EóGAN VIII

  Dust coated the ancient floor, rising in soft plumes as Eógan padded forward, spear held at the ready. His senses tingled with the influence of Skellum on his forearm: complete darkness was no longer an impenetrable blanket. It was bittersweet to carry the soul of his friend, he missed the villainous scamp and treasured the opportunity to share his senses.

  “The dead are near,” Ronan warned. There was no mockery in the spear’s voice, only the hint of contentment.

  Eógan had fed the sentient spear well in his battle with the Tengu assassins. The bloodlust he had felt had been reflected as horror in Liadan’s eyes. Perhaps his bond to the weapon was not unlike what he shared with his animal spirits.

  That notion prompted a derisive chuckle from Ronan. Perhaps not, Eógan thought.

  It was tedious to leave Guillaume’s corpse behind, probe forward for traps, then return to Liadan to advance. Progress was slow. They had left the pristine halls of the magical murals and entered a different section of ruins, that transition had him on high alert.

  The wide hallway narrowed and the floor became coarser under his bare feet: unhewn stone replaced intricate tiles. The way forward was barred, yet Eógan felt a sensation that had grown unfamiliar during his time deep underground, the caress of air. He edged forward to investigate.

  A doorway terminated his progress, the mechanism to operate it was impossible for Eógan to comprehend in the dark. The sharp angles and gears were a mystery that he hoped Liadan could solve. A whistling breeze tickled his toes. He crouched and could feel a gap under the slab of the door the height of his finger. He pressed his ear to it and listened, the only thing audible was the rushing air. The stench of decay was thick. He hurried back to Liadan.

  ———

  “I think this must be the lever to operate it,” Liadan said as she held one glowing hand up to illuminate the stone door. “I wish Esker or Rhyolite were here to aid us.” The complexity of the interlocking stone gears and hinged counterweights was not easily discerned, even in bright light.

  “How does this bloody Jotling weigh so much?” Eógan struggled to keep his balance as Guillaume’s gangly legs seemed to catch on every surface. “The lad is a stick, why do I feel like I am lugging a bear?”

  Liadan ignored his capering, remaining fixated on the door. “Maybe if I…” she said as she pulled down on the protruding handle of one lever. The door did not budge. “Pardon the darkness,” she said as she gripped another lever. Faint light outlined her fingers and glowed through her hand.

  Eógan could feel her movement without seeing it.

  Liadan pulled both levers simultaneously, in opposite directions. The gears ground together and the door slowly opened outwardly. She peered through the frame, cautiously illuminating the low ceiled chamber on the other side.

  Eógan put Guillaume’s body down and crept past her, exploring the edges of his perception for signs of danger.

  “The dead,” Ronan whispered.

  Can they hear you? Eógan asked.

  “No Pecht, they are dead. Show proper reverence in this hallowed cairn,” the spear chastised. “Keep your grubby fingers and toes off of their remains.”

  “Depends on their loot,” Eógan muttered.

  “What did you say?” Liadan and Ronan said in unison.

  “Shh! Let me sneak.” A smile lit across his face as moved across the begrimed floor and was welcomed by a retinue of skeletons.

  The corpses were arrayed on stone slabs, clothed in the tattered remains of court finery and rusted armor. Eight burial platforms surrounded a central sarcophagus and all eight of the dead clutched wondrous weapons to their chests. The walls and ceiling were composed of massive unmortared standing stones.

  Eógan leaned close, admiring the craftsmanship of a shortsword held by boney fingers. The balance looked exquisite and the edge had not been dulled or tarnished by age. Avarice guided his reach.

  “Disturb their sleep at your own peril, Pecht.” Bitterness had crept back into Ronan’s voice.

  He continued to reach forward, his fingertips nearly brushing the hilt. His skin prickled with goosebumps and he felt a pressure building against the tips of the hairs on his arms. The skeleton was as still as a statue.

