The dishes were cleaned away, the bottle of bloody ambrosia was empty, and lighter vintages worth not quite so much had replaced it. The door to the room was closed, and the serious talk began.
“Before we begin serious words, let me introduce ye to me Blood-Bonded young lady, proper nag, sword witch, and all-around better person than I, Amaretta Blakhamar,” The Mick introduced her formally. “If ye be wondering about her lineage, she be of the Tarantkov.”
“A Russian witch, is it?” Wrapped Mhaug spoke up promptly. “Did ye trade up or down, catching this low-born Fynnachl?” she rasped heartily.
Amaretta’s eyes flashed, and the Wrapped froze in place. “Insult my lord’s Bloodline again, and I’ll have your head as apology, Wrapped,” she said in the most pleasant voice imaginable.
Mhaug looked like she was going to snort, and met the crimson eyes of the other woman there. She was a strong matriarch, but she felt just the merest edge of this Blooded’s Aura, and decided right then and there that a show of sincerity would be a VERY good idea, bowing her bandaged head in silent acquiescence.
“Me wee lass is the only one here who comes from what our Elders favored,” the Mick said, looking about them. “They be in the Great Shroud now, and she were raised by a fine soul of a dwarf. There’s no Elder who’d do aught but raise their still noses at such an upbringing, and ye know it. Ye also know that Bloodline is what we take for ourselves, not something given to us by those who had not the grace t’ die and kept lordin’ over us.
“I’ll not hear more of high and low Bloodline from any of ye. Any of ye can show a Bloodline as high as any of the tales, and ye know it.”
There were slow nods about, as well as wandering eyes.
“Nae can hear us here, or watch. Let them wonder how I be eating with old friends and new.” The Mick nodded at the higob, who nodded in gratitude, and The Mick’s cheerful smile fell grim. “Now, no empty platitudes. Tell me what County Limerick has been goin’ t’ since the dogs of the Fir Ocras moved in.”
It was the tailor, Edmund, who spoke first, making a gesture of confirmation that this place was indeed secure, and The Mick nodded without hesitation, bloody light dancing about his fingertips, drawing their eyes sharply.
“It seems ye be workin’ with The Lady Traveler,” the Bones said in a hushed voice.
“Crazy world-savin’ Jesus girl,” The Mick acknowledged. “Goin’ t’ be bringing down the Shroud and savin’ all our unworthy arses, gods bless us all,” he confirmed, and his hands danced with bloody light. “Taught me The Lore of Blood Magic... true Blood magic, not the corrupted slop the Elders foisted off on us.” He took a breath, and let it out. “I be Tome-Tainted. There be no Corruption in this magic.”
All five of the Irish Clanners hissed in amazement, glancing at one another. All of the Tomb Clans were born with the taint of the grave. Losing the touch of death for that of life was a tremendously difficult thing to sustain.
“Me Bloodline be at Eight, just shy of Nine coming with me tender years,” he went on calmly. “There be no restriction placed on me by the Lady on who I teach this Art to. She were of the mind if those of the Tombs could rise to master it, they deserved to.” He turned to Hogambe. “She’s said things about the Goblins, too.” He paused, his face grave. “Yer people are goin’ t’ have a time of it, lad. She be saying the Old Gods out there who favor the Goblins are as grim and bloody as Cromwell’s own hatchet. Ye could be sayin’ where those wanting the likes of us favor the grave, yer own favor red, red War.”
The higob grimaced as The Mick said that. “And ye trust her?”
The Mick sat back thoughtfully. “Trust her? She gave me the Blood Magic, she made me wealthy enough to buy half of Ireland an’ piss on the other half, she filled out me Bloodline and far more with red slaughter, she gave me a drink to praise her name forever, and she introduced me to this deadly little lass on me arm.
“In return, she hae asked me to stay forever Tome-Tainted, and not end up like an Elder.” He let that trail off for all of them.
