Nuada’s charms dangled before Elathan’s face, shiny and silver, hypnotically swaying in his clutches. Conchar studied the Celtic knots as their chains twisted and spun them in an aerial ballet. The Three Sisters of Death were watching as well, waiting for their master to address them. Oscar stood motionless in the corner oblivious to his whereabouts and company.
The golden god had begun to change since his arrival in Tech Duinn. Conchar could feel the power that Elathan had amassed since being in his dormant castle. It would not have surprised the wizard if Elathan were nearing full strength.
Elathan continued to stare at the charms dancing on their chains. His eyes began to radiate with golden energy, alternating between their normal dark hue and gold. One by one, the charms were set alit, blazing in the golden god’s grasp.
The Three Sisters of Death and Conchar stepped back instinctively and shielded their eyes. The charms’ fire intensified, turning the blinding white of burning magnesium from a welder’s torch. The fire traveled up the chains and into Elathan’s palm. He held his free hand out to catch the liquid metal of the charms and necklaces as they dripped. Soon there was a puddle of molten silver flecked with tiny bright blue particles in his hand, threatening to overflow but never doing so.
Elathan’s eyes blazed again causing the puddle to start roiling as if it was boiling in a kiln. The golden god reached into the bubbling mass with his finger and thumb, his eyes still glowing, and pulled out a shiny silver and bright blue coin. He held the coin up for his followers to see.
Elathan reached back into the silver puddle and produced another coin, then another, and another, until seven tokens were stacked in his palm and the puddle was drained of metal. He held the stack out for each of the witnesses to see. Conchar reached out and took one. He examined it with great interest, noticing the intricate details in the etching. One side of the coin had a portrait of Elathan complete with his cold, piercing eyes. The other side was a symbolized image of the niseag, Elathan’s chosen icon.
The wizard replaced the coin into Elathan’s palm. The golden god squeezed his hand tightly around the collection. After a few moments his entire hand glowed a lustrous gold, holding the shine for a full five seconds before falling back into his normal pale skin tone. Elathan opened his palm again and revealed the golden veins that traced their way through the coins’ silver and blue-specked surfaces. The Bringer of Death’s lips twitched into a brief smile.
He waved his hand above his followers’ heads and a shimmery image began to form. Small visages of the six realms of Otherworld appeared in a soft golden hue. They weren’t detailed images, but if the observers knew anything about the realms they would have been able to discern them.
“Behold Otherworld,” Elathan said finally, gesturing grandly before moving the map over to the surface of the wall. “Since the beginning of time we gods and goddesses have presided over these lands, bickering and feuding over ownership, power, and control. Alliances have been formed and broken time and again realigning the power structure of the almighty immortals. In short, chaos has been the only true ruler. We’ve seen species spawned from the depths, numerous and unique, subjugated and free, used and abused, stuck in servitude to their superior masters.”
Conchar listened intently to his master, understanding completely that he stood before an almighty immortal. Elathan glanced toward the wizard knowingly; Conchar swallowed hard. Elathan’s true power was great, of that Conchar was sure.
“Up until a few thousand years ago, I fought and schemed like the rest of these fools, like unplanned, unruly children, but I grew wise.” He pulled the obsidian dagger out, now the length of a full-born sword, and held it out for them to see.
It wasn’t pure black any longer; instead Conchar noticed the veins of gold and the blue flecks of some mineral. It had changed quite a bit since he had last bequeathed it to his sacrificial apprentice over a hundred years ago.
“Little by little I learned of my nemesis’s plans for Earth and his pathetic line of protectors, and I knew that this was going to be my opportunity to separate myself from the others, especially Nuada. I formed fresh alliances with smarter gods who each had unique talents that I could use to my ends. Soon, they shall be given their ultimate purpose and just reward.”
Elathan pointed to the images of the realms as they shimmered overhead. “These realms have been waiting for order, waiting for one to unite them as a common land, waiting for me.” He closed his eyes as the images began to pulse like a heartbeat, all of them on varying rhythms. “I can feel the realms’ souls crying out, urging me to find their very hearts, to find their dominion pulses. We gods have corrupted the lands, the seas, and the skies, but never the soul, never the pulse.” He paused and looked between his servants. “I intend to corrupt them to my purposes.”
