“I’ve heard this prayer before,” said Fionn. “You’re Sons of Seletoth, aren’t you?”

For the first time, the one who led the prayers responded.

“The Lord has graced many with His infinite wisdom, though most caught but a glimpse. We are those who have seen the Truth in its fullest form, and have come here, to Seletoth’s resting place, to tend to Him directly.”

“I need to see Him,” said Fionn.

The old man chuckled. “None may see Him,” he said, gesturing to the scars on his face. “And we make accommodations for those who must be in His presence.”

Fionn took a step back. “Why? Why can no one see Him?”

A terrified cry rang out from somewhere outside, followed by a loud crash.

“Farris!” cried Padraig. Two metal clangs told Fionn that both his companions had armed themselves. But the red mage ignored the commotion outside.

“Where is He?” demanded Fionn, taking a defiant step towards the Sons’ leader. “I’m the son of King Diarmuid, Third and Nineteenth, and I demand you bring me to Him.”

Again, the old man smiled. “He is just beyond here, but even King Diarmuid himself would not be allowed gaze upon the Lord’s face.”

Another loud crash echoed through the walls, followed by a torrent of screams and shouts.

“Don’t you know what’s happening?!” roared Fionn. “Diarmuid is dead! Meadhbh is dead! Seletoth is our last hope in stopping Morrígan!”

Fionn caught a glimpse of a great iron door directly behind the old man. The same iron door that he had seen in his dream. In the chapel with Morrígan.

There must be a way in.

“We are aware of what has been destined to come,” said the old man. “For Seletoth has shown us all. The Beginning, and the End. For even He is powerless to prevent the End.”

“No!” cried Fionn, his voice rising over the commotion outside. “The Lord brought me here! I am to see Him, and I won’t let you stand in my way!”

“I told you,” said the priest, “none are permitted to enter. For one glance at the Lord is enough to—”

Suddenly, the large canvass at the chamber’s entrance was torn open, spilling blinding light from outside over them all. Fionn turned to see Farris Silvertongue, clad in blood-soaked armour, standing before the chaos that was once a quiet settlement. The Simian wore no helm and limped as he strode into the chamber.

“You!” cried the priest. “You—”

With a crack, the old men fell backwards abruptly, a bloody round wound in his forehead. The Simian held a smoking firearm in one hand. The other worshippers cowered in fear, but with a terrifying cry, Farris fired at each one in turn.

“No!” roared Padraig, bolting towards the Simian. “Farris, stop!”

But something else had caught Fionn’s attention. Hung around the priest’s bloodied neck, a thin chain held a thick, metallic key. Fionn darted forward, pulling the key from it. He glanced back to see Farris collapse to the ground. He clutched his waist with one hand, as blood poured from a wound behind a crack in his armour. In his other hand, he lowered a satchel to the ground. It spilled open, and tiny black balls poured out from it, followed by one large round object of black stone. It rolled to a stop on the floor nearby. Padraig and Aislinn ran to the Simian.

Fionn, instead, sprinted towards the great iron doors. The key quickly found the lock, and as Farris’s cries of protest echoed through the chamber, Fionn pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Chapter 19:

Heresy

As we forged through the Glenn, fighting against the beasts of the valley, morale among my men grew low. A reasonable response, for why would we be risking our lives to travel through such a terrible place that no native, or no sane animal would dare stray?

But what we found there challenged their faith far more than anything else we had come upon. The horror of that valley, we swore to never speak of again. A Truth so terrible that few living should ever be made to bare it. But a Truth so important that it should not be forgotten.

The Truth, by King Móráin I, AC55

***

The main hall of the Basilica was crowded, far more than usual. Dozens of Churchguards stood in silent attention against the back wall. Ahead of them, two rows of priests in white robes and druids in grey stood face to face, either side of a red carpet that stretched the length of the chamber. At its end, cardinals and high-cardinals sat upon an altar. The former wore silver robes, the latter the same, augmented with golden ornamentation around the chest and shoulders.

Before them was a golden throne, its back rising high, with an elaborate design representing leafy branches of a gilded tree. And there sat Arch-Canon Cathbad, dressed in the extravagant red and golden robes of his station, with an elaborately pointed headpiece resting upon a wrinkled forehead.

On the far end of the hall, Argyll the Silverback came, accompanied by a handful of the Sons of Seletoth. Ruairí pushed Argyll, the wheels of his new lightweight chair gliding silently along the carpet. As per Argyll’s design, this had larger wheels angled outwards, leaving the seat closer to the ground. On either side of Argyll, the tops of the wheels rose over the chair, concealed beneath thin steel sheets. Argyll rested an arm on one of them.

As they moved through the hallway, the rows of priests and druids either side seemed to regard the visitors with contempt, with many avoiding looking directly at Argyll. Through a gap between two standing priests, Argyll briefly caught the eyes of Ned. But this momentary glance was enough to tell him everything he needed to know.

Everything is in place. We are ready.

As they approached the altar, Arch-Canon Cathbad rose and stepped towards Argyll. His immaculate red robes shimmered as he moved. He raised a hand outwards. His middle finger bore a ring bearing a thick, white stone. Argyll leant forward to kiss it.

“Your Holiness,” he said. “We are honoured to be in your presence.”

“As you should be,” said Cathbad. “You seem to have chosen an inopportune time to request this audience. Tell me, why are there so many Simians gathering at Sin?”

“Because we wish to leave this land, Your Holiness. Morrígan the Godslayer has defeated the Triad’s army at Dromán. We have no choice now but to flee before she returns.”

“There are no lands spared by the Grey Plague,” said Cathbad. “You are fleeing one danger to another far worse.”

“The Grey Plague has reached this land too,” said Argyll. “By your own reasoning, if those lands claimed by it are uninhabitable, why would this land by any different?”

“Because this is the land promised by our Lord!”

“Promised as it may have been, we do not share the same love for it than you do. Many Simians of Penance have agreed to leave, but we have struggled to convince those that hold the Church dearly to them to do the same. Of course, they are free to stay if they wish, but after what this city has already witnessed, surely you can admit that leaving is the best option.”

“And where is it you wish to flee to?”

“There are lands beyond the Eternal Sea,” said Argyll.

This answer was met with murmurs that frantically ran through the room.

“Heresy!” cried the Arch-Canon, bringing the room back to a tense silence.

Argyll leaned forward in his chair and bowed his head. “All we ask is for your blessing to leave,” he said. “With so many of your followers reluctant to join us, we believe your words may encourage them to come.”

“Spare me this nonsense,” said Cathbad. “We all know your long-distance ships are grounded without our focus-crystals. Have you not come here to grovel before me, and ask for them?”

“No,” said Argyll. “We have come to take them.”

With this, the Sons of Seletoth removed their hands from under their robes, revealing firearms clenched in each of their fists. Firearms they all pointed directly at the Arch-Canon.