“Trust her, aye. I also owe the fact I be standing here now to her. She done more for me in a few months than any other done for me in whole life. I Owe Her... and she’ll ne’er collect from me.” He surveyed them all. “I just be havin’ t’ stay away from the rot of the Elders, may they piss off fore’er.”
There were more nods around the table, even from the higob, salutations, raised mugs, and sips of strong brews. He knew of the undead who had influence over the Tomb Clans, and how unloved they were.
“To be sure, then.” Old Man Kregor sighed. “What’re ye thoughts on the Ocras, bein’ here, despite being unloved and unwanted, and the De Duluus happy to move here, as well?”
The Mick was dangerously quiet for a few breaths. “They’ve a backer now, is it.” He nodded, and glanced at Amaretta, who also nodded. “Their Elders were ne’er caught. Did they sell out to the English, to the Continent... or was it the Illuminati?”
His total lack of fear at the word made them all gasp. The liches and necromancers of the Illuminati loomed over all the Tomb Clans, as they had for centuries.
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Edmund the Bones rattled out a sigh. “One of their Barons dared order a suit from me, proud as you please. I set it up right, of course, bowin’ an’ caterin’ to the damned thing, right enough, and it were delivered to the manor on the Greens, there.”
The Mick took a long, deep breath, and some of his Aura leaked around as his eyes glowed crimson. He closed them, exhaled, and to the amazement of the others, his eyes went black and cold as coal.
“I had me plans,” he admitted calmly. “There was going to be blood this day, and another or two. I was goin’ t’ be wanderin’ down to County Cork, and paying my respects to me fellow Blooded there and all the success they’d be having. But... the Illuminati. They’ll slaughter the lot of everyone an’ yer clans without batting an eye, just like the Elders.” Everyone there nodded in agreement. The Illuminati had a storied history of deadly arrogance behind them. “There be only one way to stop the bastards true, and that’s to make Saints of all of ye, and kick the worms out o’ Ireland.”
They all looked startled. “How do ye think to be about doin’ that, Mick?” Chauncel had to ask.
“Ye’ve little power in yer Clans, because the Clans are weak, an’ so are ye,” The Mick stated pointedly. “Ye know what I been doing in the Orient, aside from collectin’ liquid heaven. The Clans there are from across the pond, not from ye.
“It’s time ye got strong; strong enough to give the deadheads o’ the Illuminati an’ their precious Barons what fer.
“Come with me, all of ye, and all yer kin. Set down yer tools and yer trade, and take ye up cold steel.
“The world that is coming is going t’ be merciless as the auld and bloody days, save with more magic, and more dark gods takin’ interest in us an’ ours.” He inclined his head at Old Man Kregor, who frowned slightly. “Some of ye chose to make a stand, an’ proud I am that ye could do so.
“You need t’ be strong. Ireland needs you t’ be strong. I... need ye to be strong.
“I have the true Lore of Blood. There’s red and white slaughter to feed our Bloodline aplenty, a billion dead Chinamen t’ lay t’ rest, an’ so many precious, precious cannibals who think themselves gods a-borning to tap an’ pickle, as they be wantin’ t’ do to the likes of us in return.
“Ye needn’t worry about wealth. I can back ye, but ye won’t need it. Ye’ll be burnin’ mountains o’ gold, an’ nobody will say a word about it.
“And ye’ll get strong.”
Their Auras rose together, the two Blooded. Already the strongest Clan of the Tomb Clans, there was no denying that red and bloody power rising over all of them, thick with slaughter and killing, and the overwhelming, lordly intent and strength behind it all.
Old Man Kregor slipped off his chair, and fell to one rigid knee with a clunk. “Lord Mickal...” he breathed, staring at the young Blooded, feeling that Aura on his face.
The Mick did not correct him as he turned his head, and one by one, everyone there went to one knee before him.
He was a true Lord of the Blooded, mightier than any they’d ever felt... and mightier than any Elder they’d ever felt, too!