Conchar’s mind was trying to fathom the words and the plans, but he couldn’t see how it was going to be possible. How was Elathan going to find the pulses of entire realms? How was he going to corrupt them?
Elathan tossed the tokens at the wall, directly into the images of the realms where they stuck. The maps gave a bright flash and then began to beat as one, like golden strobe lights each retaining a single token that stayed in the center of the images of the realms and rotated lazily.
“That, Conchar, is how I intend to unite them.” Conchar and the others were speechless, but Elathan had more to say. “Finding the pulses is nearly impossible for beings of Otherworld, for none of us were meant to find them,” he said, looking towards Oscar. All of the followers looked towards the human as well. “But we have Nuada’s Seeker, and if you haven’t noticed, he’s not from around here.”
…
It was a sun-soaked day for the vacationers at Port Royal, Jamaica. The cafés and touristy sites were packed to capacity with the recent docking of a cruise ship. All of the passengers were excited to come to port and see the “City that Sank” or at least what was built nearby on solid land next to the submerged pirate city. The locals welcomed the business and the visitors with tales of pirates and earthquakes, two things that made Port Royal famous.
While tourists listened to frightening tales on the shore, none of them knew that something more dangerous had just arrived to the old, submerged megalithic city.
Camulos arrived in a flash in the middle of the sunken city’s ancient megalithic structures. The water around the megaliths sizzled as they fired up for the first time in millennia. The god of war opened his eyes and had to peer through the dancing beams of sunlight refracted by the water. He looked around and saw schools of tropical fish and crustaceans among the stone structures that had been perfectly preserved beneath the salt water.
He pushed off of the sea floor and rocketed up to the surface, drawing in his first breath with a moderate gulp. Camulos spotted the shore and effortlessly swam towards it. There was a tour group listening to a guide right next to where Camulos came ashore. They were shocked to see a fully dressed man emerge from the sea wearing clothes that looked like they came off of a Hollywood production lot for a fantasy movie. Camulos strode right through their group, knocking a few of them aside as he went.
“Bloody wanker!” a chubby Scotsman cursed the wet stranger. “Who do you think you are?” The man grabbed Camulos by the shoulder and attempted to spin him around, but instead he found an unmovable mass of muscles in his palm.
The god of war turned his head slightly and flashed crystal blue eyes that glistened with delicious malevolence. The man pulled his hand away quickly and slunk away by sheer instinct. Camulos snarled but was content to keep moving, intent on finding the one being he sought.
“Where are you, Tannus?” he mumbled to the sea air.
…
Two slices of deep dish and a diet soda were probably going to take their toll on Simmons’ waistline later, but he didn’t care. They were delicious. His wife was always on him about his diet, but he didn’t see the point. He was a product of great genetics and had the ability to eat whatever he wanted, work out now and again, and still have a chiseled physique.
He had just finished wiping his hands on a napkin when he received an email. He pulled out his phone and looked at the message. It was from Edwards who had attached a video and a note that indicated the footage was from over a month ago—about the same time the megaliths had arrived.
The vantage point was from the same short-eared owl nest, only this time the owl was sitting on her eggs. That didn’t last very long since a massive shadow overtook the scene. Simmons had no idea what he was looking at, but Edwards had the tech guys slow the footage down and freeze it with the shadow on the ground. It was large and could have been an airplane, but the shape reminded him more of something else, something that it couldn’t possibly be: a dragon!
…
“Are you sure you don’t need me on this?” Garnash asked, a hopeful hint in his voice.
Dorian shook her head. “No, Brendan can take us through the tether, Garnash. You go tend to your people.”
Garnash nodded. “Fine, but as soon as you get back, find me, because if this really is going to be a battle for the Earth, then I want to be a part of it. My whole clan will want to be a part of it. We have to.”
“Of course,” Brendan said. “We’ll need the help, Garnash, without a doubt.” He looked sheepishly at Dorian.
The Gnome king stepped into the midst of the black megaliths in the center of town. He turned around and looked back at his friends. “Godspeed.”
Brendan put one arm around Dorian’s waist and waved to his friend with the other. Garnash uttered an ancient chant and left in a burst of light.
“Do you know where to find Bibe, Brendan?” Dorian said as they walked back towards her house, arms around each other’s waists.
