Morning came and Dorian and Brendan went out into the center of town to assess the clean up effort needed after last night’s party-turned-wedding. They shared a surprised smile when they saw that everything had already been tidied up. That meant they could begin their training earlier than they had anticipated. Brendan decided that working on his telepathic power was one of his major needs, so they headed to the edge of town. Using the power in town was on a have-to basis only.
“Crazy, huh, about Rory and Biddy, I mean,” Brendan remarked as he and Dorian made their way out to a field where the villagers had started making huge woodpiles. There was so much wooden debris after the Magogs attacked that stacking the wood seemed like the only logical thing to do. The villagers could use the firewood in the upcoming winter months, and it would have been such a waste to just scrap it all. Villagers piled the tons and tons of debris up, giving up the notion that it could have been done with any real sense of order.
Dorian counted the mounds and did some mental math to make sure the wood could be rationed out appropriately to her clan while she and Brendan were gone looking for Bibe. Having to leave made her feel guilty, but she knew she had no choice. Brendan needed her and she was going to be there for him. It’s funny that he was bringing up Rory and Biddy’s announcement, she thought.
“Sure, although it’s not really unexpected, is it?” she replied. “You go through so much with someone that you feel so connected with and then the idea isn’t far- fetched.”
Brendan glanced over at her and instantly recognized a look that made him panic on the inside, though he wasn’t sure why it did. “Uh, I guess so.”
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m not ready to tie the knot, but it does get you thinking, especially knowing that the end of the world might be coming sooner than expected.”
Brendan stammered and then Dorian took his hands into her own. “Relax, Brendan. I know you love me, but I also know we’re young and have a lot on our minds right now.” She stood on her tip-toes and kissed him. “It’s really enough for me to know that you love me.”
“And I do love you.” He smiled as he watched her walk towards an unruly pile that had somehow been knocked over in the night.
“Would you mind… I mean, we are out here to exercise your powers?” she asked, gesturing towards the pile.
Brendan concentrated on the wood. The pile glowed with a slight silver light as the pieces stacked themselves into several Lincoln log-like columns. He admired his work and then gave her a slight grin.
“Show off,” she teased. Dorian looked around at all of the other piles, which by comparison looked downright messy. “What about the rest?”
Brendan closed his eyes for a split second and in a blink of his eyes the entire field of woodpiles mimicked his first stack.
“Your control has gotten a lot better,” Dorian complimented.
“It’s been a work in progress, but I saw what we’re up against in Elathan. Thing is, I have this feeling that he’s growing stronger by the second and I have no idea how strong he could possibly get.” He looked down and away from Dorian, the weight of the world heavy on his shoulders once more.
“Hey,” she said, lifting his chin.
“I cannot fail again,” he said. “There’s too much at stake.”
“You won’t,” she replied, hugging him tightly. “I won’t let you.”
He smiled meekly at her, staring into her captivating eyes. They told him to trust her and to believe in himself and his abilities, and more than anything he wanted to as well.
“Last night I reached out for my father,” he said, making a motion with his hands that weaved out and away from him. “I sensed something.”
“What was it?” she asked, her eyes casting an intense gaze into his.
His face scrunched up as he tried to describe it better than just a heartbeat, but in the end that’s what came out. “I don’t know if it was Dad’s or something else entirely. My gut tells me that it’s a little of both.”
“What does that mean?” she asked darkly.
“It means that I’m pretty sure he’s alive, but it feels like he’s seeking something… I don’t know, something that wasn’t meant to be found and that could mean that things are about to get worse than ever.”
…
Camulos stood by himself in the throne room with his back against the cool stone wall. The Banshees, the wizard, and the human struck him as odd company for Elathan. They were not gods. They were powerful for certain, but they were mortal. Gods like him were immortal—or at the very least nearly impossible to kill. It made him wonder why Elathan would want three Banshees, a necromancer, and a human in his fold.