  “Is it safe to enter?” Liadan called softly, breaking Eógan from the siren’s call of the shortsword. She held the Jotling under his arms and dragged him bodily into the tomb. The light on her palms cast abstract shadows that danced in the corners and ceiling.

  “Aye, let me carry Guillaume.” As he went to help, he saw how the interior face of the door they entered through would match the rest of the wall when shut. Carvings depicted heroic scenes that centered around Gaídel legends. Once Liadan cleared the threshold, Eógan pushed the stone door shut. It moved with ease, returning flush with the rest of the mural and locking into place with a muffled clunk.

  Liadan looked about in wonder. Guiding her aperture of light to illuminate the dark corners. “I thought these were only stories,” she said with reverence. “Oisín and Niamh Cinn Oir are both buried here, Eógan.” She studied a block of Gaídel script framed between the heroic imagery on the walls.

  To his surprise, even the True Folk spoke highly of those heroes. Oisín was renowned as a poet and a warrior, Niamh had golden hair and magical gifts. He took a closer look at the blade in front of him. “Could this be Orna?” he asked, humbled by the legacy of Ogma.

  “It must be,” Liadan answered as she made her way to the central sarcophagus. “Here lies High King Diarmait. I cannot believe it, why do none of my people know of this place?”

  “I do not think it was meant to be easily found,” Eógan answered, pondering the greater significance of this site. “Besides, if that is truly High King Diarmait, then Scáthach would be at his side.”

  “Eógan… come look,” Liadan said from the other side of the ornate sarcophagus. It was formed out of banded wood, unmarried by age, joined with stone sections bearing the delicate touch of Tengu craftsmanship.

  “Ronan nags that we should not touch anything. I can make no promises if…” He stopped in his tracks, before him lay Scáthach. The shorter stature was a strong indication, the tartan was in bad shape, yet unmistakable. Resting in Scáthach’s hands was Gáe Bulg. For the first time in his life, Eógan was struck speechless. He was glad to bear Guillaume’s body, for the temptation to take hold of such a mighty spear was irresistible.

  “I feel much the same way,” Liadan said as he joined her. “These are incredible discoveries and to think of the link to the Tengu.”

  Eógan could only nod, he was overcome with emotion. As a child he had spent as much of his free time reenacting the legendary tales of Scáthach with Mael playing the role of Cú Chulainn. He shed a tear for his friend, promising to honor her legacy and to atone for his cowardice in abandoning Cinoch’s war party.

  Liadan had moved on and was circling the ornate sarcophagus in the center of the burial chamber.

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  Eógan took a moment to ruminate on Scáthach, she was rumored to have traveled the world and bonded with the spirits of mythical creatures. The striped cat on her left arm was said to be bigger than a lion. The unstoppable olyphant on her trunk was powerful enough to uproot trees. The wingspan of the mighty roc upon her back was said to span rivers and gifted her with the ability to extend her mighty leaps into soaring glides.

  Now all that remained were bones, he wished that he had seen Scáthach in her prime. The animal spirits had been released when her soul was freed from her flesh, journeying together into the other world. Eógan wished Scáthach and all of her companions safe travels in their travels after life. He walked over to join Liadan.

  The High King’s sarcophagus was adorned with the face of a woman greeting a rising sun. “This depicts Ostera,” Liadan said as she examined it. “Why would a Gaídel choose to worship her over Brigid?”

  “Aye, Brighde, as she is known to the True Folk. Strange that would they worship a foreign god.”

  “There is an egg motif in the design, this is quite curious,” Liadan continued, hovering close to the coffin’s surface.

  Eógan felt a powerful sensation prickle his skin and thought of Ronan’s warning. “We must be careful not to desecrate those at rest,” he reiterated. “We may wish to press onward.” He adjusted his grip on Guillaume, ensuring that the Jotling’s dangling arms and legs would not disturb the dead.

