The Dominion Pulse Page 7

  Della waited until Arawn’s scent was gone from the air before she ventured closer to Argona’s prison.

  “Bloody arrogant arse!” the prisoner shouted from the confines of her cage. She kicked out at the stone trilithons and received a jolt that tossed her to the ground for her troubles.

  “Mis… mistress?” Della stuttered.

  Argona pulled her body off of the grass, her foot still smoking from the contact with the invisible barrier and gave her visitor a harsh glare.

  “I wish to kill that son of a… ” Argona began to rant until Della spit out her message. Her whole demeanor changed instantly. “Elathan is back?” Argona repeated the message to be clear she had heard correctly.

  Della nodded. “That was the message from Lir, Lady Argona.”

  Argona let out a hardy laugh. “It seems that I will get my wish, messenger.”

  …

  Going home was a bittersweet feeling for Garnash. On some level he had been avoiding it, but he couldn’t put the return off any longer since he was now the King of the Gnomes. The weight of the responsibility was heavy. His father, Flums, had been such a strong and decisive leader filled with honor and courage. His last moments in life were spent saving Lizzie from D’Quall’s wrath. Garnash wanted to make his father proud.

  The Gnomes referred to their village as the Shire of Leeds since they were located fairly close to the English city, but Garnash planned on honoring his father by adjusting the name to Flumshire. He doubted any of the Gnomes would mind the change. Gnomes tended to be a busy bunch and hardly remained stagnant, so a thing like that was a common practice for the diminutive clan. In fact, that was one of the pluses about being a part of Brendan’s team for Garnash—there was never a dull moment.

  The Gnome King cautiously walked from the megaliths near Leeds back towards his camouflaged shire, wary of any danger that might be lurking. Everything about the path seemed different to Garnash, like he was seeing Leeds through new eyes. It had seemed like a dangerous world before, but now that Elathan had returned, it was downright deadly.

  Garnash took to the overgrowth and maneuvered his way around thick patches of weeds, roots, and fallen branches until he reached a monstrous sessile oak. Normally the species of tree grew to about forty meters, but this one was double that and older than any tree in England, a gift from Nuada, so the legends tell. The Gnome stalked to the familiar tree—its roots hiding one of the openings into the shire—and felt around for the lever to reveal the entryway. It took a moment, but finally his hand found the lever, and the door was opened when an innocent patch of grass in between a couple of the exposed roots swung inwards. Garnash peered down the dim stairwell nervously, not really sure if he was expecting a threat or something else, before he began the long descent.

  The tree entrance was only one of many to the Shire of Leeds (Flumshire) but it was the closest one to the megaliths. Garnash took the stairs rapidly and wound his way around roots, dripping water, and clods of moist soil. The descent normally didn’t feel this long, at least not as long as most of the other ways into Flumshire. Garnash decided that it probably just felt longer due to his apprehension about returning.

  He bounded down the last few steps, remembering to step on the left side of the last step, which had been rigged to capture an intruder, and came to a wooden door. The Gnome King turned the handle and tried to push the door open but was met with a surprising resistance. He pushed again, but the door was catching on something.

  “Bollocks!” Garnash said, cursing under his breath. He shoved harder, but it was like trying to move a mountain.

  “Something’s wrong.” Garnash clapped his hands together and streams of molten magic appeared between them, white and crackling, dripping to the ground. It was old Gnome magic that his father had taught him, and Garnash was a master at using it.

  The Gnome slammed both palms into the center of the door, blasting it off of its hinges and propelling it inwards towards the streets of his clan’s village. His eyes widened and his mouth fell open as he stared at the mound of Gnome bodies blocking the door.

  “No,” he said softly. His eyes poured over the dozen or so Gnomes in the pile. He knew them all, fought along- side of them, and had even played with a few of them when they were youngsters. Now they were gone, killed at the hand of a yet-to-be-identified murderer. Garnash wasn’t going to let this crime go unpunished. Someone was going to pay.

