For the years that followed, I led my people westwards, across lands unknown. We came across others, Humans just like us, and we took them into our community. We taught them about Seletoth and found that some could even learn magic too. Our numbers grew as we crossed Arinor.
In part, we were fleeing the Grey Plague. Whenever we’d attempt to settle, it was there, in the air, in the soil, killing any chance we had of surviving.
But another force was pulling us westwards. I could feel Seletoth, stronger and stronger with each league we travelled. The home He promised us was so far away, but His love guided me towards it.
And every man, woman, and child that lived followed.
The Truth, by King Móráin I, AC55
***
The army of Penance gathered in the Tower of Sin the following day. A contingent of cavalry waited outside; riders upon elk mounts waiting patiently to board Diplomacy and Lionel’s Grace, the largest of the two airships fitted for the journey. Most of the soldiers wore heavy armour, with long lances and halberds made from Simian-Steel. Others were lightly armoured, with chainmail over gambesons bearing the sigil of the Triad, a blue triangle on a field striped with green and white.
Inside Sin, the Sons of Seletoth were boarding Tradewind, Golden Heart, and The Kingsmill. Many of them wore Simian firearms slung over their shoulders—seemingly harmless tubes of steel and wood to those who had never witnessed their power. They were joined by the Churchguard, their scarlet robes and immaculate armour a stark contrast to the Sons. True to his word, Arch-Canon Cathbad had ensured their numbers rivalled those of the Triad’s Army, who were boarding the The Javelin, Red Sentinel, Horizon, Cumulous and The Majestic. Many of these were trade vessels, emissary ships, and scouting crafts that once were fitted with their own specific instruments and equipment, now stripped bare to serve the same purpose: to bring this newly assembled army south. To aid them, another ship, Ambassador, was being loaded with crates and barrels of provisions to feed this army, along with timber and tools for building fortifications around the Dromán outpost. Only three ships remained docked and untouched, the gargantuan ships Sinfall, The Dreadnought and Thunder, just as Cathbad had demanded.
The gathering was truly a wonderous sight: Humans marching with Simians, great knights clad in the finest of armour alongside men armed only with their faith.
Fionn reckoned it would have been worthy of a bard’s song if not for the terrible hangover pounding through his skull.
How much did I even drink last night? he thought, struggling to keep balance as he walked up the gangway of The Majestic.
He could have sworn it was no more than three glasses, but it felt like he had drunken as many flagons instead.
It was three for sure, said Sir Bearach. I was keeping count. Ruairí drank the same, so he must be in a similar shape too.
Fionn rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t slept much the previous night; most of it was spent contorted over a chamber pot, purging the contents of both his stomach and bowels.
How old was that wine bottle?
Why does it matter? said Sir Bearach. I thought it was supposed to get better as it aged!
Fortunately, Fionn had woken up just in time for the ships to depart, but he felt as if he was ready to sleep for a full night. Whatever alcohol that had been present in his body was gone now, leaving only a gasping, systemic dehydration in its wake.
He walked alongside other foot-soldiers of the Triad into the open maw of the ship. Many were Simians; citizens of Penance who had taken up arms for the Triad before, but others were Humans who had fled to Penance when the horde came, serving for the city’s army in exchange for the refuge it had granted them.
Among those Fionn boarded with, many threw glances at his red cloak, and the adornments that marked him as Firemaster. As he passed a young soldier, Fionn heard his named whispered, as if in reverence.
I’m not worthy of this, he thought, flexing the fingers on his severed hand. When I came face to face with the Godslayer, she maimed me.
“Fionn!” cried another voice. “Firemaster Fionn!”
Fionn turned around to find the source of the familiar voice. A man carrying a simple spear over one shoulder came running through the crowd.
“Ah, Cormac of Roseán,” said Fionn, nodding as the man approached. “It is good to see you well.”
Fionn wished he could say the same for himself; somehow speaking out loud had caused the beating in his skull to return. He quickly took a drink from his waterskin. The water on his parched lips tasted like it had been sweetened. He had to stop himself abruptly to ensure he didn’t consume all he had brought with him.
“And you,” said Cormac, patting Fionn on the shoulder as if they were old friends.
I suppose we have been through a lot together, said Fionn. He hadn’t made any real friends since he had arrived in Penance. Just allies who he had narrowly avoided death with multiple times.
The two boarded together. The landing dock of The Majestic was far less majestic than that of The Glory of Penance: the ship Fionn and Bearach had taken from Cruachan, seemingly an eternity ago now.
This ship’s interior was far narrower, with two stretching corridors towards the ship’s bow and stern. Unlike The Glory, the ceiling was made of thick steel, held up with heavy, wooden beams. Fionn reckoned this was to separate the large ballonets filled with explosive gas overhead from the rest of the ship. This was confirmed by the many signs Fionn walked past warning the passengers aboard to avoid open flames and sparks on their journey.