“Your thoughts betray you, Camulos,” Elathan whispered from an unseen corner.
Camulos was startled and turned towards the source of the golden god’s voice, only to spot a pair of golden eyes floating in the darkness. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I know all that happens in my castle, in my Realm, Camulos, so you should know that I have my reasons for collaborating with mortals, not that it should be your concern,” Elathan hissed in a cold tone, his eyes like soft golden orbs that danced in the darkness.
“Forgive my curiosity,” Camulos replied.
Elathan’s breathing was deep and measured. Camulos still couldn’t see his master, but his presence was felt just the same.
“My followers have not been forgotten,” Elathan said. “We are still bound by the order of things, Camulos. I need to call upon your skills once more.”
“I am here to serve,” Camulos said.
“You serve for the betterment of your own situation, but no matter, the end will be the same. You are to go to Earth and retrieve the Sword of the Protectors.”
“You know that the sword is on Earth for certain?”
Elathan’s golden eyes narrowed at being questioned, but Camulos steeled against the urge to apologize.
“It is. One of my servants attempted to recover it, but possession eluded him.” Elathan’s eyes began to fade. “Don’t let it elude you.”
Camulos was left to ponder his thoughts alone. It only took him a moment to collect himself before he began to stride back towards the lake of fire, back to the megaliths of Tech Duinn.
…
Nuada pulled himself up from his resting place and shuffled over to his window to the world. It flickered more and more these days, weakening like he was. He supposed it was due to Elathan reconnecting Earth and the Otherworld Realms together again. Earth seemed calm through his viewer, but rarely did things stay that way in the volatile world teeming with such interesting beings.
Otherworld was interesting, but Earth was special. He recalled how thrilled he was at its discovery. There was so much potential, so much promise for a young world dominated by such a rapidly evolving and creative species. Nuada should have never let Elathan follow him there, but he thought he could control things. He was wrong.
The window flickered again like one of the old boxes the Earth’s people used to watch their television programming on and Nuada frowned. He glanced through one of his vapor-like walls at the beautiful countryside of the Realm of the Gods, Tir na nOg. The Realm was a dream to him, an untouchable oasis where he could never venture into again. He was trapped in a prison of his own making—somewhere between realms but closest to his two favorite places in the universe: Earth and the Realm of the Gods.
Nuada knew he had been a self-righteous fool. He thought he could sever the tether between Earth and Otherworld and trap Elathan in this in-between realm. The only way Nuada could do that was to also be trapped as he lured the evil god. His only contact with Earth came in the form of his most fervent protector: Toren O’Neal.
The old silver god felt weaker than he could ever remember. He was usually very aware and wise about such things, but more recently his memories and thoughts were like wisps on the air, hard to see and hard to keep. He decided to lie down and rest. It was harder to keep his eyes open these days. His thoughts, before he drifted away, were of his old friend Gioibniu, the blacksmith and the way he was before that deadly night.
…
Brendan shook his head to try and balance his brain since it felt off kilter and scrambled. “Wow! What was that?”
He spun around to look at Dorian, Lizzie, and Frank whom he was just having dinner with at Dorian’s house, but none of them were there. Instead, he found himself in the center of a strange workshop. The place was lit by the orange glow of torches and a fireplace. Brendan couldn’t say for certain, but he assumed it was steaming hot in the place since the air looked like it was sizzling. He was glad this was a vision and he couldn’t feel the heat.
The room was big, scattered with iron and steel tools and what looked like a forge and a cold bath. The place looked like nothing he had seen on Earth. There were too many strange artifacts on the wall, glowing crystals that were foreign to him, and a view through the window that was like no place in the world he knew about. When the blacksmith came stomping into the room, Brendan knew for sure that he wasn’t in Corways anymore.
