It looked like a woman in a long gown, a circlet of shining droplets of water illuminating her face. What appeared to be a gown formed of water shimmered around her and Alex squinted to try and see more in the low light. The gleam once more caught Alex’s eyes and her heart pounded with excitement as she took in the sword clasped in the figure’s hands. It glistened in the low light and Alex could make out a golden hilt that made her heart jump. The Lady of the Lake, Cyrridven, had arrived with Cathanáil.
30
A Final Gate
800 B.C.E. Northern Cornwall
The sight of the Riders sent the village into a rush of screaming, running and calls to arms. The whispers about his family were forgotten as fear rolled over the village. Arto stood still in front of his roundhouse for several minutes and watched as the warriors rushed to their own homes for their weapons. Some were already armed and were looking about in mild confusion.
This part had been Luegáed’s job, Arto reflected sadly with a shake of his head. It had been his friend who oversaw the protection of the village. Just hours ago they had been happy to gossip about him and his shortcomings, but now they were being reminded of his importance. The dark amusement he got from the situation almost made Arto feel better. A soft chuckle escaped him and he swayed on his feet as the crippling exhaustion of his breakdown hit him squarely in the chest.
“Arto!” Someone shouted in his ear as a hand jostled him sharply half catching him and half shaking him awake. “Arto?”
Blinking, Arto turned to look at his sister. She was staring at him with a pensive expression. There was a dark look on her face and a flicker of doubt in her eyes that made him feel even angrier. He looked towards Merlin only to find a similar expression his mentor’s face.
“I’m going to need iron,” Arto announced sternly before he looked back towards the gaping hole in the hill. He frowned; rubble was rolling down the hill from it as if the Sídhe were still digging it open. “A lot of it.”
“I don’t think we have that much iron in the village,” Merlin answered in a tight voice. “The last gate used up much of the reserves.”
“They probably knew that,” Morgana growled giving Merlin a pointed look.
“Don’t make such assumptions Morgana,” Merlin reprimanded sternly before a worried expression took over his face. “I will gather what iron we have…”
“I need to get up there,” Arto announced as he pulled his sword. He savored the sound of the metal sliding against the hardened leather.
“But-” Morgana began to protest, but Arto ignored her. He shook off her hand and strode down the hill.
Several of the warriors stopped and looked towards him, but Arto said nothing to them as his eyes scanned the horizon. More Sídhe were slipping out of the tunnel with every passing moment, but there were other creatures too. Many small creatures were ducking away from the Sídhe Riders as they headed off in the other direction. Arto frowned but pushed back thoughts of these beings. He had more pressing things to worry about then some slaves of the Sídhe who were using the huge assault as a chance to escape their masters. Silently he wished them luck and turned to a nearby warrior.
“We have to keep this fight beyond the walls!” Arto shouted, gesturing with his hands towards the hills. “If they get inside the village we won’t be able to protect the people.”
“What about the blood protection?” A frightened voice to his right shouted. “You said it would protect us.”
“The Sídhe have decided to attack regardless of the area’s protections,” Arto snapped, irritation bubbling violently in his chest. “It will weaken them, you might even be able to harm them with bronze, but be careful!”
Many rushed to the gates of the village, but a few hung back and looked his direction. Arto tried to ignore their doubtful looks, but they chafed painfully. He was certain he looked like he’d been crying recently, looking exhausted and worn down and yet it changed nothing. Suddenly he envied Morgana her courage to snap at others, but he couldn’t do so and walked towards the gates with as much dignity as he could muster.
The sun had set, but the hillside was blazing with Sídhe magical lights and torches that were burning brightly. Arto reached out for the soft thrum of the blood magic that he’d tied to the area and pushed more magic into it. White sparks flowed down his fingers and fell to the ground as he walked like raindrops. He felt the magic flickering with new energy and life and smirked as he saw one of the distant Sídhe horses rear up fearfully. Blood red magic seeped up from the ground beneath it and twisted up its legs as its Rider leapt off its back.
Arto increased his speed to rush up the hill, feeling his heart beating faster. His vision sharpened and he felt magic coursing through his body. Cathanáil glowed brightly in his hand and he grinned each time that he caught sight of a Sídhe being swallowed up by the blood protection, a flash of satisfaction and smugness flashing through him. One of the Riders glared at him and charged forward swinging his golden sword wildly.