Perhaps that is why they were staring at me, thought Fionn.
Following the crowd, Fionn came into a large room at the back of the ship. This was extravagantly designed, with a red velvet carpet and thick, gold embroidered curtains open to reveal large windows with filigree adornments around their frame.
The room was void of furniture, however. This was seemingly once a luxury suite to allow the nobility of Penance to travel with absolute comfort. But all comforts had been removed to allow some two hundred soldiers of the Triad to sit on the floor with their arms and armour for the duration of the journey.
“It is good to see you still fighting,” said Fionn, as he took a seat on the floor beside Cormac. “Despite the horrors we witnessed at the Goldgate.”
“It is in spite of them that I’m here,” said Cormac. “But it’s a shame the same can’t be said for many others who were by my side that night.”
“We lost too many good people to the horde,” said Fionn. “Hopefully we can end it all in Dromán.”
A group of men carrying spears walked past, one laughing a loud, shrill laugh at an unheard joke.
“It isn’t just those that died who aren’t with us,” said Cormac, more quietly now. He leaned in towards Fionn. “Many were… recruited. By the Sons of Seletoth.”
“The Sons?” said Fionn, looking around. “But aren’t they here too?”
“Not all of them. With the king dead, and the Móráin line at an end, there’s little reason to continue worshiping the Trinity. That fellow who was always with the Silverback came to talk to our battalion after the fighting was done. Most of them disavowed the Church and its teachings, in favour of those of the Sons.”
Ruairí, said Sir Bearach.
“But not you?” said Fionn.
“I wasn’t there, sure. I was down in the tunnels with you and the others, meeting the Lady Meadhbh Herself. When I came back, those in the battalion told me of their newfound faith. But of course, I couldn’t renounce the existence of the Trinity.”
“Because they don’t believe in the Lady,” said Fionn, nodding.
That’s why he wanted to meet you, lad, said Sir Bearach. It wasn’t to learn about the Lady, but to recruit you.
Of course, thought Fionn. And he saw the folly in his attempt once I told him that the She really does exist.
“Many of those he spoke to,” continued Cormac, “left the Triad’s army, opting to stay in Penance while the rest of us marched out.”
“So, they’re planning something?” said Fionn. “What could be more important that stopping the Godslayer?”
Cormac’s gaze fell to the ground, he shook his head slightly.
“I’m sorry,” said Fionn. “She’s still your daughter after all.”
“My daughter is dead,” said Cormac. He folded his arms. “And we’re going to kill the monster that has taken her place.”
As the others settled into place, the room’s well-kept floor was barely visible beneath all the bodies that sat on it. With a low whirr, the engines of the ship started, and among a chorus of excited voices, it slowly began to rise from the ground.
Others whooped and cheered as the ship took flight, but Fionn’s stomach immediately began to stir again.
I thought we got the last of it out, said Sir Bearach.
Nausea took hold of Fionn with an overwhelming force that pushed out every other thought and feeling from his mind. He stumbled to his feet, blinking his eyes with watering lids.
“Fionn, are you okay?” said Cormac. “You’ve gone terribly pale.”
Fionn dared not respond. He rushed out into the hall, hoping to find some suitable place to throw up. After a few steps up the corridor towards the direction of the bridge, Fionn’s stomach gave way, hurling its meagre contents to the ground with a scattered splash. Between gasping breaths he threw up again, this time expelling nothing. The dry wretch came out of him with so little voluntary input, it was as if Fionn no longer had control of his body. With another heave, the muscles on his neck tensed up, and an unbearable pressure pushed against the back of his eyeballs, bringing flashing stars into his vision.
Afterwards, Fionn slumped onto the floor, gasping for air. His stomach felt somewhat settled now, but the nausea was still there.
Are you sure it was just three glasses, Bearach?
Before the dead knight could answer, another voice called out.
“Fionn, are you alright?”
He turned to see Aislinn Carríga approaching from behind. She was dressed in dark plate armour, as thick as concrete.
“Just air-sick,” said Fionn. “I think I’m over the worst of it now.”
Aislinn laughed. “I used to suffer a great deal too, when I was a child. I find walking helps. I’d suggest you do the same.”
She crouched down to help him up. Fionn found himself amazed at the ease at which she took his weight and propped him onto his feet.
“You don’t get it anymore?” said Fionn. “Air-sickness?”
“I reckon I grew out of it. But the walking definitely helps.”
That much I can vouch for! said Sir Bearach. She could barely handle a carriage ride without feeling unwell.