Brendan thought about it briefly and then said, “I know we go north, but I’m not sure of exactly where. Perhaps Scotland.”
“When do you want to go?”
They reached the entrance of Dorian’s home and found Frank and Lizzie studying the trinkets they had uncovered at the O’Neal’s destroyed home with Rory and Biddy. “We leave at first light.”
Lizzie stood up holding the bracelet. “Good. We’ve wasted enough time. Who knows, there may still be a chance to get Dad back.”
The drumming of a softly beating heart reverberated through Brendan’s mind conjuring images of a dark mountain castle chiseled right into the granite of the behemoth. It was both hot and cold, hideous and beautiful, alluring and repulsive, all at the same time. This was Elathan’s home and Brendan could hear the cadence of a softly beating heart from somewhere behind those walls. Brendan just needed to learn how to lock in on that sound. That was the only way that he would be able to find his father. Hopefully, this was something Bibe could teach him.
…
The journey from Lir to Dewi took longer than Della had expected, and she certainly didn’t expect the dragon god’s reaction to be shooting a burst of flames toward her. Luckily for Della, she was able to duck down and avoid any third-degree burns. Once the messenger left she made her way to Warnach, the Druid Magog. Warnach was much more reserved in his response and sent the Puck on her way quickly. Della found herself plodding towards her last delivery when her sensitive nose picked up an all-too- familiar and frightening scent.
The Puck dashed from the wooded path into the greenery when the hoof falls of Arawn’s horse grew louder and the Celtic warrior appeared from around a bend. The demigod didn’t seem to notice Della and charged on towards Argona’s prison at the edge of the forest.
Della slipped out of her hiding spot and rejoined the path. She jogged along until she reached a clearing. There in the middle of the field was an arrangement of large white blocks of stone set up in a circle with trilithons creating the perimeter. Huge stone blocks comprised the legs of the trilithons and the lintel that sat atop the legs was thick and heavy. Every one of the gods and Warnach were being held in place by similar trilithons, though Della could never figure out how it worked. It wasn’t as though there was much more to the set of stones than the stacks. There was even spaces between them, but for whatever reason Argona and others were held in check.
Arawn was standing on the outside of the circle engaged in a conversation that Della could not hear, but whatever the two powerful gods were discussing was getting heated. The messenger strained to listen, but they were too far away. The conversation ended, and the Celtic Warrior stomped back to his horse and raced away.
Della waited until Arawn’s scent was gone from the air before she ventured closer to Argona’s prison.
“Bloody arrogant arse!” the prisoner shouted from the confines of her cage. She kicked out at the stone trilithons and received a jolt that tossed her to the ground for her troubles.
“Mis… mistress?” Della stuttered.
Argona pulled her body off of the grass, her foot still smoking from the contact with the invisible barrier and gave her visitor a harsh glare.
“I wish to kill that son of a… ” Argona began to rant until Della spit out her message. Her whole demeanor changed instantly. “Elathan is back?” Argona repeated the message to be clear she had heard correctly.
Della nodded. “That was the message from Lir, Lady Argona.”
Argona let out a hardy laugh. “It seems that I will get my wish, messenger.”
…
Going home was a bittersweet feeling for Garnash. On some level he had been avoiding it, but he couldn’t put the return off any longer since he was now the King of the Gnomes. The weight of the responsibility was heavy. His father, Flums, had been such a strong and decisive leader filled with honor and courage. His last moments in life were spent saving Lizzie from D’Quall’s wrath. Garnash wanted to make his father proud.
The Gnomes referred to their village as the Shire of Leeds since they were located fairly close to the English city, but Garnash planned on honoring his father by adjusting the name to Flumshire. He doubted any of the Gnomes would mind the change. Gnomes tended to be a busy bunch and hardly remained stagnant, so a thing like that was a common practice for the diminutive clan. In fact, that was one of the pluses about being a part of Brendan’s team for Garnash—there was never a dull moment.
The Gnome King cautiously walked from the megaliths near Leeds back towards his camouflaged shire, wary of any danger that might be lurking. Everything about the path seemed different to Garnash, like he was seeing Leeds through new eyes. It had seemed like a dangerous world before, but now that Elathan had returned, it was downright deadly.