The man had a large bushy black beard, olive skin, and too much unruly hair that had been twisted into a braid. He was talking to himself under his breath, cursing somebody as he crossed the room towards a large wooden cabinet. A second man entered the workshop, but it wasn’t until he had stepped into the light that Brendan recognized Arawn. He was bigger and more muscular than Brendan remembered. Brendan felt himself become a smidge self-conscious in the warrior’s presence.
The first man snatched something off the table and quickly unwrapped it, pointing it at Arawn. “Here’s the blasted dagger!”
Brendan looked closer at the weapon and sighed. That stupid obsidian dagger again!
“Relax, Gio,” Arawn said, his expression only hinting at the annoyance he was feeling. “All that pent-up stress and anger will be the death of you.”
Gioibniu, the blacksmith, was not amused. “Tell Nuada to take his orders to Wayland from now on. I’m finished doing his dirty work.”
Arawn’s expression stiffened quickly. “He must do what he must do, blacksmith.” The Celtic warrior strode confidently towards the forger, grim determination on his face. “So if he orders you to make a hairpin, then you better jump at the chance. Otherwise, I’ll be back to place the order myself.”
Arawn took the blade from Gioibniu and stomped away without a second glance. The forger ground his teeth furiously and kicked a barrel of water over. The rush of water surged out of its container, free to spread over the stone floor.
“Blasted lummox!” he howled. “Return again and I’ll stick your head on a pig-pole!”
“That sounds a bit drastic, don’t you think?” replied a voice from the doorway.
The color left Gio’s face at the reply. “I… I didn’t mean… oh, it’s you.”
A younger man strutted into the workshop, his chestnut shoulder-length hair and his crystal blue eyes popping out as remarkable characteristics. He was clean-shaven and a bit of a baby face, but Brendan wasn’t fooled. Everything about this guy spoke of trouble.
“How quickly your tune changed, Gioibniu,” the newcomer said in amusement. “Pity it wasn’t Arawn who returned.”
“Quiet yourself, Camulos. You know I was blowing off steam.”
Camulos crossed the floor casually as the blacksmith began to pump air into his forge through the tuyere by stepping on a bellow. Gioibniu selected his anvil and began to pound a piece of steel, each strike releasing a small amount of mounting stress.
“What were you mad about?” Camulos asked, concern feigned on his face.
“Nuada and Arawn are monopolizing my time and my business. They think I only work for them, the stupid idiots!”
Camulos stood next to the forger while he worked, scratching his chin. “What have you made for them?”
Gio stopped and looked Camulos in the eye, studying his friend’s face. “You know I can’t say.”
“They take up all your time, drive business away, and threaten you if you don’t cooperate. What do you owe them?”
Brendan had a bad feeling about the whole situation. Camulos came off as more than a concerned friend, but the blacksmith didn’t seem to notice.
Gio must have thought it over because he said, “A dagger, some charms, three coffers, and some other things.” He waved it off like he didn’t want to talk about it any longer.
“What other things?” Camulos hissed coolly.
Gioibniu was caught off guard by the tone of the question. “Why does it matter, Camulos?”
Camulos’s eyes were cold, piercing. “It matters.”
Gio shook his head. “No, I’ve said too much already.”
Camulos’s hand moved swiftly as he drove a glowing blue blade into the forger’s midsection. “Don’t worry, Gioibniu, your work is finished.” His eyes were wild and he had a sickening grin that spoke of the pleasure he took in the deed. He pulled the blade free from his old friend and stood back as blood dripped to the stone floor. The forger stumbled and fell to one knee.
“What did you do?” Gio choked out.
Blood began to pour out of the wound, but Brendan stared agape when the red blood turned into an icy blue liquid. The liquid began to congeal and drip like sap from a maple tree. After a moment, it stopped. The blacksmith clutched at his chest. His skin was changing colors rapidly as some sort of reagent raced through his veins. Finally, Gioibniu toppled over and remained still on the cold floor, a blue jelly-like glob fell from his lips and bounced away from him.
