As we forged through the Glenn, fighting against the beasts of the valley, morale among my men grew low. A reasonable response, for why would we be risking our lives to travel through such a terrible place that no native, or no sane animal would dare stray?
But what we found there challenged their faith far more than anything else we had come upon. The horror of that valley, we swore to never speak of again. A Truth so terrible that few living should ever be made to bare it. But a Truth so important that it should not be forgotten.
The Truth, by King Móráin I, AC55
***
The main hall of the Basilica was crowded, far more than usual. Dozens of Churchguards stood in silent attention against the back wall. Ahead of them, two rows of priests in white robes and druids in grey stood face to face, either side of a red carpet that stretched the length of the chamber. At its end, cardinals and high-cardinals sat upon an altar. The former wore silver robes, the latter the same, augmented with golden ornamentation around the chest and shoulders.
Before them was a golden throne, its back rising high, with an elaborate design representing leafy branches of a gilded tree. And there sat Arch-Canon Cathbad, dressed in the extravagant red and golden robes of his station, with an elaborately pointed headpiece resting upon a wrinkled forehead.
On the far end of the hall, Argyll the Silverback came, accompanied by a handful of the Sons of Seletoth. Ruairí pushed Argyll, the wheels of his new lightweight chair gliding silently along the carpet. As per Argyll’s design, this had larger wheels angled outwards, leaving the seat closer to the ground. On either side of Argyll, the tops of the wheels rose over the chair, concealed beneath thin steel sheets. Argyll rested an arm on one of them.
As they moved through the hallway, the rows of priests and druids either side seemed to regard the visitors with contempt, with many avoiding looking directly at Argyll. Through a gap between two standing priests, Argyll briefly caught the eyes of Ned. But this momentary glance was enough to tell him everything he needed to know.
Everything is in place. We are ready.
As they approached the altar, Arch-Canon Cathbad rose and stepped towards Argyll. His immaculate red robes shimmered as he moved. He raised a hand outwards. His middle finger bore a ring bearing a thick, white stone. Argyll leant forward to kiss it.
“Your Holiness,” he said. “We are honoured to be in your presence.”
“As you should be,” said Cathbad. “You seem to have chosen an inopportune time to request this audience. Tell me, why are there so many Simians gathering at Sin?”
“Because we wish to leave this land, Your Holiness. Morrígan the Godslayer has defeated the Triad’s army at Dromán. We have no choice now but to flee before she returns.”
“There are no lands spared by the Grey Plague,” said Cathbad. “You are fleeing one danger to another far worse.”
“The Grey Plague has reached this land too,” said Argyll. “By your own reasoning, if those lands claimed by it are uninhabitable, why would this land by any different?”
“Because this is the land promised by our Lord!”
“Promised as it may have been, we do not share the same love for it than you do. Many Simians of Penance have agreed to leave, but we have struggled to convince those that hold the Church dearly to them to do the same. Of course, they are free to stay if they wish, but after what this city has already witnessed, surely you can admit that leaving is the best option.”
“And where is it you wish to flee to?”
“There are lands beyond the Eternal Sea,” said Argyll.
This answer was met with murmurs that frantically ran through the room.
“Heresy!” cried the Arch-Canon, bringing the room back to a tense silence.
Argyll leaned forward in his chair and bowed his head. “All we ask is for your blessing to leave,” he said. “With so many of your followers reluctant to join us, we believe your words may encourage them to come.”
“Spare me this nonsense,” said Cathbad. “We all know your long-distance ships are grounded without our focus-crystals. Have you not come here to grovel before me, and ask for them?”
“No,” said Argyll. “We have come to take them.”
With this, the Sons of Seletoth removed their hands from under their robes, revealing firearms clenched in each of their fists. Firearms they all pointed directly at the Arch-Canon.
“Guards!” cried Cathbad. “Apprehend these heretics!”
The Churchguards, Humans and Simian among them, immediately responded, stepping forward and lowering their spears. But these, they pointed at the Arch-Canon.
“Traitors!” cried Cathbad. “I’ll have you all killed for this! You’ll burn in the Holy Hell!”
Ruairí strode forward, pointing his weapon squarely at Cathbad’s forehead.
