Despite the fog that had settled upon the camp, the moonlight and stars were still visible to all who looked up. Arche gazed upon the sky, wondering which twinkle of the night was the USS Fox overhead. Behind the guise of a reflective stargazer, the Hospitality Hologram was desperately attempting to modify his communications signal to try and pierce the shielded veil above. He had to get a message to the Fox, and soon, before their commanding officer was plunged into the heart of a suicidal ritual, if he didn’t blow his cover and get himself killed before then.

——————–

Michael had returned to where it all started, the hallowed black chamber in the side of the western mountains. He assumed there were identical halls in each direction that the others came in. The narrow tunnels and these large spaces were perfect choke points for the vastly more technologically advanced Svart Augu to prevent a siege, as Hakon had mentioned before. With teleporter technology, it would have been easy to move from site to site. But what struck him as odd was that there were no guards.

Michael approached the section of wall he remembered Arnorr teleporting out of when he met them upon their first arrival. Taking his scanning glove, he moved his hand along the wall and the two pillars on either side to try and identify whatever technological mechanism controlled the teleportation. The wall was nothing special, but there was a thin strip just under the floor molding where the wall and the floor met that held some.

Manipulating the signal feedback in his glove towards the unknown device activated it, teleporting him to the stage section of the upper gallery where the Synsmadr had given his induction. He quickly turned around, looking over the banister to the floor below to see if there was any residual sign of teleport activation. Satisfied he’d ‘gotten away’ with it, he turned to investigate the upper section more, but was stopped cold in his tracks.

“Impressive.” Came a familiar voice. Arnorr stepped out of the back of the shadowed walls, a face of interest. Michael remained still, watching the Nemandi with heightened senses. “Usually, only one of the Nemandi can access the veild walls, and even then, you need one of these…” Arnorr remarked, holding up his hand to showcase a ring on his hand. “Then again, being a Prestr from the Northern Isles, it’s no wonder you can manipulate our magics.” he stated smugly.

“You know, when you say it like that, it makes it sound like you don’t believe me…” Michael snapped back.

Arnorr only smirked at the response. “You need not worry, we would have been disappointed if you didn’t try.”

The formality with which the blind priest was now speaking unsettled the commander. Clutching the handle of the blade at his hip, Michael prepared himself, “So what now?”

Arnorr only turned his back, slowly walking back to the darkened wall he came from, “Simple. I come to give you what you came here for. Clarity.” As the last words left his lips, Arnorr vanished into the wall as he had done many times before.

Michael hesitantly approached, using his hand scanner once more towards the floor, and he detected the same mechanism built into the joining section of the floor and wall. The activation signal was the same, making Michael understand that internally, they must have used a closed point-to-point transporting system. Elegantly concealed, but simplistic enough for primitive cultures to adapt to. Sending the same signal, Michael also teleported away from the western quarter hall.

——————–

The small heads-up display on his glasses indicated that the last teleport had moved him roughly 1000 meters below registered sea-level, to a similarly designed underground anti-camber. Yet he could see a large balcony at the back of the room that was illuminated by the image of the clouded sky as if it were bathed with moonlight. Arnorr was standing in the middle of the room, waiting with a slight bow and outstretched hand towards the veranda.

Michael approached hesitantly, seeing that the same floating chair of the Synsmadr was at the edge of the balcony, its back turned to them. The image of the wall shifted, as if watching from the viewport of a shuttlecraft, as the clear night sky panned across the valley fields of Heilagt Auga, the various tents and flags waving in the night breeze. ‘More technology they probably discovered,’ Michael thought to himself. Michael could see a small pedestal next to the Synsmadr’s chair, with what looked like a molded-in glass orb on the top surface. The necrotic-looking hand of the Synsmadr was resting upon the orb, his every minute twitch, sending the screen shifting to a new focus.

“Augu Godanna, the eyes of the gods. From this, we can monitor all the miasma touches.”  Came the same voice as before, yet this time it did not hold the echoing bellow it had in the entrance chamber. Spinning around, Michael once again came face to face with the Synsmadr. This close, he could verify what he thought he saw before. He was alive, but he was far too frail to be believable; something external had to be keeping him going.

“Quite the view ya got down here…” Michael broke the silence, looking to the image behind the balcony’s edge.

There was a dry, raspy chuckle from the elder. “The eyes of the gods transfer what we need into our brain, and in our dreams. I often fall asleep overseeing the world.”

‘So that’s how he saw what happened outside Brunr Goltr.’ Michael mentally noted, trying to maintain composure.

“Leave us.” The Synsmadr ordered. For the first time, Michael could see Arnorr hesitate, having seen the same reluctance he had seen in Archie several times over when given a conflicting order. Yet the steward only bowed his head in compliance, teleporting from view in an instant.

“Usually, there is wonder in one who sees such magnificent feats of magic for the first time, yet you stand here, unamused. Almost as if you have seen this all before. It would explain how quickly you managed to identify and activate the veils.” The Synsmadr commented.

“As I said before, we come from the northern islands, beyond the great squall. There we have… comparable magics.” Michael tried to maintain.

An unnerving grin crept across the Synsmadr’s face. He didn’t comment, but Michael felt, as with Arnorr before, that the old man was not buying the act. “Such a late hour for you to be visiting. I assume you have questions?” the elder deflected the conversation.