Garnash took to the overgrowth and maneuvered his way around thick patches of weeds, roots, and fallen branches until he reached a monstrous sessile oak. Normally the species of tree grew to about forty meters, but this one was double that and older than any tree in England, a gift from Nuada, so the legends tell. The Gnome stalked to the familiar tree—its roots hiding one of the openings into the shire—and felt around for the lever to reveal the entryway. It took a moment, but finally his hand found the lever, and the door was opened when an innocent patch of grass in between a couple of the exposed roots swung inwards. Garnash peered down the dim stairwell nervously, not really sure if he was expecting a threat or something else, before he began the long descent.
The tree entrance was only one of many to the Shire of Leeds (Flumshire) but it was the closest one to the megaliths. Garnash took the stairs rapidly and wound his way around roots, dripping water, and clods of moist soil. The descent normally didn’t feel this long, at least not as long as most of the other ways into Flumshire. Garnash decided that it probably just felt longer due to his apprehension about returning.
He bounded down the last few steps, remembering to step on the left side of the last step, which had been rigged to capture an intruder, and came to a wooden door. The Gnome King turned the handle and tried to push the door open but was met with a surprising resistance. He pushed again, but the door was catching on something.
“Bollocks!” Garnash said, cursing under his breath. He shoved harder, but it was like trying to move a mountain.
“Something’s wrong.” Garnash clapped his hands together and streams of molten magic appeared between them, white and crackling, dripping to the ground. It was old Gnome magic that his father had taught him, and Garnash was a master at using it.
The Gnome slammed both palms into the center of the door, blasting it off of its hinges and propelling it inwards towards the streets of his clan’s village. His eyes widened and his mouth fell open as he stared at the mound of Gnome bodies blocking the door.
“No,” he said softly. His eyes poured over the dozen or so Gnomes in the pile. He knew them all, fought along- side of them, and had even played with a few of them when they were youngsters. Now they were gone, killed at the hand of a yet-to-be-identified murderer. Garnash wasn’t going to let this crime go unpunished. Someone was going to pay.
He leapt over the pile of his fallen friends and neighbors and landed on the cobblestone street that led to the town square. Hands still dripping with magic, Garnash stalked forward, casting suspicious glances in every direction, his heart rate skyrocketing as a result of panicked, sad, and angry emotions that were competing for his attention.
Beautiful houses were filled with gaping holes and rolling smoke from fires. The stones of the streets were cracked and smashed to bits. Hundreds of his clan were strewn about, a sickening sight for their king to behold. Whoever attacked did not discriminate. Women, children, and the elderly were killed just as brutally as the trained Gnome soldiers.
Garnash knelt down next to a small child and stroked her hair. Tears traced a path down the king’s cheeks as despair overtook him. He knew that there was no one left alive in the entire shire, but had anyone escaped?
A soft noise to his left let him know that he wasn’t alone. He could hear the low growl and inhalation of a beast he knew all too well.
Garnash waited.
Soft steps crunched the pebbles of the trashed street. The Gnome King’s blood was boiling with anger and it showed as the intensity of the magic in his hands dripped to the ground, leaving slag in the wake.
Garnash readied himself, and as soon as the creature stopped its approach he flipped into the air. He looked down and saw a metal tongue spear the air where he had just stood a moment before. The Gnome King landed and quickly sprayed the molten magic from his palms all over the alphyn that had just tried to kill him and landed on a low hanging root from the legendary tree. The creature yipped, but its thick dragon hide protected the monster from any real damage.
“Please, don’t run, doggie,” Garnash snarled. “You and me are gonna have a go.”
The creature craned back its neck and shot a plume of fire straight into the air above it, singeing the exposed roots of the sessile oak, and narrowly missing Garnash who landed nimbly behind the creature. A dozen more alphyns popped out of the shadows and surrounded the Gnome King. Garnash’s expression never faltered.
“I will kill you all!” he shouted, his voice echoing throughout Flumshire.
A rumbling laugh squashed the echo and rattled any remaining windows of the town. “One Gnome left to crush.”
Garnash spun around and saw the Bloodright Lord of the Descendants of the Magogs standing as tall as the town’s tallest building in the middle of the square. D’Quall may have been laughing, but his face spoke to the graveness of the situation.