It appears to be made of cobbles, but Morrighu knows better. It’s the one obvious clue that a war god lives here. What look like cobbles are skulls buried with only the tops above the soil, so that every step is treading on a vanquished enemy. Sighing, Morrighu gathers her skirts and, treading as lightly as she can, since these are not her enemies, makes her way to the door.
As she approaches, it swings inward of its own accord. The home of Neit, god of war and protection, is a sanctuary of disciplined strength and austere beauty. Nestled within a demi-plane forged from divine will, the residence is carved into the bones of a mountain, its walls veined with glowing runes that pulse with quiet power. The walls are adorned with banners, each bearing the sigil of a conquered foe, their colors muted by time and respect. The floor, cool and smooth, is veined with lines of silver and iron, forming patterns that echo ancient battlefields. The air is tinged with the scent of cedar smoke and old leather.
Weapons from every age—spears, shields, and blades—each inscribed with the names of fallen champions who wielded them, also adorn the walls. Between them hang tapestries depicting legendary battles, woven in threads of crimson and gold. A massive oak table, hewn from a single ancient tree, occupies the center of the hall. It is surrounded by sturdy chairs and set with vases of dried herbs, not flowers, as a nod to Neit’s preference for utility over ornament.
Weapons rest in places of honor, not as threats, but as reminders of battles fought and lessons learned. Here, the god Neit reclines, at once vigilant and at peace, his gaze as sharp as the blade at his side. An informal seating area has been set up, featuring thick carpets on the stone floor. A brazier burns nearby, chasing away the chill. The brazier itself seems to have been shaped from weapons. A shield is the base, while axes, swords, and spears contain the flames.
A wiry man with curly black hair lounges on a couch with a goblet in one hand while a girl with a harp sits in the corner, playing a soothing melody. “Come in,” he calls, “I’ve been expecting you. We may have your lost sheep.”
“Does that explain what you were doing in my temple?” Morrighu asks grumpily.
“It does,” he replies, flashing her a rare grin, “and you can blame Nuada. His temple came across a necromancer who was using souls trapped in stones to enchant weapons.”
“What does that have to do with the souls…” the Goddess starts, and then realization hits, “Oh. Oh no. If they’ve been used up, I don’t know if she’ll be able to…”
“Not to worry,” Neit replies, “They’re not completely used up, but it’s going to be some time before they’ve regenerated. We’re feeding them. Nuada has one. There’s enough left there that Nuada got the name Cian from it. Lugh has another. It’s so badly damaged that we don’t know which one it is yet.” Holding out his hand, Neit shows her a soul stone with the tiniest spark only dimly flickering, “I have this one and… Well… You can see the state that it’s in. This one had given up. He was fading quickly and refused to believe us when we tried to tell him that she was alive. You weren’t home, or we’d have asked. We had to prove to him that she still lives so that he wouldn’t fade away completely. Given the urgent nature, we didn’t think you’d mind.”
Swinging himself to his feet, he bows formally to her, “May we please be forgiven for trespassing at your temple to steal an orange or two?” When she nods, he straightens and smiles at her, “We didn’t announce our presence because we didn’t want to draw attention to your temple in Harito. Other than perhaps the girl herself, I don’t think anyone was the wiser. Knowing that she lives got all three of them to start trying to knit themselves back together.”
This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.
“Have you been able to learn anything at all from them?” Morrighu asks.
“They all recognized her instantly, but not much else. The one Nuada’s feeding is in better shape. Nuada’s been able to talk to that one. I’ve only gotten a little from this one,” Neit says, waving at the stone, “I think… I think this one loves her mightily. All of them seem convinced that she’s quite…special.”
“Nuada even said something about creating his champion,” Neit chuckles, “He seems to think that Cian might be amenable to it, if it means he can live to see this girl again. She certainly seems to have a hold on all of them.”
“From what the temple staff have told me,” Morrighu grins, “I wish that there were more Cymry left, but she says that all the great houses are gone. She thinks she's the last one. From what I saw in Lugh’s Hall, she’s likely correct unless these boys can be saved. His Hall was absolutely packed with people who had tattoos like hers. She began her life among a people beset by constant border wars. Their entire culture was devoted to creating the best, most skilled fighters possible so that they could maintain their borders.”
Neit looks intensely interested. “How did I ever manage to overlook them?”
“Until he turned on them, ‘that nutter’ was their god of choice,” Morrighu sighs, “I wasn’t aware of them either. More’s the pity, too. They seem to have been incredibly skilled in many areas. The weapons that she had are something that my smiths are still trying to duplicate. They’re not even close to making a butter knife that can match the steel in the blades that she was carrying. Her tattoo is an absolute work of art, and it’s done with magical inks that we can’t figure out how to replicate either.”
“What exactly do these magical tattoos do for her, then?” Neit asks.
“We’re not completely sure. We know that she heals faster,” Morrighu replies, “and it works even better if we include the plant component of the ink in the potions and poultices. We’re still experimenting.”
“Doesn’t she know?” Neit asks.
Shaking her head, Morrighu continues, “No, the tattoos were started when she was very young. All she knows is that there were special priests who did nothing else since everyone was tattooed. In her words, even enslaved people were tattooed up to the ankle.”
“You wouldn’t want a slave who couldn’t work while their feet healed up unless it was worth it somehow,” Neit speculates, “There has to be more to this.”
“There likely is,” Morrighu agrees, “Just the healing alone has been so effective that we’re researching how to make the tattoo ink now.”
“So, how exactly did this society function?” Neit asks, “I might want to try a few experiments of my own.”
“I can send you one of my priests,” Morrighu says, “And have him explain it all. He’s the only other Cymry I know of.”
“If you think she’s fragile,” Neit cautions, “I wouldn’t tell her that you have them yet. It’s much too soon to say if they’ll regenerate or not. All I can tell you right now is that they’re trying. It’s also too early to say if they’ll be the same person that she knew once they do. The rebuilding process might not replicate the person that they were. It’s going to be slow, even by our standards, much less by a human timescale. We don’t dare do anything to speed it up, either. Trying to hasten the process might snuff out the last bits of them, instead. That’s all before we deal with having a body to put the soul into. It will take a whopper of a resurrection spell to call their bodies back together by the time their souls are ready. You’ll have to find someone who can cast that, if it’s even possible.”
“How did they end up like this?” Morrighu asks.
“Your girl is lucky you took her away,” Neit grimaces, “Had she died there, she’d likely have been trapped in one of these too. There was one that was keyed to her.”
“Now you see why she accuses us of being inbred and mentally defective,” Morrighu sighs.
“As nearly as we’ve been able to tell,” Neit nods, “‘That nutter’ was torturing them by resurrecting them and killing them again and again. He resurrected her one time too many. After she did him in, some necromancer, poking around after god-bits to use as spell components, found the stones and managed to break the lock her former patron put on the stones. All this necromancer knew was that the souls inside were powerful, so he was using them to enchant things. Nuada’s temple ran across a couple of the artifacts that this necromancer used these souls to create. One is a knife that drinks the soul of anyone who so much as gets a drop of blood on its blade. His temple set out to stop the necromancer and ended up with all his nasty necromantic trinkets. When they began sorting through his collection, they discovered a vast number of soul stones that still contained trapped souls. When you put out the call for lost souls and Lugh couldn’t find them in his book, he figured that something had happened to disrupt their normal journey. Because of that, we’ve all been watching for anything to do with trapped souls. When we took a closer look, sure enough, your three lost sheep were there among many, many others... Nuada’s people are still sorting through them all.”
- If this chapter were a meme, what would the caption be?
- Which character deserves the “Plot Twist MVP” award?