“Beg me for your life,” said Ruairí. “Get on your knees and beg this heretic to spare you.”
For a moment, Cathbad gazed at Ruairí with defiance. Then his eyes lost their fire, and they acquired a glassy look. Slowly, Cathbad went to his knees. And at the mercy of the Sons of Seletoth, the Churchguard of the Basilica, and Argyll the Silverback, the rest of the druids and the cardinals and the high-cardinals of the Church did the same.
With the firearm still pointed at Cathbad’s head, Ruairí reached for his headpiece, and removed it. Trembling, Cathbad now seemed more of a weakened old man, with a pale, bald head bearing whisps of grey hair and blackened liver spots.
“Please,” muttered Cathbad. “Spare me.”
“I’ve waited so long for this,” said Ruairí. “Let me relish your fear. Your pathetic grovelling. Your—”
“Stop,” commanded Argyll. Abruptly, Ruairí turned around.
“Do you not want to see him dead?” he asked. “All of our preparations, was it not for this end? The end where his blood is spilled on his gilded halls?”
“I did,” said Argyll. “And it was. But his life may serve a better purpose.” Argyll beckoned Ruairí over, who wheeled him towards Cathbad. Argyll leaned inwards, so his face was level with the kneeling pontiff.
“Listen carefully,” said Argyll. “Your Humans wish not to leave this land, due to some sort of misplaced belief that the soil here is more special than that of anywhere else. I want you to you convince them otherwise.”
Argyll reached down and picked up the Arch-Canon’s headpiece. “I need you to wear this, and all of your regalia and your pomp. I want you and your holy men to walk to Sin, and in front of the crowds there, ask for passage to cross the sea. There will be no gods and no kings in our new world, and you will be treated as an equal among the rest of your fellow men. You will board a ship, as an equal, and those reluctant to join before shall see that leaving Alabach is indeed their best option.”
Cathbad paused for a moment, then nodded. Argyll gentle placed the headpiece back on his head, and ushered Ruairí to wheel him away.
“Now,” Argyll called out to the rest of the room. “Plunder the vaults of this place but take only the focus-crystals we need for the ships. The material wealth the Church has accumulated here shall remain in this doomed land.”
With this, the Sons quickly ran past them, towards a doorway to the right of the altar. The Churchguard escorted the holy men from the hall. Cathbad stood to his feet, but Argyll raised a hand.
“Oh, and one more thing,” he said. “I’ll need your ring.”
Reluctantly, Cathbad handed it over, and Argyll clutched it in his fist. As Cathbad left, Argyll looked over his shoulder, up to Ruairí who looked back through narrowed eyes.
“I thought you’d be happier,” said Argyll. “Come, let’s see about this book.”
***
As Ruairí wheeled Argyll through the marbled halls of the Basilica, the shouts and cries of the looters elsewhere in the building echoed overhead.
“Do you think they’ll heed your words?” said Ruairí. “They’ve had so much taken from them; it’ll be tempting to claim it all back.”
“Perhaps,” said Argyll. “But they’ll have to leave most of it here if they wish to board our ships. If they want to stay, they are welcome to it all.”
Ruairí slowed Argyll to a stop as they reached the end of the hallway. There, a steel grate in a doorway marked the entrance to a large cargo lift.
“I trust this is it?” asked Argyll. “Let’s make this quick, please? There’s still much to be done.”
“Of course,” said Ruairí. “We’ll take the tome, and we’ll be gone.”
They entered the lift, and Ruairí examined the pulley mechanism on the far end. After some fiddling, the lift lurched into motion, with ropes pulling and pushing either side. A counterweight quickly passed by as they descended deeper into the darkness.
In silence they waited, until the lift slowed to a stop. There, Ruairí opened the portcullis and wheeled Argyll outside.
A thick door stood before them across a small stretch of marbled floor. The door bore no obvious locking mechanism, nor did it seem to have a keyhole. But adjacent to it, some three feet tall, was marbled column, one face of which was white and smooth. It bore an imprint of the three circles of the Trinity.
