“Where is your god?” Farris roared, pointing two bloodied daggers in front of him. “Tell me or I’ll kill you all!”

His vision was obscured by the helm, so he pulled it off. The blood of those he killed blurred in his eyes. Farris screamed the name the only person who had ever loved him, then charged towards the cloaked men.

Another salvo of bolts and arrows met him.

***

“Now’s our chance,” said Fionn. He thought it best to not show the others his fear. And his pain. “While they’re distracted.”

“Distracted?” cried Padraig. “She’s dead. Dead! And that’s all you can say?”

Ignore him, said Sir Bearach. Just go. They’ll follow. You won’t get another chance.

Fionn sprinted forward, through an arrow-littered ground. The faint footsteps of the others told him they followed.

Don’t look at her, urged Sir Bearach as they passed Nicole’s corpse. You need to keep moving, or she won’t be the last.

A harrowing scream rang out overhead, and the body of a Wraith came tumbling down the valley wall. More cries rang out from above, but Fionn kept his attention focused ahead. Not on the wooden outpost, but on the road that wound past it.

“Farris,” muttered Aislinn as they ran past the blood-soaked structure.

“He’ll be fine,” assured Padraig somewhere behind Fionn. “He’s strong, that one.”

Onwards, they went, leaving the scene of the slaughter behind. Fionn led the way, the snow-encrusted path taking them further up the mountain, curving towards the peak. The shrivelled remains of pine trees flanked the path, like skeletal sentinels standing tall overhead.

Farris… thought Fionn, a lump starting to form in his throat.

Not now, urged Sir Bearach. Dwelling on it won’t help. You need to keep moving.

Fionn gritted his teeth. The dead knight was right.

I can’t stop. Nobody else can do this but me.

Up ahead, a thin sliver of smoke rose upwards, like a great serpent swimming through clouds. This, joined by the sounds of faint voices, alluded to a settlement up ahead.

“More Wraiths?” asked Padraig, not too far behind Fionn. “Should we stop?”

“No,” said Fionn, curtly, He brought his rings together, catching the spark they produced and igniting it. “We’ll strike first.”

Without giving further orders, Fionn sprinted ahead, only assuming Padraig and Aislinn followed. The path rose over a steep hill. Once Fionn reached its crest, he let the fire quench in his hand, for there would be no need for an ambush.

Before him, the path led up to a small encampment. Wooden buildings surrounded a great bazaar in the centre, in which a fire burned brightly, expelling plumes of smoke and rich odours of incense.

Dozens of figures surrounded the fire, running to and fro, but none appeared to be armed. Nor did they seem like the Wraiths from before. These instead were simply men, old men, dressed in black robes. Not unlike the druids of the Trinity, these holy men scurried throughout the settlement, worried cries and orders being called back and forth.

Fionn ran towards the bazaar, grabbing the arm of one old man running by.

“Seletoth,” said Fionn. “I need to see Him.”

The man stared back, pale-faced, and with wide eyes encircled with black weariness.

“None may see the Lord,” he whimpered, casting a frightened glance at Padraig and Aislinn, who came up behind Fionn. “Only the Blind Ones may enter.”

Perhaps unconsciously, the old man nodded towards the far end of the settlement, where the rest of the mountain rose into the clouds. At the base of this peak, a huge, crooked opening was embedded in the stone, covered with a thick, grey canvass.

“It’s urgent,” said Fionn. “He’ll be expecting us.”

“Ardha!” roared a voice. Another man, younger than the first, ran over to them. He thrusted a crossbow into the old man’s hands. “I hope you remember how to use one of these,” he said. “He’ll be upon us soon enough.”

“Who will?” asked Fionn.

The younger man narrowed his eyes. “A Simian,” he spat. “Went blood-mad and killed half our garrison. He’s coming for the rest of us.”

He’s alive!

“The Simian is with us,” said Fionn. “Take us to whoever is in charge, and we’ll ensure no more harm comes to your people.”

The two holy men exchanged worried looks, then the older one nodded. The other man turned to Fionn and the others.

“Follow me,” he said, turning away before waiting for a response. The three followed, jogging through the encampment. There must have been about two dozen other men and women there, all clad in the same dark robes as those that ambushed them back in the valley.

“Could these be Wraiths?” asked Padraig, though none answered.

The robed man brought them to the foot of the opening, and pushed the canvas inwards, slightly.

“The Blind Ones are inside,” said he said. His grip on his crossbow tightened. “They tend to the Lord, but they shall never grant you access to see Him.”

“For your sake,” said Fionn, stepping through, “they better make an exception.”

It took a moment for Fionn’s eyes to adjust to the darkness inside, but when they did, he found himself in a wide, circular room, barely illuminated by tiny candles lining the stone wall, twinkling like stars in a night’s sky. Stone etchings marked the floor in crooked circles.

Fionn clicked his fingers, illuminating his immediate surroundings. To his surprise, several more robed men stood along the wall, motionless in the dark. They chanted softly in low whispers, but Fionn couldn’t make out their words. He pressed onwards, squinting at a nearby worshipper. This one had his grey hood pulled over his head, grey lips moving rapidly as the rest of his face remained perfectly still. When Fionn stepped forward for a closer look, he jumped back, yelling with fright.

The worshipper had no eyes.

Where they should have been, a pale scar upon thin skin lay stretched above his gaunt cheekbones. In the flames of Fionn’s torch, the scarring almost seemed translucent, like hide stretched thin.

“We are the ones who have seen too much,” said one voice, louder than the rest. Another robed man stood at the far end of the chamber. Both hands stretched upwards. “The minds you’ve reached, the souls you’ve touched. The One, most true…”

“Lord Seletoth,” answered the others, in unison.

“Who are you?” cried Fionn, stepping towards the one who spoke. Fire raged in the mage’s hands.

“We are your Sons, born to no Mother,” he continued, ignoring Fionn’s words. “We are your seed, One God, no other. No Lady, no King.”

“Just Seletoth,” came the refrain.

Realisation dawned on Fionn as he stood there, staring up at the eyeless face of the speaker. Older than the rest, this one wore no hood, but an oddly shaped headpiece, asymmetrical in its design. Crooked shapes curved upwards over another, entangled around his forehead. The reflection of Fionn’s flames danced upon its steel.