Lazarus 6 - SEVEN: Blood of Godlings

“Ah, if it isn’t our esteemed guests,” came the patronizing voice of Lord Lugh as I pushed my way through a set of colossal doors at the far end of the nightmarish banquet hall. I grit my teeth and reached for the Vis, just out of sight, preparing for more tom-fuckery. I let out a sigh of relief when I found myself in a room I instantly recognized, even though it had been twenty years since the last time I’d been here. It was hard to forget a place like this, though. And that was saying something, since I’d literally been to Hell and back. 

We’d finally made it to the Throne Room of Tuatha De Danann. 

Although room was a misnomer. 

It was more a circular clearing, the ground covered with grass so vibrant it looked spray-painted on. A riot of flowers ran amok, their petals so pristine and colorful it hurt the eyes. A small, slow moving stream meandered on the right and handful of short trees—elegant slender things which seemed to mimic the form of dancing humans—dotted the space and bore luscious fruits studded with actual gems. 

Hulking slabs of gray stone formed a ring around us. 

This was an inverted, mirror version of Stonehenge; a primal nexus that the High Tuatha De Danann used to move between the realms. The gray stones formed a series of crude, slanted archways, which each peered out onto a different landscape: A beautiful coast, the sky overhead stormy and dark, the waves battering against some forgotten, rocky shoreline. Another led to a forest filled with towering oaks and wild apple trees, a tangle of dense vegetation blanketing the ground—a wild place, as ancient as they come. A forest untouched by humanity. 

Others still. Some which lead to wild, impossible landscapes, others that let out into dark alleyways that could’ve belonged in Denver or Paris. 

“Truth be told, I’m more than a little surprised to find you made it,” Lugh said, drawing my eye. He waited for us at the far end of the clearing, leaning against a sprawling throne of ancient granite and twisted tree roots, which the massive stone archways had been painstakingly built around. Occupying the throne itself was the man we’d actually come to find, King Dagda, ruler of Tír na nÓg. The guy didn’t speak, but his silence conveyed more than enough. 

Dagda was a friggin’ giant. Not metaphorically, either. 

He was nine feet tall if he was an inch and so heavily muscled, he looked deformed. His skin was rough and gray like the stone around him, his facial features crude and malformed, like an artist had started carving a humanoid statue, then got bored halfway through and said screw this, I’ve got better shit to do. The only thing that screamed “king” was the circlet of gold wrapped around his lumpy, lopsided brow. Dagda looked like a roid-head who was about as bright as a sack full of rocks, but nothing could be further from the truth. He was sharp and shrewd and all the more so because he had Lord Lugh whispering in his ear.

He also looked pissed as hell. 

And worried, though he was trying his best to hide that. 

“The twisting halls are difficult for even the Low Tuatha De Danann to navigate,” Lugh said after a pause, lips pulling back into a thin smile. “I honestly can’t remember the last time any mortal managed to navigate them.”

“That is because no mortal has ever done so,” Dagda replied, his words rock steady. Tone unflappable. But I was pretty good at reading people and I sensed that those calm still waters didn’t run as deep as Dagda wanted us to think. 

I glanced left and right, then nodded as I took a step forward. The others spread out beside me, Levi taking up a position on my left, Sullivan posting up on the right, Ferraro staying back just a hair, but double checking her shotgun. 

“Most of us hardly even classify as mortal these days,” I said, lifting my chin in cool defiance. “I’ve got the Three Faced Hag backing my play and two demons batting for the home team. And I guarantee you’ve never seen anything like my muddy buddy there.” I hooked a thumb toward Levi. “Now, we’ve got shit to do and places to be, so how’s about you stop dicking around with us, wasting our time, and tell us where the last Scion is.” 

I took another step threatening forward and flipped back the lapel of my spelled-leather jacket, revealing the gleaming butt of my pistol—stowed safely in its holster. For now. 

“That’s far enough, Lazarus,” Dagda grunted. “Oghma, attend to me.” He lifted a crudely formed hand with bratwurst sized fingers. There was a flash of opalescent light. A shimmering rip in space and time as a behemoth of a man stepped into the clearing.  

Honestly, that should’ve come as no surprise, but it sure as hell was an unpleasant one. 

Dagda was big, but he rarely liked getting his hands dirty. Lugh could fight like a wily squirrel all strung out on meth, but we could take him if things went sideways. Oghma, though, that shit-kicker was a force to be reckoned with. 

He was Dagda’s brother, the court champion at arms, and the third piece of the monarchical triumvirate. 

Oghama was a big ol’ son of a bitch with glimmering, iridescent tattoos running over his bare shoulders and arms in elaborate swirls. He was also definitely a card-carrying member at Thugs-R-Us. The meathead held a battle-axe with a flared steel head on one side and a monstrous railroad spike of hurt on the other. It was so enormous I wouldn’t have been able to pick the sucker up off the floor. Unlike Dagda, he was exactly as dumb as he looked, but he was really good at turning things into meat paste, and sometimes that was all that mattered. If we couldn’t work things out peaceable, and I was sorta doubting that at this point, then there was a damned good chance Oghma was the guy I’d have to dance with.