As they approached, wordlessly, Argyll handed the arch-canon’s ring to Ruairí. The Human handled it carefully and pressed it against the imprint on the column. A moment passed where this seemed to have no effect, then slowly, with a creak and a grind, the door opened.
“Is this some sort of magic?” asked Argyll.
“A lost kind, yes,” replied Ruairí, pocketing the ring, and removed a lit torch from beside the column. “And inside, we shall find a great many more lost things.”
The door revealed to them what seemed like a cross between a storage room and a museum. Two silver suits of armour stood in attention at the entrance, with piles of neatly packed boxes filling shelves either side. Immediately in front of them, a parchment depicting a map hung behind a glass case.
“I don’t recognise those lands,” said Argyll, as they passed it.
“The Church would prefer to keep it that way,” said Ruairí. “Those are the lands to the east, where Móráin was born. This vault contains a great many treasures from the time of our first king, but there is one treasure in particular I seek.”
With a torch in one hand, and the handles of Argyll’s chair in the other, Ruairí forged onwards, raising the torch to examine old portraits and busts on display, but he never stopped moving.
Everything he has done was for this moment, Argyll reminded himself. Not for loyalty to myself. Not for belief in our cause. But for these treasures.
They took a corner, passing many more shelves of many more books, when Ruairí came to an abrupt stop. Trembling now, he raised his torch up, and pointed ahead.
There, at the end of the room, was a display case containing a red velvet cushion. And on that cushion, sat a book, bound in black leather with golden pages within.
“The Truth,” whispered Ruairí. He let go of Argyll’s chair. “Written by the hand of Móráin the First Himself.”
“That’s often how autobiographies are written, yes,” said Argyll. Sure, he was intrigued by this Truth he had heard so much about, but it was not his greatest concern right now.
Ruairí did not respond to Argyll’s comment. He left Argyll in the middle of the chamber and dashed towards the display case. He hung his torch on a nearby sconce, and with the butt of his firearm, broke open the glass. Its shatter echoed through the room.
“Finally,” he said, taking the tome into his hands. “The Truth shall be known to all, and the Church shall no longer have power over us.”
Argyll sighed, slightly amused by how Ruairí’s body seemed to be convulsing with excitement.
The Human opened the first page.
“‘It is against the advice of the Church that I recount the things I have seen,’” he read, “‘but I do not believe truths as important as these should be forgotten. It is my wish that this account is recorded and locked away, so none may ever look upon these pages. But I do not wish for them to be lost. The truths of our existence, no matter how terrible, should never be lost.’”
“Terrible?” asked Argyll, leaning forward. “That’s not what I was expecting.”
“Yes,” muttered Ruairí. He flicked through the pages. “He describes how he came to power among the disparate Human clans of the eastern lands, and the visions Seletoth showed him. Then he describes the voyage…” He flicked forward a few pages. “… the settlements they established and their struggles with the natives.”
Argyll scoffed. “Not dissimilar from your other history books then. Now please, can we go?”
Ruairí didn’t respond, seemingly absorbed entirely by what he read. Argyll went to speak again but held his tongue. This was an important moment for the Human, he reasoned, so best to let him have it. For a few minutes, anyway.
Ruairí continued to read, lips moving silently. Every so often, he’d shake his head in disbelief and flick the page. Or often he’d flick the page back, to re-read something, then move a few pages forward.
Then, abruptly, with the turn of another page, Ruairí screamed.
This was no scream of fright, or of excitement, but a disturbing, high-pitched wail that resounded through the room. With the tome still clutched in his hands, and his eyes locked onto it, Ruairí fell to his knees.
“Nooo!” he cried, prolonging that howling syllable until his voice broke. His face contorted into a twisted expression; his eyes shut tight and his mouth fell ajar. He gasped, trying to catch a breath that would not come, and when it did, he inhaled with another maddening note. Once his lungs were full, he shrieked again, louder this time, with the faint impression of no-no-no-no behind the inhuman screech.
“Ruairí!” yelled Argyll, still stationary and seated across the room. “What’s wrong?”
But only a deranged barrage of sobs answered him, which spluttered out of Ruairí’s heaving chest.
“They… found Him,” he wheezed, his voice cracking. “In the Glenn….”