It is strange though, replied Fionn. I was completely fine aboard The Glory of Penance.
Were you up drinking the night before then too?
No, I suppose I was more sensible back then.
“I must have grown into it,” said Fionn as they walked. “Have you any other suggestions to shake it off?”
“Keep your eyes out the windows,” she said. “And try to convince your mind that you’re moving.”
They approached a porthole looking out over the starboard of the ship. Through it, the city of Penance fell away as the ship sailed over the Steel Mountains. On the other side of the Rustlake, another, larger ship, flew past in the distance.
“But I know we’re moving,” said Fionn. “Why do I need to convince my mind of the same?”
Aislinn sighed. “A healer told me about the cause of travel sickness once. See, there’s fluid inside our ears, and its ebb and flow give us our sense of balance. It’s how we know we’re right-side up or upside down. So, when you’re aboard a boat or an airship moving very quickly, your ears tell your brain that you’re moving.”
“Makes sense,” said Fionn. He had studied some amount of white magic back when he was in the Academy, and likely once knew the technical term for the fluids Aislinn mentioned. Though it was detail long forgotten now.
“But there is a problem,” said Aislinn. “Even though we’re travelling across the Northern Reach, we’re standing still. Our ears are telling us that we’re moving, but our eyes are saying the opposite. This discordant messaging into our brains causes it to come to the wrong conclusion. Not that we’re aboard a moving ship, but that one of the signals is incorrect. And apparently another way that information can get garbled as read by our brains is—”
“Poison,” finished Fionn. “So, when travel-sick, our brains think we’ve been poisoned?”
“Exactly,” said Aislinn. “And our bodies know exactly what to do if they detect poison in our bellies.”
Fionn glanced back at the floor where he had thrown up. Aislinn laughed.
“It’s funny, some sailors would laugh and jeer at their peers that show symptoms of sea sickness, claiming that they’re weak or frail. But if anything, those are the ones who are stronger than the rest, since their bodies are better equipped for dealing with poison compared to the others. Indeed, many ailments are caused by our bodies trying to protect themselves. Like someone trying to help with the wrong tools to do so.”
“Kind of like us,” said Fionn. “Flying out to Dromán to protect one god from another. Do you think we even stand a chance?”
“I didn’t think I could escape the horde on foot,” said Aislinn. “But I did. I didn’t think we could fight them back at Penance, but we did. I suppose the real answer is that I don’t know whether or not we stand a chance. So, we may as go and see if we do.”
The ship accelerated as they crossed the Clifflands, and soon Fionn found that his air-sickness had returned. He excused himself from Aislinn, as even speaking seemed to much effort now. He spent the rest of the journey with his head pressed against the glass of the porthole, watching the baren landscape zip past below.
As the afternoon deepened, Fionn’s illness did not subside. He was happy enough to linger in the one place for the rest of the journey, just praying with every passing moment that the ship would land.
Indeed, after about six hours of travel, the ship began to descend.
Are we here already? asked Sir Bearach. I thought the journey would be closer to eight hours.
Fionn agreed with the knight, but part of him hoped that they had reached their destination. Unfortunately, a quick glance out from the window told him they had just reached the northern border of the Hazelwood.
So why are we landing?
Fionn’s body welcomed the decrease in pace as the ship slowly descended. As it landed, some people emerged into the corridor. It didn’t seem that they were getting ready to disembark, so Fionn joined them. He caught some excited murmurs among them but wasn’t quite sure of their context.
After the ship came to a halt, some time passed as the crew fussed themselves with the gangway door. Eventually, this opened, revealing a wooden bridge that descended down to the grassy planes below. The trees of the Hazelwood loomed ahead to the south.
But at the foot of the gangway were seven Simians upon mounts. Fionn squinted, recognising General-Commander Plackart at the head and Farris just behind. As the Simians embarked, the rest of those aboard burst into applause.
“Plackart’s back!” cried one Human next to Fionn. “I wonder how Point Grey is faring.”
“I don’t,” said another Simian. “As long as my family back home are fed, it can burn for all I care.”
Plackart stepped through the door, tending to his mount that walked alongside him. The General-Commander’s face was still and stoic as it always was. He didn’t even acknowledge the cheers of jubilation that greeted him as he boarded.
Fionn wondered if something was wrong, if the party had come across something on their journey to or from Point Grey to trouble them so much. And when the next Simian came on behind Plackart, Fionn’s suspicions were confirmed. For Farris Silvertongue came behind. His face was pale, and his eyes stared blankly ahead, wide and unfocused. As the crowd cheered again, Fionn caught Farris’s glance. The Simian was agitated. His mouth was ajar, and his lips were quivering. No matter how terrible Fionn had felt during this flight, he reckoned Farris felt far worse.