  He leapt over the pile of his fallen friends and neighbors and landed on the cobblestone street that led to the town square. Hands still dripping with magic, Garnash stalked forward, casting suspicious glances in every direction, his heart rate skyrocketing as a result of panicked, sad, and angry emotions that were competing for his attention.

  Beautiful houses were filled with gaping holes and rolling smoke from fires. The stones of the streets were cracked and smashed to bits. Hundreds of his clan were strewn about, a sickening sight for their king to behold. Whoever attacked did not discriminate. Women, children, and the elderly were killed just as brutally as the trained Gnome soldiers.

  Garnash knelt down next to a small child and stroked her hair. Tears traced a path down the king’s cheeks as despair overtook him. He knew that there was no one left alive in the entire shire, but had anyone escaped?

  A soft noise to his left let him know that he wasn’t alone. He could hear the low growl and inhalation of a beast he knew all too well.

  Garnash waited.

  Soft steps crunched the pebbles of the trashed street. The Gnome King’s blood was boiling with anger and it showed as the intensity of the magic in his hands dripped to the ground, leaving slag in the wake.

  Garnash readied himself, and as soon as the creature stopped its approach he flipped into the air. He looked down and saw a metal tongue spear the air where he had just stood a moment before. The Gnome King landed and quickly sprayed the molten magic from his palms all over the alphyn that had just tried to kill him and landed on a low hanging root from the legendary tree. The creature yipped, but its thick dragon hide protected the monster from any real damage.

  “Please, don’t run, doggie,” Garnash snarled. “You and me are gonna have a go.”

  The creature craned back its neck and shot a plume of fire straight into the air above it, singeing the exposed roots of the sessile oak, and narrowly missing Garnash who landed nimbly behind the creature. A dozen more alphyns popped out of the shadows and surrounded the Gnome King. Garnash’s expression never faltered.

  “I will kill you all!” he shouted, his voice echoing throughout Flumshire.

  A rumbling laugh squashed the echo and rattled any remaining windows of the town. “One Gnome left to crush.”

  Garnash spun around and saw the Bloodright Lord of the Descendants of the Magogs standing as tall as the town’s tallest building in the middle of the square. D’Quall may have been laughing, but his face spoke to the graveness of the situation.

  Chapter 6

  The Thief of Mag Mell

  “We have finally returned to Mag Mell!” Meghan exclaimed to Farron and Isobel.

  The beautiful Banshee sisters marveled at the view from the cliffs on Shamtip Island, which housed one of the many sets of megalith tethers in the Realm of Seas. They were escorting and protecting the Seeker as he began his search for the realm’s dominion pulse. Elathan had handed Meghan one of his silver, gold, and blue tokens and gave explicit instructions on what to do once they found the pulse but that task was far from the sisters’ minds. For years, they had dreamt of the day they could return to their home realm. The memories had been mere wisps of thoughts when they were each caged like animals in the stone coffers. Toren and Ordan O’Neal and King Duncan of the Leprechauns had sentenced them to life in containment and only by the cunningness of Elathan were they able to be freed. Finally they were back on Mag Mell soil again and still it seemed too much like a fantasy.

  “Not much has changed,” Farron noted in a soft, reverent tone.

  “A
ye,” Isobel agreed. “But let’s not be fools, sisters; this realm is no longer friendly to the Banshee Clan, at least not since Arawn came and changed the way of things.”

  Oscar O’Neal stood by silently, blissfully unaware of the dangerous company that he was keeping. His mind was focused on other things, in particular a soft heartbeat. It sounded so much like the heartbeat he heard when he and his dear wife Lisa went in for ultrasounds while she was expecting. He could hear the beat thump-thumping, calling out to him, challenging him to find it.

  “Look,” Farron said, pointing at the Seeker. “I think our search has begun.

  …

  Garnash needed to make a decision and fast. He wanted so badly to defend his home, perhaps die an honorable death with his brethren, but how would that help his clan? How would that help Brendan and the others?

  He glanced around, perhaps for the last time, at his beloved Flumshire with its quaint homes and charming cobblestone streets, the perfect place for a tightly-knit community to live, now crawling with alphyns and burning before his eyes. He was so furious that the magic between his hands bubbled and popped, sizzling to match his disposition.