“Ye’ve heard o’ the Allegiance magic,” he stated in no uncertain terms. “I be wanting your Oaths and your Hearts.
“I ran from me Blood. I ran from me Duty. Me Lady told me t’ stop runnin’, and do me Duty, and make me people proud, not be just the cowardly twat grinnin’ in me mirror.
“Join me, and bring me yer Clans. We’ll raise a Banner together, one with no Elder standin’ behind it. I will make ye strong, an’ when I take the Crown of Ireland, ye’ll stand with me as proud as any human who has nae touch o’ the Tomb.”
He turned his head pointedly at the higob Hogambe. “I be informed by the Lady Traveler her own self that the Land of Ireland Herself cares not a whit for yer bloodline, yer ancestors, yer customs, or yer traditions. It cares only that ye are born of Her soil, and that alone.
“I be not the man to overrule the Motherland upon which I would be King.”
They could not believe it, but facing that Aura of power, they could not deny it, either.
“But, the Morningsuns... surely Sean Highsun,” Tobias, the Jujun, began.
“I got ‘is blessing just yesterday,” The Mick interrupted him smoothly, and took the Sun of Ireland right out of the equation.
The Clanners all gaped at him, and he stared back, eyes still black as coal. At his side, Amaretta just nodded slowly.
“A Blooded King,” breathed out Mhaug, despite herself. “And the bright and shining hero agreed to it?” she had to ask.
“He gets t’ remain the bright and shining hero, and I get t’ be the grim and brooding King,” The Mick nodded calmly. “Ye’ll be working with ‘im, so respect Traveler’s uncle.”
That hung for a breath or two.
“Lady Traveler is IRISH?” hollered Hogambe over everyone else. Amaretta smiled, and The Mick just looked blasé about it.
“A’ course she is. Her last name be Morningdark, be it not? Where else would ye find a crazy Jesus-girl t’ save the world, but from Ireland?”
The ecstatic clamor took a few long minutes to fade. There was saving the world, and then there was an Irish woman saving the world! And the Mick was her bud! This was unreal, in all the ways!
“Lord Mick,” Old Man Kregor finally said softly, after the elation all died down. “That fight, in the volcano, against the Old God.” Everyone else went quiet. “Were that as fell as it looked?”
The Mick frowned, and looked down, thinking on that. “Ye didnae, couldnae see it all. I were there, y’see. Up on the ridge, behind her, invisible as the wind, watchin’, an’ never more scared than in all me miserable life.” He looked up and around at them. “That old thing, it looked at her from across all those miles...
“Ye know how the medusae have the gaze that turns ye t’ stone?” They all nodded. “Well, that auld Thing had a gaze that turned ye t’ ash.” He let that hang for a moment.
“I watched the air around her burn away as it looked at her, felt the merest twinge on me eyes, and me hair burned clean away, even me eyelashes.” He touched his black locks slowly, remembering. “If he’d been looking at me, I’d be dead twenty-seven times over, for that’s how many of his gazes she lived right through.”
Their breaths all hissed out.
“As for her magic... she took a shortcut, killing them all the way she did. She could have blown her way right through all of them, an’ they had not an unholy prayer of doing anything about it.” He looked away into the distance. “She did worse, down in the ice of the South Pole. An’ the massacres at her hands in the Far East... she’s slaughtered more in a day down there than I have in all these months.
“The undead cannae stop her.
“The cannibals callin’ themselves Cultivators cannae stop her.
“She’ll break the Shroud and we’ll see the sky, aye, the whole world, just like the days back then.” And his voice dropped. “And then everything will go t’ absolute shite, an’ the only way t’ be ready is t’ be ready.
“Ye give me yer Loyalty, and I’ll take up me Duty, and I’ll make ye ready for what is coming.” He looked over them all. “Are ye with me, with Ireland, and with the crazy Jesus-girl?”