The stone slab was blue.
Brilliant, blinding, bright blue against a sea of browns and greys. The slab appeared to be manmade, like the steel door of a mining shaft. Diarmuid peered closer at the stone, and gasped.
“That’s right,” said Santos, standing behind the king. “This is why we wanted to show you personally.”
Etched into the surface of the stone was the symbol of the Trinity: three interlocking, looping circles, identical to the one that shone brightly on the king’s own cloak.
“What… what is this?” asked Diarmuid, running a finger over the carvings.
“Well, Your Grace, we were hoping that you may—”
As Diarmuid’s finger touched the image, a single crack broke through the stone like crooked lightning. Pieces of rock crumbled away from the top, trickling down before the king’s feet, and light spilled through from behind the wall. Eventually the slab was gone, and all that it left behind was a tiny passage, with stairs leading down into gleaming, blue radiance.
“This… this hasn’t happened before,” said Santos, who stood quivering beside the huge, unresponsive guards. “We just thought you’d want to see the stone and—”
Diarmuid nodded. “So, I presume you’d like to take a look then?” He stepped into the opening.
The walls inside were of similar stone to that of the slab, all jutting out at crooked shapes and angles. Each step of the stairway downwards was different in size. Some broad enough for two full feet, others barely big enough to fit half a toe. Columns stood all along the hall, some short and wide, others tall and thin, and each with similar strange scribblings etched into them. The irregularity of it all put the king on edge.
Where the Holy Hell are we?
At the bottom of the stair, they faced what looked like a massive stone altar, flanked by two huge, circular sconces.
Santos stood next to the king. “This place… is it some sort of temple?”
Before Diarmuid had a chance to respond, he heard a voice. A terrible, wicked voice, brimming with more hatred than Diarmuid knew existed. He threw his hands up to his ears to block its sound, but it did not help. The voice was like hot daggers, digging deep into his skull, twisting with every word.
“Heathens, be gone! This is a sacred place. You have rejected our ways for far too long, and do not deserve to look upon the face of a God.”
Santos immediately grasped his throat, gasping as he dropped to his knees. All around Diarmuid, the other Simians started coughing and sputtering, clawing their necks and falling to the ground. A moment later, Diarmuid stood alone, and six dead Simians littered the floor.
“Show yourself!” he roared, not sure where to turn. “I am King Diarmuid of Alabach, Third of My Name, Nineteenth Incarnate. In the name of Gods and men, I demand you reveal yourself!”
At the foot of the altar, the blue light pulsated, slowly forming a glowing figure. Then there was a flash, and King Diarmuid found himself face to face with a beautiful, naked woman, made entirely from light.
No! This cannot be!
Diarmuid fell to one knee before the stranger. He had seen Her face a thousand times before, on the stained glass of every church and chapel in the kingdom.
“Holy Mother of Kings and Men, Lover of Gods, Weaver of Destiny and Fate: This humble king bows before you.”
Lady Meadhbh of the Trinity stood before the kneeling king, Her body glimmering in the darkness. Diarmuid dared not look upon Her modesty, lest he offend the God any further.
“Stand!” She commanded. There was something in the sound of Her voice that made Diarmuid’s soul feel like it was screaming. He looked into Her eyes as he stood, and all he wanted to do was gouge out his own, lest he’d ever set them upon anything less beautiful.
“Why have you graced me with your presence?” he asked, tempted to fall onto his knees once more. His mother had been a good queen, wise in the ways of etiquette, but she had never told him how he should act before a God. He wanted nothing more than to look upon Meadhbh forever, but he prayed that she did not speak again.
“It will all end soon,” She said, Her voice like a whip. “The kingdom your forefathers have built was destined to fall before they were born. And you will be the one to witness the end of the Age of Man.”
The same magnificent blue light surged through Diarmuid’s mind, and he saw it: the fall of his kingdom. He watched as the land burned, with ruins of castles, cities, and towns left in the wake of a massive, marching army. Some of its soldiers wore armour, others wore nothing, but some had no flesh at all, just walking masses of bones. Dead, undead, whatever they were, they climbed the walls of Cruachan and spilled into the city streets.
Diarmuid’s words failed him. As he stuttered, Meadhbh spoke for him.
“How will this happen?” She smiled. “Are you sure you want to know? Are you sure you want to know how your kingdom will crumble under a power greater than the Gods? Are you sure you want to see how even the Gods themselves will be brought to their knees?”
All King Diarmuid managed to do was nod.
With that, a thousand images flashed before him, like hot coals pressed hard against his eyes. He saw himself meeting with a Simian agent named Farris back in the capital. Then an airship burned through the sky and crashed into a mountain. Men, mages, and Simians ran through dense forestry. He saw a troll, charging towards a young girl in a field right before it turned to stone. Then there was a battered Simian corpse lying face down at the base of a cliff. A squadron of battlemages fought off a flock of black beadhbhs in the middle of a village. There was a cave, with severed limbs and bloody bones hanging from the ceilings and walls. An armoured Simian spied on a group of green battlemages as they trained. Diarmuid saw the city of Penance, in all its glory, and a contingent of elk cavalry marching out from its gates. Then he saw a rat, stretched out across a stone table, black wings sewn onto its back.
A girl in black feathers. A knight in shining white armour. A young Pyromancer with one arm, screaming as blood sprayed from a severed stump. A woman in silks. Two Simians drinking together in a dark tavern. A child crying before a gravestone. Each image appeared and vanished before he could make sense of it. Then, he saw a great crowd of Simians in Penance cheering as Argyll the Silverback took a seat on the Triad.
Finally, he saw himself, King Diarmuid, Third of His Name, Nineteenth Incarnate of Seletoth, drinking alone in his chambers while his city burned. The North Wall was on fire, and a thousand dead men charged towards the Grey Keep.
“What is this?” he demanded, gazing up at the Lady. “I don’t understand what I’m seeing. I don’t know what you want me to do.”
Meadhbh stooped down and placed a hand under the king’s chin. Her cold hands seemed to grasp his very being, but Her fingers barely touched his skin.
“There is power brewing in the north. Power forged by mortals, over their heads in knowledge they are forbidden to understand. Soon, the Godslayer shall march south, and the fall of your kingdom shall follow.”
Suddenly, everything became clear.
The Silverback! Of course! Sin take them all!
“My kingdom will not fall so easily.” the king said, stepping back. Courage began to rise in his voice. “We have faced Simian rebellions before, and we can crush another!”
There was a pause, and Meadhbh stared back in silence. Diarmuid prayed that it was over, that She’d let him return to the city to make preparations, but She spoke again.
“These events will unfold as you have seen, for even the Gods themselves cannot turn the tides of destiny. The Godslayer’s army will march south, and it will not be stopped. You will return to your city, you will lie to your most trusted men, and you will prepare for war. You’ll build up your defences, you will tax your people, but in the end, your city will be breached. You will die as a coward, King Diarmuid, and you will die alone.”