“Ruairí,” said Argyll, in a softer tone now. He held out a hand. “This was a mistake. Put the book back and let’s return to the others.”
“In that valley,” whimpered Ruairí. “They found no god.”
“Yes,” said Argyll. “It’s just a book, we don’t need to take it with us.”
“We were created… we were created only to find Him….”
“Come on, Ruairí. Let’s go.”
“Only to find him, and to aid him…. He created the Tapestry… and the Godslayer… her purpose is only… only to….”
To Argyll’s relief, Ruairí put the tome down. But with horror, he saw that the zealot now held a firearm in his hand.
He pointed it at Argyll.
“They knew!” rasped Ruairí. “This whole time… they kept this from us!”
Argyll raised his hands in submission. “Put the weapon down, Ruairí,” he said. “Please, we need to return to the surface. Now.”
“He is not a god,” said Ruairí, with a weak, breathy laugh. “There is no god. There is no… purpose.”
“Ruairí, please.”
“There once was a purpose,” he said, looking back at the book. He turned another page, his armed hand lowering the weapon slightly as he did. “But we served it. We served it long ago, and life was meant to end when we did.”
“Ruairí.…”
Abruptly, he aimed the firearm at the ceiling. “We studied the plans of this place, for so long. So long. Do you know what is above, Argyll? Directly above us?”
Argyll shook his head.
“The stores… the stores of focus crystals, blues and reds and greens and whites. The power to mend, and the power to break. The strength of fire, of the earth, or water and of ice. But our people are looting those that produce ice. Those that chill the air.”
Where is he going with this? Argyll frantically looked around the room for a means to help, but found only dusty old artefacts of a world long left behind.
“With the blue focus-crystals taken, we’ve left an imbalance… now the fire crystals above us are unstable. What would it take, to cause them to expel their force?”
“No,” said Argyll. He gripped the thin steel sheets that covered the tops of the chair’s wheels.
“One bullet,” said Ruairí, pointing the firearm at Argyll again, then back to the ceiling. “If I shoot, the fire crystals would catch alight, and in the absence of the ice to chill the room, they’ll come crashing down upon his heretical place!”
Ruairí, keeping the firearm pointing upwards, turned his attention back to the tome. He muttered as he flicked through the pages with his other hand, shaking his head in disbelief.
He underestimates me, thought Argyll. Slowly, he went to work. He reached beneath the steel sheets of his chair and undid a mechanism holding them in place. Daring not to blink or take his eyes off Ruairí, Argyll removed both steel plates, revealing the full circumference of the wheels on either side of him. They rose over his seat, just as he had designed them to. And running around the outside of each wheel, was a raised rim.
Not making a sound, Argyll stretched both hands outwards, the steel plates clenched tightly in both. He knew any sudden movement would be enough to cause the madman to shoot.
Therefore, he had to make this one sudden movement count.
Just as Ruairí leafed through the book again, Argyll threw both steel plates up into the air.
Before they fell back towards the ground, Argyll gripped the rims of both wheels of the chair, and pushed as hard as he could.
The chair propelled forward under his force, and Argyll pushed again. With a crash, the steel plates hit the ground, and Ruairí quickly turned towards Argyll. Upon seeing the Simian darting towards him, Ruairí pointed the firearm forwards.
But Argyll was already too close.
With one hand, Argyll pushed his body from the chair, and with the momentum he had already attained, he leapt through the air. With his other hand, he reached for Ruairí’s throat.
Argyll fell upon the Human, Ruairí’s neck wrapped firmly in the Simian’s fingers. Ruairí coughed and spluttered and attempted to fight off his attacker, but Argyll was far too strong. He added another hand, and Ruairí’s face turned from red to purple.
After a moment’s struggle, Ruairí stared up at Argyll through maddened, dead eyes.
Argyll sighed, rolled off the Human’s body, and crawled back towards his chair. With some effort, he re-seated himself in it, and took a moment to catch his breath.
Before making a move to leave, he looked behind him. Next to Ruairí’s body was the book. The Truth. For a moment, Argyll considered it. Thinking first he should leave it, then second that he should read it.
Instead, he picked it up, tucked it into his coat pocket, and turned himself around to roll back towards the cargo lift.