  “Your father died at my hand and now you will join him, flea,” croaked D’Quall, tossing his club up and down. “After I kill you I’m going to kill everyone who embarrassed me in Corways.” D’Quall observed the Gnome’s face and reveled in the pained expression. “Your necromancer friends have already met their end.”

  “Brett and Vivian? No… ”

  “Yes. A clean death but that’s more than I can say for your Gnomes.” D’Quall laughed again and filled the air with that horrible noise.

  “Where’s the rest of your oversized band of nitwits, D’Quall? Did they kick you out after you were beat by a little girl?”

  D’Quall’s face masked over into a snarl. “This fight is mine alone. I will take vengeance on you and your friends. I will bring the Magogs back to our rightful place atop the world!”

  “You’re a fool, D’Quall,” Garnash shot back. “Elathan, the Banshees, all of them deserted you. You are not in their plans! You will never be anything on this Earth other than dust.”

  “Do you think I need Elathan or anyone else to take my spot as ruler of this planet?” The giant chuckled again, insanity evident in the reverberations. “My journey to power starts when I leave you as a greasy pulp on the cobblestone. Look around you, Garnash, your brothers and sisters never stood a chance.”

  Garnash knew what he had to do. “Bring it on, sot!”

  D’Quall’s cruel grin etched itself across his lips and he charged, but to his surprise the Gnome charged too. “Stay back my alphyns! The worm is mine to kill!”

  Garnash had to time it just right, so he began counting down in his head. Three… two… one… now! Just as D’Quall brought his club down at the Gnome King, Garnash melted into invisibility. He was hoping that the big oaf would assume he smashed him to bits, or he would at least be too confused to know what to do right away. It just might buy Garnash the time he needed to slip away, but D’Quall was smarter than he looked.

  “He’s here somewhere!” he screamed at his dragon-dog pets. “Find him!”

  Garnash was already on the move. He wasn’t about to give the alphyns or their master another chance. He darted back to the sessile oak entrance, dodging wild slashes and knifing tongues as the alphyns got a scent of him and took a blind stab. The creatures sent balls of fire out and caught everything they could on fire. The conflagration caused the buildings to begin to crumble all around Garnash as he ran. The smells of all Flumshire burning was sickening and made him want to curl up into a ball and sob for his kinsmen, but he knew he couldn’t stop running. He had to reach the megaliths. He had to get back to Corways.

  “Find him! Kill the Gnome!” Garnash heard the command again floating above the roar of the fire. He was nearing the sessile oak entrance when he felt a sharp pain in his back. He called out in pain as he was lifted into the air on the tip of an alphyn’s tongue. The creature began pulling him back towards its jagged mouth. He had to do something. He looked down and saw the tip of the metallic tongue protruding out of his abdomen. Garnash grabbed the tongue with both hands and softly spoke a chant his father had taught him. A powerful jolt of electricity traveled down the creature’s tongue and tore into the beast. It yelped and pulled its tongue free of the invisible Gnome who had just caused it so much pain.

  Garnash fell to his hands and knees, not even noticing that his jolt had fried the alphyn to a dead crisp. He crawled forward and exited Flumshire, laboring to ascend the stairs.

  “Why do there have to be so many?” he whispered to himself.

  Garnash’s head was feeling foggy, but behind him he could hear D’Quall cursing his name and swearing vengeance-nothing new there. He plodded up the staircase and reached the top. His back and his abdomen were still oozing blood, so he paused before he risked exiting the sessile oak. He clapped his hands together and softly whispered into the empty hollow. He gently pressed his hands onto his open wounds—grimacing at the intense amount of pain—and held them in place for thirty seconds. He gritted his teeth, trying so hard not to call out. He moved his shaky hands up and saw that they were covered with fresh red blood, so he pulled his shirt up and examined the gash that was mercifully cauterized.