  Liadan was reluctant to move on. “There is much that I wish to learn both here and in that Tengu tunnel with the murals. I hope we are able to return here with Guillaume, once he is revived. He would love this history.”

  Eógan was not as eager to return, the temptation to claim the artifacts of these legendary heroes was growing increasingly hard to resist. “We will bring him back here,” he promised, smiling down at the lad in his arms. “He will get excited and prattle on about useless teachings that his tutors stuffed between his ears.”

  Liadan looked fondly at Guillaume and gently ran her fingers through his hair. “Shall we find a way out of here?”

  “I would love to see the sun once more,” Eógan answered.

  ———

  Exiting the tomb proved to be a taxing ordeal. The High King’s burial chamber was sealed with a massive jamb stone that nearly broke Eógan’s back as he raised it high enough for them to pass. His reward was yet another burial chamber: it was lavish, yet not nearly as grand as its predecessor. Liadan suggested that it might house ancient rulers that were honored in their time, but forgotten by bards.

  Yet another stout jamb stone blocked the only exit. Fortunately, this barrier was designed for access: a mechanism of pulleys and levers could be activated to relieve some of the weight, sparing Eógan’s back.

  His heart dropped as he moved through the musty threshold and into yet another tomb. This one was more utilitarian than the others, lacking the ornate carvings of the first and the flourishes of wealth of the second. “If this is not the last blasted crypt, I will curl up next to the dead and join them,” Eógan growled as he lugged Guillaume’s body across the moldering floor.

  The palpable presence of decay was potent in this third chamber, potentially due to its slightly newer occupants. It was clear that hundreds of cycles had passed since any last step foot here, yet the smell of rot was overwhelming. Liadan retched and covered her face with the hem of her cloak after she entered. The thick stone jamb slid shut behind them with a resounding bang.

  Eógan was driven by the single-minded urge to escape, physically repulsed by the skeletons arrayed in the stacked nooks of the catacombs. Far less care had been taken to preserving the dignity of the dead, skulls were stacked together and bones collected in piles of impossible anatomy.

  “Quickly, the exit!” Liadan gestured towards a rectangular doorway on the far wall.

  The oppressive nature of this charnel house took precedence over Eógan’s sense of caution; there was no time to check for traps. Carrying the Jotling in both arms, he half ran, half blindly stumbled towards the large stone slab filling the doorway. With both hands full, he could not operate the now familiar levers to lift it. “Hurry!” he snapped at Liadan. His mind was a fugue of putrefaction, no longer able to reason.

  His companion staggered to the doorway, staring stupidly at the lever in front of her face. Eógan kicked at the door in frustration. Why were they still in this wretched place? What wrongs had they committed to be so cursed?

  Liadan lost consciousness for a moment, collapsing forward and serendipitously catching her balance on the lever in front of her. It lowered with a satisfying clunk, sending the pulleys into motion. A counterweight lowered from the ceiling and lifted the stone jamb with incremental precision. The rush of fresh air was a blessing, a gift that Eógan would never forget.

  His celebration was short-lived, the massive slab door stopped when it was halfway raised and began to descend.

  Liadan moved quickly, helping to guide Guillaume’s body beneath the jamb stone and ducking under it herself. Eógan widened his stance and turned his head to the side to travel beneath it. He was yanked backwards as he tried to pass beneath.

  “You clumsy fool!” Ronan howled. The spear strapped across his back had caught on the outer lip of the rapidly descending stone: he would be soon be crushed beneath it. Lacking the luxury of time, he dumped the Jotling’s body into Liadan’s arms and reluctantly launched himself back into the crypt. In his struggles, the straps of his pack had tangled with the staff of the spear.

  Immediately, the oppressive atmosphere within the tomb threatened to drown Eógan’s senses. Tears ran from his eyes as he gagged at the putrid stench. It would have been prudent to wait for the stone jamb to close and reactivate the lever, yet he was not one inclined to make an understated entrance. While Liadan called from the other side of the threshold, Eógan twisted his body and rolled forward, erratically wobbling due to the oversized pack on his back.

