“We must wake them, Sire,” whispered the Advisor.
“No. Their time-sleep is not yet over. To disturb them is to bring their wrath." The King rubbed his bearded chin, his eyes bloodshot and downcast.
“The Dark Army presses us on all sides, we will be dead before their sleep is through. Lord, we must chance their wrath to save our land.”
“I know, I know, I know.”
“Sire? The Book says during times of great distress we may disturb their time-sleep.”
The King grimaced, “Those rituals have not been performed in an age, is there a Druid still alive that can? Does the Book say how?”
“Yes Lord, old Michel can perform the proper rites.”
The King guffawed, “That demented old man? How old is he? He must be near a century. He disturbs me, roaming about mumbling nonsense to himself.”
The Advisor pushed, “Shall I summon him, Lord?”
“Sobeit. Yes, summon the old man, get the Book, we will meet in the hall, where they slumber.”
***
“Dragon.” cried out a villager.
Black leathery wings billowed over the dwellings across the river from the castle. The Dark Army had invaded, and now there were menacing dragons. Thatch roofs were burning; livestock now smoldered and little more than ash was all that remained of many of the villagers. There were six of them, black foreboding scars searing the blue sky.
Lord Sluagh sat on his great steed surveying the carnage. He had besieged this land before, to no avail, their army had repelled him. But that was then, now he had more troops and six dragons. He smiled as he looked down from the hillside. The tide had turned his direction. This kingdom would kneel, as the others had. He would unite the land in a way never before accomplished, one land, one king. His time to reign had come.
***
Michel stood in the Hall of the Gods, his hands trembling, he mumbled to an imaginary person, someone he called ‘Willow’.
“The ritual old man. Can you do it?”
“Oh, what? Yes, why yes, of course, just have Willow hold the Book please, so I can read from it.”
“This is pointless,” the King spewed, sitting in his royal chair.
The King’s Advisor took the Book from the pedestal and held it for the old man to read.
“Thank you, Willow. You’ve always been a good lad.”
Eyes among the court rolled at the old man’s confusion. A youth entered the building with a bundle, set it down by Michel, bowed to the King and left.
The Advisor looked at the sleeping titans on their thrones. They looked like statues if one did not know better. Along the stone wall, he saw three hammers resting on their prongs, the heads as big as boulders. The titans themselves were enormous. The hammers, though; even as a child the Advisor admired them. He recalled their names, taught to him by his father. Mawlr, Dinistriwr, and Dryllwyr. Named after the Gods that wielded them.
Leather laced the thick wooden handles followed by intricate weaving designs on the hafts, snaking their way on to the heads, never-ending, eternal loops. Each one with its own design, each with its own unique shape. They spoke of power and of barbarity, yet they were artful with a strange beauty about them.
The Advisor shook his head, brought out of his thoughts by old Michel.
“Willow. Fetch that bundle lad.”
The Advisor looked around, handed the Book to the person closest to him and picked up the bundle, “Here, sir,” he replied.
The old man looked down, “Yes, thank you, lad, now empty it.”
The Advisor opened the leather bag and emptied the contents on the ground. Various objects spilled out, some old bones, some small wooden logs, mistletoe, straw, and a cow skull. The old man went to work assembling the assorted items. When he had finished a small effigy stood, a crude thing, but the old Druid seemed to believe it would do the trick.
“Willow, be a good lad and fetch me a firebrand.”
The Advisor walked to a brazier, picked up some tongs and brought out a coal.
“Yes lad, good, good, now set the thing ablaze.”
The Advisor glanced at the King, the King nodded. The coal went down, the effigy blazed up.
“The Book, Willow.”
The Advisor retrieved the Book and once again held it before the old man to read. Michel chanted in a language no one in the room had ever heard. The effigy blazed higher, the flames changed color, fluctuating between red, blue and green.
The old man chanted faster and faster.
The flames blazed white, consuming the effigy.
Michel continued to wail his incantation, arms outstretched, head tilted back, his long gray hair stringing behind him.