Which was unfortunate since it looked like his favorite dance was the Eviscerate-Your-Foe Boogie.  

“Your majesty,” Sullivan said, shuffling forward, raising his hands in a sign of peace. “This doesn’t need to end in violence. We aren’t here to hurt you or those you care about. Just the opposite. We want to lend you aid.” 

“He’s right,” I said with a nod. “You outta know how I feel about the Morrigan. No body wants to kick her teeth in more than I do. We don’t know what the hell she’s up to, but we aim to stop her and we know the Scion’s are somehow a crucial part of her plan. If she can’t get to your Scion, then maybe we can stop her in her tracks. Or, at the very least, draw her out.” 

“Is that so,” Lord Lugh pipped in. “So you want us to turn Dagda’s daughter and only blood Scion over to you—a man, possessed by demons, who recently murdered half the demonic nobles of Pandæmonium. You and James Sullivan, former Lieutenant Commander of the Fist of the Staff and declared traitor and confidant to the Morrigan. The same Morrigan harbors us deep enmity and angled to overthrow us with the aid of our ancient rivals, the Fomorians. Ah, yes. Of course, why didn’t we suspect you were here to help all along.” 

The fact that he had a good point didn’t in any way dismiss what a smarmy dick he was being about all of this. 

“I know how it looks, douche,” I said trying not to fly off a handle and drop kick where he stood, “but we’re telling the truth. I’d rather lose my other eye than deal with someone like the Morrigan. Yeah, Sullivan was working as a deep asset for a while, but that’s the only reason we even have any idea about the colossal shitpocalypse heading our way. We have it on good authority that the Morrigan is planning something bigger than just a coup this time around. She doesn’t want your throne, bub, she wants your friggin’ head on platter and I think she’s gonna manage it. She’s working with some smart, powerful people—I’m tellin’ you, you’ve never seen someone like the Savage Prophet before.”

“Please,” Lugh said, rolling his eyes. “Everyone knows you can’t kill Immortals. I’ve been alive since the dawn of men and I’ll be around after your kind has bombed yourself into extinction.” 

I drew the pistol at my side, leveled the weapons on the towering behemoth of muscle, Oghma. “That so, huh?” I’d sort of thought this might come up, since Immortals were about as cocksure and overconfident as they came. With my other hand I reached into my pocket and pulled free one of my few souvenirs from my time in Hell. A sheet of paper, yellowed, deeply creased, and torn in more than a few places.

I tossed the paper to Lugh with a flick of my wrist and a gust of conjured air. He caught it with dexterous fingers and unfolded it as though it might contain a spelled bomb. 

Nope. Just a simple flyer courtesy of my time in Hell. Plastered across the front was my face or, at least, a version of it with blister-red skin and jutting ram’s horns protruding from my skull. Across the top ran one word, all in caps: WANTED. Azazel’s name was below, followed by a laundry list of offenses: Treason. Criminal conspiracy. Sedition. Murder. Lots of murder. A phonebook worth of murder. Marquis Aamon, Duchess Dantalian, Marquis Leraje, Duke Eligos, and Earl Malthus. At the bottom was a stern warning: Anyone caught assisting this man will suffer the unending wrath of King Asmodeus. 

“Those dickweeds were all Immortal Royals of Hell too before I shuffled their evil asses off the ol’ mortal coil. And I did it using this gun right here.” I cocked the hammer and readjusted the barrel so it was aimed right at Oghma’s groin. Getting shot in the balls with a god killing weapon has to be number one on every Immortal’s nightmare list, I imagine. True, the gun wasn’t loaded with god-killing bullets, but these three didn’t know that. Sometimes you need to know when to hold ’em. “So I’d be careful what your next move is.”

“As you say,” Lugh replied, folding the rap sheet and tossing it back to me. “But if you have this weapon, than by necessity the Morrigan does not have it.” 

“You’re missing the point,” Sullivan said sternly. “It’s not about the weapon, its about the principle. Prevailing wisdom is that Immortals cannot be killed, yet know we all know that premise is false. The Morrigan knows this too. I will confess, I don’t know how she plans to do the deed, but in less than three day’s time we will all find out. But by then it will be far too late to do anything about it.” 

“Twenty-years,” I said as Sullivan trailed off. “You said to me, what is twenty-years to an immortal? The answer is that it’s twenty years longer than you have to live unless you cough up your Scion and see us on our way.” 

“Your bluffing—”

Lugh started, but Dagda cut him off with a raised hand. “Enough, Lugh. You know he isn’t. This man is as subtle as our own Morrigan. You are seeing machinations that simply aren’t there, me thinks.”  He hunched forward, his lips drooping down into a frown. “And the Morrigan is certainly clever enough to do such a thing, especially if she is dealing in the magics of the Great White King above. That paired with the blood of Scions…” he trailed off sharing a meaningful look with Lugh.

“What exactly does that mean,” Ferraro said, moving closer to the throne. “Paired with the blood od Scions.” There was a reasons she was an FBI agent—and it was because she didn’t miss a thing. “What do you know that we don’t? Why would the Morrigan be so concerned with Scions?” 