Dodging the Rider’s attack, Arto leapt forward to avoid the horse as it sped past. Swinging Cathanáil, Arto sank the sword into the flank of the Sídhe steed. It vanished in a flash of white light with an animalistic cry of pain, sending its rider crashing to the ground. Arto didn’t give the Rider a chance to recover. He leapt forward, landing next to the Rider and put a foot on its back before bringing Cathanáil down on its neck. The Rider managed only a weak cry and an aborted movement to get Arto off of him before he vanished. Arto sucked in a deep breath and took a moment to look around.
It was chaos. It was screaming, roundhouses being set on fire, people being grabbed and pulled up onto horses without concern for age or gender as more Riders rushed through the broken gates. It was the Sídhe riding towards the humans only for their steeds to suddenly release a terrible cry of pain and vanish in a wash of blood red magic. It was the Sídhe swinging their golden blades at humans and dodging the spray of blood even as their armor began to dissolve against the blood protection on the land beneath their feet. It was
warriors turning and running away from the invaders. It was every nightmare that Arto had ever suffered about a full Sídhe invasion.
Human warriors were scattered amongst the ranks of the Sídhe Riders and were greatly outnumbered as the villagers began to flee into the darkness. Morgana was slicing her way through the Sídhe with her magic, Airril at her back with his own iron sword glistening with silver blood. Merlin was nowhere to be seen and Arto could see his cousin Medraut stalking up the hill with a determined expression.
The snarl of a Sídhe hound pulled Arto back into the moment and he gave a loud cry as he swung Cathanáil. A splash of silver blood and a flash of light and the hound was gone, but another rushed to take its place with a Síd just behind it. Everything else was falling away; the pain in his heart was fading away as the battle raged around him. Arto felt sick to his stomach at the realization, but couldn’t help but swing Cathanáil a little harder than usual against the armor of a Rider. The armor glowed as he pushed magic through the sword. Magic flashed off the blade in tiny bolts of lightning making the sword look like it was aflame. The Rider screamed in pain, throwing its head back and exposing its pale neck. With a satisfied smirk, Arto ripped Cathanáil from the Rider’s chest and sliced its neck. Silvery blood spurted for only a second before vanishing in the wake of the sword’s magic.
He spun, ducked and bobbed his way around the Sídhe horses to take down their Riders. Around him, the blood protection was slowing the steeds before ripping them apart and on occasion taking the Riders with it. Yet for each Síd that he cut down or saw the blood protection overwhelm at least two more seemed to appear to take its place. Magic was flashing all around him and not just the familiar and comforting shade of green and silver that belonged to Merlin and Morgana.
Spotting one of the Sídhe mages, Arto charged with a roar of rage. Gold magic shot past him and he wildly sliced the air as he ran to cut down another Síd. Violet eyes glared as Arto approached and the Síd charged up a brilliantly sparking orb of gold magic. Dropping to one knee, Arto ducked the magical blast and swept Cathanáil up in a smooth arch in front of him. There was a scraping sound as the magical iron blade collided with the Síd’s armor, but in a flash of white magic, the armor began to dissolve. Pushing himself forward Arto used the momentum of standing up to thrust the sword through the Síd’s chest. It gurgled for a moment before it vanished.
He was in front of the tunnel now. His fingers itched to keep swinging Cathanáil about and destroying the Sídhe invaders, but he had to focus. A few Sídhe were still coming out of the tunnel on foot, but many stopped just before the entrance with wide and fearful violet eyes at the sight of Cathanáil glowing in his hands. Frowning, Arto watched as they began to pull back and linger further back in the tunnel. A few brave ones rushed forward with their swords drawn. Arto spun quickly to avoid their attacks and lunged to the right with Cathanáil to strike the first Síd. Its armor began to dissolve with the first hit and it stumbled. He was panting as he impaled the second Síd and then turned back to the first as it took a swing at him.
Metal struck metal and Arto’s knees almost buckled at the forces of the Síd’s attack, but he held firm. The Rider was stronger than he was with several inches on him and the higher position on the slope of the hill. Glaring at the Síd, Arto pointed at it and pushed a jolt of magic through the finger. A spark of magic arched off his fingertip and struck the Síd in the face. It snarled and stumbled back, clawing at its face as the spark of white magic jumped over its skin leaving a trail of burnt flesh. Arto swung Cathanáil and cut the Rider down with a short snarl of his own. Panting softly, he turned and looked into the tunnel with a frown.
He risked a glance towards the village where he could see the fires spreading over the thatch roofs of the roundhouses. Worry for his mother filled him, but Arto forced it down brutally and forced himself to look back at the tunnel. It was larger than usual with a rougher mouth. There were no elegantly placed rocks to form an archway and support the flow of magic. Instead, this was rough and messy; this was a last tunnel of desperation. Arto considered it with distress simmering in his gut, his heart beating too quickly in his chest.
