To Walk a Narrow Path: Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-One: The Call
Crom Cruach opened his eyes as his Priest and his followers arrived through the portal. With time unraveling around them, it was child’s play to rip open gates to different parts of the mortal world. Dangling between his followers hands were two bloody and bedraggled forms.
The Morrigan molted feathers every step they dragged her. Gwyn ap Nudd was pale, his hair matted to one side of his head, limbs jerking oddly as he dangled in his enemy’s clutches. The sight was enough to fill Crom Cruach with glee. He felt the smile spread across his face, even as his followers wailed and threw themselves to the ground in front of him.
Oh, yes, he would enjoy these last two sacrifices. Very, very much.
“There,” he pointed with a long finger towards the altars that had been set up.
The Morrigan seemed insensate, but the Winter King was awake, eyes at half-mast, glassy as he watched the mortals strap them down to the rough stone altars. The trap he had caught the two gods of Eire in had been specially made for them, drawn from the torments of his slaughters and bolstered by his feasts on the holy days. Oh, yes, it had taken much to create, but in the end, the trap had been worth every lost month of his time.
The binds were made out of magic enhanced steel - tempered by spells cast from his wand waving followers, these wizards, he had gathered to his calling had come in handy during his ascension. He would have to find a way to award them for all their hard work.
The god and goddess were strapped down, face tilted towards the rust red sky. Dawn would not rise again until he called for it, nor would night set on the land. He had ripped apart the bonds of time so that he could call the shots, so he could control the worlds and all that lived in them. They would learn what it was like, living suspended in the Dark, feeling the wild heart of it eat away at their consciousnesses until they were ready to run mad from the pain.
Oh, yes. He was more than ready to reap his revenge on the world.
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Gwyn ap Nudd blinked up at the sky, not understanding why it seemed as though the world was on fire. He ached, Danu, how he ached. He blinked away wetness from his eyes and tried to focus.
Pain bloomed inside his skull, causing his stomach to clench. The mortals - were they mortals? - did not flinch as he bucked, turned his head and vomited out a thin stream of bile. It burned the back of his throat and made the pain in his head even worse.
He did not recognize the mortals. The rough stone altar under his body thrummed with an energy that screamed with the pain of countless deaths. Gwyn ap Nudd reached out, knowing he had to be in the mortal world - but his senses were trapped, or else the world had gone mad in however long he and the Morrigan had been imprisoned.
The goddess of battle was unconscious on the altar next to him. Her head lolled to one side, eyes shut as her chest heaved for breath.
He had no idea how long they had spent in the trap wrought just for them. He should have seen it coming, he should have felt the urgency in the monsters that had attacked him, should have noticed how they had been herding him in one direction. He had been a fool to miss all of the signs.
The mortals’ bonds dug into his flesh, cutting open new wounds on his wrists. Immaterial, he knew. They were tied face up, eyes to the sky, to their executioner, the god they would be sacrificed to. Gwyn ap Nudd had seen enough of such sacrifices in his own time to know this plan inside and out.
He curled his hands into fists and flexed, feeling the bonds hold - and then give, just a bit. He bared his teeth to the sky - he might be bound, he might be weakened. But if his enemy thought he would die without a fight, well, then. They had another thing coming.
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The Gate took them into a world that Harry wished he could deny was his own. He clung to Draco’s side as they stumbled away from the portal, the gate vanishing as Severus’ robes cleared the edge. Rasheed and Roan’s forms were taken with it, the selkie unable to cross the portal when he tried. The worlds were spiraling further apart, Rasheed had called. They were trapped in their own world until the call went out - whatever that meant, Harry snarled to himself.
Going back to the moral realm was harder than he had imagined. His mind, healing bit by bit in the quiet of the Otherworld, was hit by an onslaught as he stumbled through the portal and into Draco’s arms. His legs had threatened to give out on him, his knees knocking as he struggled to relearn how to keep his sanity intact as they waited for Professor Snape to join them.
Harry took a deep breath and straightened, keeping one hand wound into Draco’s robes, but standing on his own two feet, giving the blond room to draw his wand. Draco’s gate had been a work of art. The glowing lines of chalk had swiped through the Dark, as if the air itself had become a chalkboard for Draco to inscribe his spells on. The narrow intensity on the blond’s face had also caught Harry’s attention, the way the pale eyes had gleamed and the smile that had shown teeth. Draco had been in his element and it had been quite the sight to behold.
“Which way?” Draco had to shout to be heard. Wind whipped past them, pelting them with sand and small stones, stinging their eyes. Great flashes of multicolored lightning crackled overhead. Severus stumbled to them and laid large hands on both their shoulders.