King Dagda didn’t speak for a moment, instead eyeing my gun. Trying to decide if I was bluffing. Finally he sighed and shook his head. “Stand down Oghma. There has been enough destruction in our lands already. Your death would only weaken our position further. Lugh, tell them.”

The great tattooed oaf grunted but complied, lowering his axe and lumbering off to one side. 

“But sire,” Lugh said quietly, “is that the wisest course of action?” 

“What choice do we have then, Chief Ollam? We have always said that war makes strange bedfellows of us all.” 

“Fine,” Lugh said, sounding exasperated. “Fine. Let me go on the record and say I disagree strenuously with this decision, but if that is your public degree I will make it so.” He turned toward us, drumming his fingers restlessly on the heft of his golden spear. “For what it’s worth, I don’t know how exactly she plans to use the Scions, but they hold a special place in the hierarchy of Supernatural Royalty. As you know, most creatures of Outworld can breed freely with humans, producing creatures that your kind so affectionately refers to as halfies. Its impossible to say what traits such creatures will have, and many perish at birth, but most are viable if rather freakish. 

“Well, that is not the case for certain members of the supernatural community. True Immortals, such as godlings, demons, or the High Fae, are too far removed from humanity to naturally produce viable offspring. It is a matter of essence—as oil does not mix with water, so too does the Immortal essence fail to mix with Mortal form. It is a law as old as the universe itself. There is a loop hole, however, and we Immortals love a good loophole. Magi. Like you, Lazarus. Your kind is fully human yet has a tiny spark of the divine. And that spark allows for the otherwise Impossible. When an angel or demon produces with one of your kind it gave rise to the Nephilim. When our kind produced mixed heritage children, they are called Scions. Sons and daughters of two worlds.” 

“Gee,” I said, “great birds and bees talk, Lugh. Glad we finally got that out of the way—though maybe next time you could use sock puppets or something to make it a little less awkward. But you failed to answer the only thing that really matters. Why are Scions important and what in the hell does the Morrigan want with them.” 

“Gods, but I forgot what an unforgiveable imbecile you are,” Lugh said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look. It’s in their very nature. As I said, they are children of two worlds. And they are valuable for any number of reasons. They are renowned champions because as half mortals they can go places and do things that are strictly against the rules for me and my Immortal kin. Most importantly, though—and this is a closely guarded secret—they anchor us to the mortal world. Like calls to like, and as above so it is below. In many important ways, they keep us alive in the minds of men. They also allow us draw on mortal powers, typical denied to Immortals.” 

“Holy shit,” I said, my brain working in double time. Scions were basically the inverse of demonic vessels. Magi could freely draw on the power of creation, the Vis, but the power of death, of un-life was strictly denied to us. Unless you had an Immortal intermediary like a Demon to draw through. “They’re magical buffers. Conduits to the mortal realm and to the well of mortal power.” 

“It is as you say,” Dagda said, inclining his head a fraction of an inch. “How they could be used to wound or injury an Immortal directly is beyond my scope of knowledge, but their value to their Sires is vast.” 

“Well, if that’s true then you need to give us your daughter, your Highness,” Sullivan said. “I’m telling you, we are the best protection she has.” 

“It is too late for that,” Dagda said. “My daughter is no longer here. Even if I am Immortal, she is not and as soon as you entered our realm I sent her away. I suspected you were working for the Morrigan so I sent her to an old friend who owes me a favor. A friend who will guard her to the death.” 

“Who?” Ferraro said, a tight edge to her voice. “Who ever has her is danger.” 

“I very much doubt that,” Dagda said with a wicked smile. “I have entrusted her to Firroth the Red.” 

Firroth the Red, owner and operator of the Lonely Mountain, over in the Hub. Firroth also happened to be a red dragon. Because, of course Dagda had shipped his daughter off to a red friggin’ dragon. What was better at guarding things than dragons? The answer was absolutely nothing. The only problem was, the Savage Prophet wouldn’t even bat an eye at taking on a dragon. I’d literally watched him fight a hundred-foot-tall, seven head death Naga from the back of an undead flying Garuda without missing a beat. 

Firroth a I weren’t exactly on friendly terms, but he was a decent guy—just wanted to tend bar, serve drinks, and mind his own business. He reminded me of myself in a lot of ways and I didn’t want to see him dead. We needed to kick our asses into gear and hightail it over to the Lonely Mountain before the Morrigan got wind of where the Scion was and sent the Prophet to turn the old lizard into a pair of matching boots. 

“We need to get to the Lonely Mountain,” I said. 

“Gladly,” Lugh said. “Anything to get you out of our realm.” He waved his hand and summoned a shimmering opalescent portal that looked out into a dirty alleyway that I knew well.

“Let’s go save us a Dragon,” I grumbled. 

“You mean fight a Dragon, don’t you?” Sullivan said. “Because you know Firroth won’t give up the girl without a fight.” 

“Fight, Save. That’s all just semantics. And either way, we need to get it done.” 

Continue Reading: Lazarus 6 - EIGHT: The Lonely Mountain