Morrígan appeared at the bottom of the stairwell, her feathered wings moving gracefully with each step.
“I have seen the Beginning and the End,” said Morrígan, “But it was only a glimpse. I want you to show me more.”
“You have seen far more than the Lord intends,” said Meadhbh. “And He will not fall so easily.”
“Yes,” said Morrígan, raising a hand before her. “Not as easily as you.”
Morrígan threw her hands forward, and fire streamed from her fingers. Meadhbh recoiled, and the light surrounding Her light grew in intensity, absorbing Morrígan’s flames with its brilliance. For a time, it held, but the Lady’s face showed the strain of effort, changing from the perpetual regal look it always held.
Morrígan’s assault continued, and with each passing second, the Lady exhibited further mortal emotions: Anguish and agony. Grief and despair. And then defeat, with eyes closed, and head bowed.
As the flames consumed Her, She screamed. To hear a god cry with pain was as unnatural as a darkened sun or a dried ocean.
Under the cover of that terrible sound, Farris slipped from his hiding place and tore up the crooked stairs, not daring to look back as he did. Fortunately, Morrígan had not noticed him, for by the time Farris reached the top of the stairwell, the Lady’s cries were muted. And the pulsating blue light that once shone through the temple was no more.
Chapter 9:
The Grey Plague
Argyll the Silverback woke with a stir. His mouth was dry, his mind was foggy, but after a few orientating moments, he realised he was in a bed in one of the clinics of the Triad’s hospital wing.
The Godslayer… King Diarmuid… What happened?
Only now did he see he was not alone. Ruairí Ó Críodáin sat beside his bed. His eyes were closed, with his fingers clasped around one another.
“If you’re praying that I wake up, you can stop now,” said Argyll.
The Human jumped. “He’s awake!” he cried, turning his head towards the clinic’s door. He was almost giddy with the news.
“Get them to bring me something to eat too,” added Argyll. “And why can’t I feel my legs?”
Ruairí’s expression went dark. He went to speak, but the words failed him.
The door to the clinic burst open, and three healers rushed in to attend to Argyll. After taking some measurements pertaining to his heartbeat and his breathing, one of them, a Human male with a neatly trimmed grey beard, placed a hand on Argyll’s shoulder.
“I’m afraid there has been significant damage done to your lower spine. We’ve done all we can but….”
No, thought Argyll. A pang of terror ripped through his body at the realisation that he had no feeling from the waist down. He tried to move his toes, his feet, then his legs, but none complied, as if he was trying to move limbs he never possessed. The healer was still speaking, but the words seemed drift through Argyll’s mind, only some being comprehended at a time. Every so often, some words the healer said landed, “…unlikely to walk again,” and “maybe… with lots of intensive work,” or “… a very slim chance.”
Argyll pressed his hand against his head.
No. I am their rock. I cannot falter.
“Spare me the details,” he barked at the healer. “If I cannot walk, then fetch me a chair set upon wheels.”
He turned towards Ruairí. “And we have much to discuss. Tell me what became of the horde.”
The healers quickly withdrew to do as they were asked, which often happened when Argyll used that tone. Ruairí was trembling, only ever so slightly, and there was a slight quiver in his voice when he spoke.
“After Morrígan and you… fought,” began Ruairí, “She vanished, and the horde fell without her. Afterwards, the army of the Triad took flight to Dromán, where Lady Meadhbh resides. The plan was to defend her, in case Morrígan came to kill her too.”
Argyll had many questions. How much time has passed since I fell? Which ships did they take? Were the Church involved? Did Fionn go with them?
They would get to those eventually, he reckoned, but one thought brought a smile to his lips.
“The Lady Meadhbh?” Argyll asked. “But I thought you didn’t believe in the Trinity beyond Lord Seletoth.”
“I did,” said Ruairí. “But I spoke to Pyromaster Fionn before he flew out. And….” Ruairí flinched. His gaze broke from Argyll and went straight to the floor.
“These times have challenged us all in many ways,” said Argyll. “We can assume there is worse yet to come.”
Damn my eyes. Had I not been such a fool atop Sin, I could have been awake these past few days. And I could have ensured Fionn remained in the city.
“There’s something else,” said Ruairí. He stood up, and slowly walked to the window. He pulled back the thin veil of a curtain that hung before it, revealing the view to Argyll.
No!
He would have dashed to the window if he could. The familiar skyline of the Dustworks and the Basilica to the south were all visible and intact, but the scene was wholly alien now. A thick blanket of snow covered the city, more drifting down in thick flakes, buffeted by rough winds. Ice filled the streets, with large mounds of snow piled up either side. Whereas only the peaks of the Steel Mountains would see snow at the height of winter, to see the same snowfall cover the land like this was an abomination.
“It just started yesterday,” said Ruairí. “The Rustlake and Móráin Sea are frozen over. I’ve heard rumours that the Eternal Sea is turned to ice too, but that would be—”
“Expected,” said Argyll. “Expected under the direst of circumstances. It means the Lady Meadhbh has been killed.”
“Excuse me?” said Ruairi. “We’ve had no communication from the army stationed at Dromán. Are… are you saying—”
“I’m saying not to expect any from them,” Argyll cut in. There was so much to plan, so much to prepare in so little time, he was loath to spend the time they had explaining all he knew to Ruairí.
But he’ll need to be in the know for when the time comes.