All eyes affixed on the titans, still sleeping.
It appeared as if stone melted as color washed into the titans faces. Their eyes fluttered opened. Three voices reverberated in the great hall, harmonious, and resonating with authority.
“Who awakens us before our sleep is over?” the voices demanded in unison.
The King stood, and faced them. The stone vanished away as color spilled down the titans bodies.
The crowd gasped in astonishment.
“I commanded the Druid to perform the ritual, my Lords,” replied the King on bended knee before the Gods.
They stood, towering above all in their great hall, “Why have you disturbed our sleep, Feldrick ap ßinduan, King of The Land?” The Gods sounded dismayed.
The King went to both knees and fell prostrate before them. “The Dark Army presses us, our land is besieged. My Lords. We are the keepers of your Faith, the stewards of your Knowledge, should we perish, your Knowledge would pass from The Land.”
“We see no offerings before our feet, no banners proclaiming our goodness. We see nothing from you King Feldrick, where is your faith? Why should we stretch forth our hand and save this Land?” spoke one of the titans, stepping forward.
“Malwr. Brother, do not be harsh,” replied one of the Gods placing his large hand on Malwr's shoulder, “I have no use for this man, this king, but The Land, yes, we are the protectors of this land.”
“As you wish, Dryllwyr.” Malwr exclaimed. “We require a sacrifice. Your life O King for the lives of your people, the salvation of your land. What say you?”
The crowd moaned; the King stood, trembling, “I accept your generous offer.--” the King started.
“No.” came a voice from behind them. Michel came forward and stood between the Gods and the King. “Take me, Lords, I am old, and wish not to remain here, welcome me to your Eternal Halls.”
The Advisor’s eyes went wide, and he cried out, “No. You must not.”
Michel looked back, “Willow. Lad? The time has come. Not to worry, all will be fine, it will be fine, lad.”
The King glanced back to his Advisor.
Dinistriwr spoke, “Why you, Druid? Why would you take the place of this King?”
Michel looked around and spoke, his words as quiet as leaves falling in autumn, “My time is over, my Lords. I am weary and tired. I seek your Hall, your ancient eternal dwelling for my kind, the hall of my fathers, my brothers, all who have gone on before me. Our land needs a king. This man before you is a good and just king, I beg you not to take him from The Land.”
The Gods looked at one another and nodded in agreement, “We accept your offer, Druid.”
The King’s Advisor stepped between Michel and the Gods, “Father, what have you done?” he whispered.
Michel embraced him, “Oh Willow, my lad, I love you son. Do not mourn me, I go to the great Eternal Hall. It is a precious gift.”
The King spoke up, “I am the King. It is my life that should be forfeit, not this poor soul.” He looked up at the towering giants before him, “Take me.”
“To reject the Druid’s sacrifice is to dishonor him, step aside and live another day King Feldrick,” spoke Malwr.
The old Druid patted the king's shoulder, “Let me be Feldrick, I am ready.”
The King's jaw tightened as slow humble tears rolled down his cheeks.
Michel looked up to the Gods, “I am ready.”
The Advisor wept, “No, father, no...”
“I’ll watch over you, Willow my lad,” said the Druid.
“Come, Michel, Druid of The Land, We welcome you to the Eternal Hall. Great shall your place be among your kin.”
The old Druid smiled peacefully as his body crumpled to the floor.
“The Druid has paid the price,” exclaimed Malwr. He extended his hand toward his hammer, the other two followed suit. Three hammers lifted into the air by an unseen force, then snapped into their owner's hands.
“My brothers,” said Dinistriwr, “We go to war.”
***
The sky turned dark and threatening. Lightning arced in the ominous sky, tracing the clouds, six dragons turned to powdery ash as wicked bolts ravaged their bodies. Lord Sluagh trembled in his saddle as black residue rained slowly down upon him.
by Michael S Wigington
(Artwork by http://caiomm.deviantart.com/)