  He realized that he was breathing heavy and consciously tried to slow his intake of air, drawing in a few practiced, deep breaths. He cracked the entrance door and peeked out. Alphyns were nosing through bushes and leaping into trees, searching for the last Gnome. Garnash really hoped that wasn’t true. He prayed that some of his clan had been able to escape the psychopathic giant and his hellhounds.

  He cloaked his body once more, opened the door just enough to slip through, and limped into the forest toward the megalith. That was his only chance of making it out alive.

  …

  The night dragged on for Brendan. The nervous energy in his mind was building up around beginning the search for Bibe. He pulled his body up from the cot, paused a moment to shake his head at Frank who, from the sound of it, had no trouble sleeping in the cot across the room, and walked into the kitchen.

  “Oh, you’re up, too?” Dorian greeted him with a raised mug of hot tea.

  He crossed the room and took a seat near her. “I couldn’t sleep. There’s too much going on for me to even try.”

  Dorian agreed. “Lizzie doesn’t seem to be having any troubles.”

  Brendan smiled. “Neither does Frank.”

  “You want some tea?”

  Brendan shook his head. “To be honest about it, I came in here to check the bags again.”

  Dorian reached into her drawstring bag and began laying items out on the table. Brendan took inventory and noticed the items that Lizzie, Frank, and Garnash had brought back from their trip home. “The bell, a bracelet, maybe a flask, and it looks like a medallion.” Only the falcata that Frank was clinging to was absent. “What else are we bringing?”

  “Basics. Vials of purple magic for Lizzie and Frank, food, water, and a whole lot of Leprechaun luck.”

  Brendan nodded before looking back down at the items on the table. It was tempting to reach out and pick up one of the other trinkets. Brendan considered that he might learn something by touching them, like he had with the bell, but it was still too risky. What if one of these things released some other evil on the world?

  Dorian, on the other hand, had no problem handling the items. She reached down and turned the flask over in her hands, examining the craftsmanship, the etchings, and the material. “Hard to believe that gods crafted these things.”

  “Says the Leprechaun Queen to a divinely chosen Protector of Earth,” he replied with a sly grin.

  Dorian rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean. Just look at the designs on the flask and the bracelet.” She held each up for him to see. Then she picked up the pocket watch-sized medallion. “And this… oh, Brendan, look!”

  The beautiful
etching atop the medallion’s faceplate began shifting and contorting on the metal canvas. Ancient Celtic symbols glowed and mixed, forming new symbols within the center of a yellow-lit circle. A beam of energy began to trace out from the center in a spiral that reached the perimeter, flashing on contact.

  “What does any of that mean?” Brendan asked, pointing a hesitant finger at the light show.

  Dorian shrugged. “I don’t know. These symbols are unfamiliar to me.”

  She laid the medallion back on the table and it went dormant almost instantly, reverting back to the shiny silver faceplate. “Well, that’s peculiar.”

  Brendan couldn’t have agreed more. “Let’s hope Bibe has some answers for us.”

  …

  “This makes no sense!” Bibe said in frustration, tossing the strange contraption to Sinead. “Such a stupid, stupid thing!”

  “Let me do that,” laughed the assistant, twisting the shaft of the pen to reveal the point. “Patience is a virtue.”

  “Are you lecturing me with wise little sayings?” Bibe asked with a hmph! “Humans make such odd junk. That’s the problem, Sinead.”

  Sinead could see through Bibe’s griping. “They’ll get here.”

  Bibe scribbled a quick note on a scrap of paper and handed it to Sinead. “I know. That’s why I’ve gone batty.” The wise old goddess plopped down in her comfy chair and sighed. “What if I can’t help? What if I do nothing but send that boy and his friends to their graves and deliver the Earth to an evil god in the process?”

  “What’s this?” Sinead asked, looking at the paper.

  “What does it look like?” huffed Bibe. “We’re out of milk and eggs, dear. Go on. Run to the market.”

  Batty? That may have been too soft of a word, thought Sinead as she went to get her bicycle.

  …

  Lub-dub!

  The sound was louder now. Oscar could feel it pounding in his ears, shaking his body. Why did he want to find the source of the beat so badly?