“We must be close,” the Potions Master pushed them towards a large rock cliff face. Harry could smell the scent of the ocean surf in the air.
“Harry? Harry!” He turned at Draco’s shout. “Can you See which way to go?”
Harry struggled in a deep breath and closed his eyes. “I’ll try,” he shouted. Thunder growled over their heads. Behind his eyelids, the futures spiraled out of control. The giant rope he had envisioned with Pythia was gone, strands snapping even as he watched. He caught flashes of prone bodies and frantic spirits - all of them attempting to hold back the tide of chaos to keep time in working order.
They were losing.
Harry shook those images away and tried to focus. He needed to find Crom Cruach, he needed to find…Feathers! He gasped and tightened his hold on Draco.
“What? What is it?”
“She’s here!” Harry opened his eyes, but the Sight did not fade. The faint overlay of spectral feathers littered the ground where they stood. “The Morrigan! She’s here! She’s close!”
He did not miss the grim look that passed between Severus and Draco. “Then we’re close,” said the Potions Master.
“There,” Harry pointed up and to the left. “Up there, on the bluff,” he swayed, caught by Draco’s hands. “The feathers are falling off the cliff. She’s up there!”
“There should be guards,” Draco shouted at Severus as another shriek of lightning and thunder erupted around them.
“We shall have to be vigilant,” Snape shouted back. “We do not know how many followers -”
Harry shrieked, but the sound was lost in the angry chaos of thunder erupting around them again. The futures all rushed at him, tangling around his spirit and mind like a giant web.
Flashes of - something - went off behind his eyes. He saw the whole world - all the worlds - splintering apart as Crom Cruach laughed, face bloody as he tilted his face towards the sky. He saw the Morrigan - the past, he could almost hear Pythia whisper - standing tall with two wicked looking swords in her hands, hair cut short and jagged as she danced with Crom Cruach at the center of a clearing, blades flashing in the light. He saw Gwyn ap Nudd, paler, colder, face set in lines of misery Harry did not recognize, watching as a beautiful woman ran to the arms of another man, a wide smile on her face. He saw Roan - his mind could not tell past or future - sitting in the sun on a large rock, watching as children raced up and down the beach, laughing. He saw, he saw -
He saw a horn, brassy and dark with age, laying in crumbling velvet. He saw Bill, eyes wide as he reached out to touch it. He saw - he knew then, what had to be done.
“It’s almost time,” he gasped at Draco. “We have to go, now.”
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Bills’ hand skittered over the horn as the house rocked, walls shaking as a storm broke through the wards. He heard Remus shout Sirius’ name, then the roof came off, torn off like a giant hand had come down from the heavens, exposing them to the sky.
Bill threw himself forward, covering the horn with his body. The moment his skin touched the worn surface, though, he was lost.
Bill, a voice said, but it sounded like Harry and that had to be impossible - Bill, the voice cried, cracking on his name. Sound the call!
What?
Sound the call!
What? What call - what -
Blow the bloody horn, you ignorant fool!
Bill reared back, blinking. That had sounded like Snape, which should have been as impossible as hearing Harry in his head.
A clap of thunder caused the world to go quiet - or him deaf, he realized a moment later. Something huge and dark took a chunk out of the manor, right where the stairs used to be.
Bill curled his hands around the horn, picking it up out of its crumbling case. The sky raged above them, red and yet not, darker as though some terrible black creature hovered just beyond the rim of light. It was growing closer, Bill could feel it in his bones, just as he knew that the house, he, Remus and Sirius would not survive another blast.
Bill raised the horn to his lips with trembling hands and sounded a call that had not been heard for an age.
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The guards had been easy to dispatch. Severus flicked his wand and swept the bodies over the edge of the cliff. It was not the first time he had killed and, he suspected, it would not be the last time that day.
Harry was pale and shaking as they made their way up the narrow path of the cliff. Severus had taken point, guessing that the Dark God’s guards would be lax, too arrogant in their belief that they could not be stopped now.
The men had been former Death Eaters Severus recognized, but could not name. They had proof, then, that Crom Cruach had gathered from them the worst of the worst of their society. If he was honest with himself, killing the two men had felt good, better than he had felt since the whole mess had started, putting all and everyone Severus cared for into danger and he without a way to protect them. Even from themselves.
The sight that greeted them at the top of the bluff was something Severus never wished to see again. A writhing mass of bodies, most naked, littered a field that was muddy with the stench of congealed blood. Pyres dotted the landscape, some still smoking with the acid stench of burnt bodies. None of the mass orgy seemed to notice them. Their eyes were glazed, vacant. Some were wounded, some had missing limbs that were being consumed by other participants as the mass of flesh heaved and moaned as one.