“What is the Tithing of Flesh? What happens to those who are turned over to you?” Michael asked directly.

The chair turns silently back to the balcony, the elder’s hand returning once more to the orb atop the pedestal. The view of the tents is swept away as the image focuses in on the ornate black-stone ritual site at the center, the Bones of the Gods themselves. The image shifts again, almost as if showing a bisected view into the earth from the maw of the Bones. Even in this image, there is nothing shown beyond the misty deep.

“Each offering is escorted to the Bones of the Gods, where they are cast in the depths of the mist. If they are accepted, they are returned safely to us within one cycle, their former lives purged, and the love of the ancient gods indoctrinated in their hearts. They become the backbone of the Svart Augu. Only a small handful are ever deemed worthy of this, which is why we require so many.”

Michael tried to hide his shock as the elder admitted to simply throwing people into a bottomless pit, though the morbid scientific curiosity followed immediately. “What happens down there? How are the ‘chosen’ sent back?”

“No one knows what happens in the depths, even during the rights of ascension. Those who go down are judged by the last will of the gods, and if deemed worthy, return to us through the veil. To replace a fallen Nemandi, we send down a chosen priest. Though their success rate is far higher, as they are already an agent of the gods, their powers are only elevated as needed by their station.” The Synsmadr explained. “All prestr go through this process, all here through the Bones of the Gods, nowhere else…Commander”

‘Shit…’ Michael thought to himself. No wonder they had become so cheeky with him. The more pressing question now became, how much did they know, and what they intended to do with that information. Michael exhaled deeply, “Where did you hear that?”

“As Synsmadr, I alone am graced with the words from below of the last will of the gods. I obey and herald its will through the Svart Augu without question. Keep the power contained, keep the populace broken, and continue or increase the tithing. It was the voice below that shared the dream of your arrival. Told us to bring you forth. But a new voice has appeared, calling your name, over and over…”

The elder shifted his hand on the orb, and a familiar voice filled the room, broken, but unmistakable. “Commander…Fox…Michael…Come In.” Roman’s voice called out.

Michael pinched the bridge of his nose out of frustration. Somehow, the Svart Augu had picked up on the Fox trying to communicate with him and interpreted that as a divine omen. They didn’t believe he was a priest from the north; they thought he was a Harald of the gods!

“The return of the voice below, the calling from the voice above, the sudden re-emergence of the awakening, and your arrival can only mean one thing. This year’s Ascendence will bring wonders to this world!” Had the Synsmadr not looked half dead, Michael could almost compare the look upon its face as ecstatic.

“Look…I…need to get back. I—” Michael began, but was cut off by the view from the balcony. The elder had shifted the view back over to the main House Tent; the others had gathered inside with Rundolf center stage, giving a muted, but powerful-looking announcement.

“Yes. You must go. The Red Wolf King threatens upheaval that will disrupt the Ascension. As much as we try to maintain control over their civilization, we cannot face them directly and have come to rely too heavily on the tithe to maintain our numbers. The Raudulfur have always been impulsive to the degree of isolation. I had hoped that bestowing my bloodline upon the Gulr Hrafn 200 years ago would have tipped the scales to keep them in check, but after seven generations, the gift has lost its potency.”

Michael froze, slowly turning his head from the balcony view to the Synsmadr. “YOU? You’re the one Vigdis told me about!? Wh…Ho…Why?”

“Though we have gifts, powers, and weapons beyond our mortal comprehension, we cannot use them freely against our fellow man, lest in conflict those powers fall into the hands of our enemies. For those who stoke the eternal flame, to allow that to fall into the hands of the unwilling, incapable, or undeserving of its power; the ashes of the world they burn would lie at our feet.”

Michael understood, curious enough that even a primitive culture could comprehend the nuances of the Prime Directive, even when they themselves did not fully grasp what mechanisms they commanded.

“I took a risk, giving the royal bloodline psionic domain. As anticipated, they used their powers to solidify themselves and keep the Raudulfur at bay. Oddly enough, now they become a nuisance of my own making, as they struggle to infiltrate the ranks of the Svart Augu to strengthen their dying power.”

On the balcony view ‘screen’, Rundolf was becoming more animated, even the Synsmadr was aware of this. “I am sorry, my lord, but we do not have much time. I have faith in the vision the gods have in you.”

Before Michael could protest, he could feel himself being teleported; the dark room vanished before his eyes as the smell of the open valley filled his nostrils.

——————–

Archie stood outside the Grarefur tent, his belt buckle communicator pressed in his hands that looking as though he was in meditative prayer, while he tried to make micro adjustments to the signal. In a minute flash of light, Michael materialized before him, teleported from wherever he had gone, and looked dazed and annoyed.

“Well…that’s one prayer answered…” Archie commented, replacing his belt buckle and approaching his commanding officer. “Are you ok, sir? Did you find the answers you were looking for?”

“No. I got more questions than answers, and a killer migraine for my troubles. But we don’t have time to get into it right now. We have to go stop a fight from breaking out.” Michael announced, placing his hand on the guard of his blade and marching off towards the House’s Tents, with Archie following behind in confusion.

“That or go start one…”

[To Be Continued]