More Riders were moving towards him and those hiding in the tunnel seemed emboldened and began to move forward. A soft growl escaped Arto, a knot of rage tightening in his chest. Anger, hurt, grief and doubt all warred and he tightened his fingers around the hilt of Cathanáil in an effort to keep some level of control.
He screamed tugging at the knot and letting it unravel in a collapse of his control. The air around him exploded outwards in a burst of white swirling magic. For a moment Arto could feel nothing, see nothing and hear nothing. Slowly awareness returned to him and he was staring into the darkness of the tunnel as wisps of his magic danced around the entrance. The Sídhe who had been approaching him were gone. A bitter chuckle escaped him and Arto nodded to himself as the magic around him began to weaken.
“Alright then,” he murmured letting his eyes fall closed.
Gripping Cathanáil’s hilt with both hands, Arto pulled viciously on his link with the magic of the world, gathering the power in his chest. With an exhale he released it in another burst of magic that rippled out around him, brushing over the humans and crashing into the Sídhe. Underneath him, the earth thrummed with the combination of his unleashed power and the blood protection even as he pulled on the raw power of the Iron Realm. Slowly, Arto raised his hands. There was a glimmer at the edge of his senses as he felt the world stretching out around him. He could see the burning village, the roundhouses on fire as people threw water on them or grabbed their possessions and ran. He could see the workshop with chunks of iron lying about under the flames. The forges where the iron of the gates had been created and formed. Cathanáil pulsed in his hands, the magic woven into its metal flashing in response to his thoughts.
Raising Cathanáil into the air, Arto pulled on the magic all around him directing it through the sword. He closed his eyes tightly and focused all his being on calling the iron to him. Everything iron in the whole of the isles that wasn’t already part of a gate was here and he needed all of it, even the weapons. A shock ran through his body as a wave of magic washed up through his feet and rushed up his body to the glowing Cathanáil. The sword in his hands flashed white and then the color began to change to a dark silver like the color of the iron blade itself. Arto struggled to breathe as the magic swirling around him became a storm.
Swords flew through the air towards him, iron axe heads were torn off their handles and smaller objects swirled above him. There were small pots, spearheads, arrowheads and dozens of small pieces of iron that were decorative, but any artistic value was lost on Arto. His hands were trembling as he pulled and pulled on the magic all around him and cast it into the iron. Around him, he could hear the sounds of battle and feel a strong wind whipping around him keeping everyone away from him. Distantly he thought he heard Medraut scream his name. The mere sound of his cousin’s voice brought their last conversation crashing back to the forefront of his mind.
The glimmering connection to his magic inside of him was vibrating violently and felt like it was on fire. Now he could smell the smoke of the burning village and gagged as he caught the hints of burning flesh. Hopefully, it was livestock, but in his mind’s eyes, he could see the carnage. They’d been swarmed and overwhelmed: there had been no real way to protect the village. Not and close up the tunnel. Arto was struck by doubts; if they’d stayed in the village could they have held it and protected everyone? Could they have fought back the Sídhe and then closed the tunnel? Luegáed would have known how to handle-
He shook his head quickly and glared at the tunnel entrance. He pushed everything aside; he banished his thoughts about Gwenyvar and Luegáed. He couldn’t be distracted, not now. He couldn’t be that weak, that broken at this moment. This was everything now; they didn’t matter anymore beyond how the hurt could keep him going. He kept pushing more of the magic out into the swirl of iron above
his head. Sparks of white magic danced over the various pieces and slowly they all began to glow as the magic seeped into them. Slowly, a small smile of triumph appeared on his face and Arto felt a stirring of confidence in his chest.
There was a sharp pain in his side so sudden and overwhelming that for a moment there was nothing else. He forgot everything as he stumbled to his knees, Cathanáil slipped out of his falling hand. The magic around him wavered, the pieces of magically enhanced iron falling to the ground with dull thuds. Slowly he came back to himself. It was hard to breathe and for several long moments, his entire being did not exist beyond the pain.
Weakly Arto brought his hands up to his side, reaching blindly for the source of the agony. His fingers became moist as a new sharp pain jolted through his body pulling him harshly back to reality. Arto brought his hand forward and looked at it dumbly. Red blood, human blood, his blood was smeared across his hand. He felt and heard someone behind him and wanted to turn, but the wound in his side made that impossible.