Severus heard a whimper and turned to see Harry vomit out what little they had managed to force down his throat. Severus set his jaw and turned away, gripping his wand tight in his hand. They were in the thick of it, now.
The main event was in progress. Severus swallowed hard as he made out the two altars at the head of the bluff. The Dark God was corporeal, standing slick and naked in front of his followers, a sword held high over his head. A man stood next to him, arm also poised for the strike, the two prone bodies not moving on the bloody stone beneath them.
“No!” He heard Harry scream. Severus’ knees went out as something pulsed out of the boy, ripping through the air towards the sacrifice in progress.
All eyes - of those still sentient - turned to them. Severus’ breath caught in his throat as the bodies on the altars twisted and vanished, causing the blades to strike sparks as they plunged down.
Crom Cruach snatched his arm back and howled. Time seemed to stretch as the god turned, gaze tracking out over the field to settle on them.
A weight collided with Severus’ back. Harry had a hold of his shoulder, trying to stay on his feet. The world lurched around Severus, and he could hear…
BillBillBillthehornthehornthehornsoundthecallsoundthecallSOUNDTHECALL!
What?
Sound the call!
What? What call - what -
Severus’ hand was buried into the dirt. Blow the bloody horn, you ignorant fool! He had wanted to shout, but his lips felt stiff and unyielding. The words rang loud in his head, and for a bare second, he thought he heard Harry laugh.
Then the call shook the sky, stopping the storm in its tracks.
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The call rippled out, stopping the skies and storms as it passed. It flashed the world over, clear and golden, touching hearts and minds as it passed.
In a hot, damp tomb, a god opened his eyes. Thoth levered himself off the crumbling slab, his ibis eyes flickering to filter out the wild strikes of lightning which all froze, as one, the second he stepped from the cave.
To the far north, a small girl gasped as the door to her hall slammed open, bearing a vast vista of underworld instead of the hungry Dark. A soft sound from behind her had her scrambling, watching with mouth agape as Balder, her beloved cousin, appeared on the low marble slab he had went to sleep on centuries before and faded from view, leaving her alone.
He pushed up with one hand, the other coming up to swipe his long bangs from his eyes. “Cousin?” The rough voice croaked. “Is that you?”
To the east, where the sun was caught, just below the horizon as the call streaked across the sky, a woman opened her eyes. Himiko rose from her bed, blinking as the world battered at her spiritual shields. Her country, her land of the rising sun, was on the knife-edge of extinction. Himiko could feel the raw power held breathless in a grasp she did not question. She got to her feet, hands glowing with power. This was her country. She would not allow anyone to ruin it.
To the east and south, Krishna opened dark eyes with a cry. His flute was held tight in one hand, his bones ached from the sorrow of his people. He would not fail them now.
Gilgamesh reached over to wake Enkidu, smiling as his friend grumbled, swatted at him and turned on his side. The smile on his face dropped as he glanced out of the cave; the world smelled strange, different from the last time he had walked the land.
He was glad Enkidu was there with him.
On the green isle, a man awoke, coughing dirt and dust from his mouth as he rolled off the ancient bier. He scrambled to his hands and knees, staring down at youthful, solid flesh. His armor stood on a dusty stand near a plain wooden door. He stared down at his left fist, willing the stiff fingers to open. The glossy sheen of a black feather lay nestled in his palm.
Cuchulainn sucked in a deep breath, heart pounding in his throat. He was needed, the call had gone out. The Morrigan would not be alone this time. He swore it.
On a mystical island that lay in neither realm, a man woke from a long and troubled sleep. All was still around him, the heavy fog still clouding the windows, allowing just the faint trace of light into the room.
His joints felt stiff and the wound in his side was tender. He unwound the bandages, expecting a rush of blood and pain. A smooth scar greeted him instead.
“It is time,” a woman spoke from the door. A sword gleamed in her hands.
“I thought you were bound to the lake,” Arthur said.
“The lake is no more,” she paced forward, holding the hilt out for him to take. “It is time,” she repeated. “The call has gone out. The heroes must wake.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, heart heavy and sore. “Alone?” He asked.
“What’s this, alone?” Another voice said. “Come, Arthur, you know us better than that.”
His heart in his throat, Arthur opened his eyes. Arrayed behind the Lady of the Lake were his knights and his dearest, dearest friends.
“Come, Arthur,” Lancelot stepped forward with a smile. “The world needs us once more.”
End Chapter Fifty-One