Camulos leaned down and wiped the blade clean on the fallen man’s body. “I bet you never crafted anything like this, old friend,” he said, holding the weapon above the dead body. “I bet you never made anything that could truly kill a god.”
Did he just say god? Brendan asked himself. That’s when it hit him—he was in Otherworld and he had just witnessed the murder of an immortal.
Camulos stood up and glanced around the workshop. Brendan saw a smile creep across his face when he spotted a long wooden table against the wall draped with a huge white cover. Camulos strode to the table and pulled the canvas away roughly, revealing a group of objects. Brendan moved in closer and looked over Camulos’s shoulder; he identified the three silver charms and the three stone coffers that had once imprisoned the Banshees, including Meghan who had so slyly tricked him.
The young god touched the tip of his blade to the nearest charm. Instantly, the metal glowed like it was heating up just before it flashed over with an icy blue and settled back into its original shine. Camulos smiled as he did the same thing to the other charms and the coffers.
“Luckily I already tainted the dagger,” he mumbled to himself before he sheathed his sword and recovered the table. “It would have been a challenge to try and take it from Arawn the Arrogant.”
He walked back to Gioibniu’s body. Brendan followed him. Camulos reached into his pocket with a gloved hand and pulled out a few chips of some blue mineral. He ripped open Gioibniu’s shirt, placed the chips on the blacksmith’s icy chest, and then stood back. The chips sizzled and melted into the god’s body. The holes released tendrils of smoke before the body burst into flames. In a matter of seconds the only hint of the blacksmith’s body was a greasy blue stain on the floor.
Camulos left the workshop whistling a Celtic tune leaving Brendan to linger a moment, lost in his thoughts, before he was pulled back to his own reality. He saw he was up against much more than giants and wizards and that was what truly worried him.
…
Brett and Vivian Blanch enjoyed a quiet cup of tea in Grayson’s Teapot Room in Leeds, England with a thin crowd of mostly empty tables and a staff that was preparing for the usual lunch crowd.
“Bit of a nippy morning,” Vivian said with a little shake.
“Quite,” Brett replied with a beaming smile. “Of course, you always warm my soul, my darling, so I feel just right.” The necromancers held hands across the table and sipped the last few drops from their glasses. “When was Garnash coming back?”
Vivian checked her watch as she thought about it. “He should be arriving in a few hours. I’m really looking forward to seeing Brendan and Dorian and everyone else.” Brett nodded in agreement. “We have time to go for a stroll if you would like.”
“That sounds delightful as long as we don’t cross paths with any Magogs,” Brett replied cheerfully in jest.
A waitress approached the table with a bill in one hand and a pitcher of water in the other. She stopped and filled a trio’s glasses of water at a table near the door before making it back to Vivian and Brett.
“Can I bring you anything else?” the waitress asked.
The couple looked up at her. “No, this was delicious, but I think I’ve had my fill,” Brett answered.
“I agree, it was… ” Vivian began to say before her voice failed her and a gurgling sound finished the sentence.
The waitress pulled the ticket from her pad and laid it down on the table. “Miss, are you all right?” the waitress asked, looking down at Vivian.
A circle of blood soiled Vivian’s blouse as she tried to clutch at the wound. Her hand moved only a few inches before she slumped down in her seat with her eyes still open.
The waitress screamed and turned to the man, but he, too, was slumped over, unmoving with the same circle of blood staining his shirt.
…
D’Quall’s alphyn trotted back to him at his hiding place just under an overpass near the edge of the city. He rubbed the alphyn’s dragon hide appreciatively.
“Did you take care of the treacherous witch and wizard?” he asked his pet.
The alphyn’s metallic-like tongue slithered out of its mouth, tinged with blood, an answer to its master’s question.
He pulled a dead animal out of his satchel and tossed it to the alphyn for a job well done. “Everyone of those lousy snots we fought against in Corways is going to die, even if we have to kill them one at a time.”