  The standing stone slid back into place with a reverberant boom.

  Eógan lay on his back, like a toppled turtle, greedily gulping down fresh air. Liadan threw herself upon him, pawing at his body and searching for injury.

  “Steal a kiss,” Ronan suggested.

  Quiet you, Eógan thought as he looked up at the concern that marked his companion’s face. “I am hale,” he assured her. “I need a moment to catch my breath.”

  Liadan smiled down at him and he was tempted to take Ronan’s advice. His indecision allowed the moment to pass. “Where are we?” she asked. She used the light emitting from her palm to illuminate the area around them.

  Large standing stones, once carefully placed, sagged into the ground askew. Smaller rocks had been stacked in a precise ring, creating what was once an open-aired courtyard. A more recent structure had been build atop the cairn: support beams and mortar formed a ceiling. A light breeze whistled through a shoulder-width gap at the far end of the circular clearing.

  “Wherever we are, I am grateful to all of the gods above and below that we are no longer in that vile crypt.” Eógan rocked back and forth, generating enough momentum to roll off of his back. He gathered up Guillaume’s limp body.

  Liadan edged towards the narrow exit, a corridor of stacked stones. “There are branching tunnels here, traveling beneath these walls in a souterrain.”

  “You sound like Guillaume,” Eógan groused. “What is a bloody souterrain?”

  She chuckled. “It is a tunnel beneath a stone wall, allowing for refuge or access to key defensive points. We may beneath a fort, or another kind of defensive structure.”

  Eógan could feel the faint breeze prickling the heightened senses that Skellum granted him. “Allow me to lead, I can get us out of here.”

  ———

  The warren of tunnels became a maze. After stumbling into a series of dead-ends, the deceptive wisps of fresh air led Eógan and Liadan into a dark expanse.

  “Stars! Eógan I see stars!” she exclaimed, clutching him in an embrace. She wrapped her arms from the side and across his body, as he held Guillaume.

  The release of the subtle weight of claustrophobic spaces was as jarring as the sudden sense of exposure he felt in such open terrain. Weeks underground had shaped his mind and body, it was unwieldy to exist outside of those confines. How he had missed trees, the rhythmic breath of grass, the songs of birds. He could see none of those in the deepness of night, yet the twinkling of the stars overhead was beautiful enough to make him weep.

  Liadan held her body tightly against his side, trembling. Whether it was from their travails or the chill of the air, he leaned his body closer to share what comfort he could offer. She looked up, her face softening as she registered the emotion on his face. She kissed him.

  Eógan was too surprised to reciprocate and stood there awkwardly, until she broke away. “I…”

  “There is no need to say anything,” she said, with her back turned. “I am excited to be home.” He could sense her beaming smile without seeing it. “We should find a safe place to sleep.”

  Liadan’s suggestion caused a wave of exhaustion to crash on top of Eógan, draining slowly through his toes. It was impossible to know how little they had slept in the past few days, given their pursuit by ninjas and the lack of a diurnal cycle deep underground.

  He looked up at the tall stone walls above them, the edge of a tower peered down. There were no signs of guards, the only indication of occupancy was the flickering light of a torch or candle in one of the arrow slights of the tower. “Shall we find the entrance to this fort and see if they would admit a few guests?”

  She followed his gaze, nodding. “Do we follow the curve to the left or the right?”

  Eógan’s smirk matched her cheeky smile. “You already know the answer to that.”

  ———

  The stout wall formed a circumference that was longer than many of the small forts that bordered the land between the Gaídel and the True Folk. The imposing nature of the fortification was undermined by the absence of any sentries.

  Eógan and Liadan trudged along the grass, which was barren of tress and close cropped by livestock. After nearly an entire revolution around the wall, he stopped in his tracks to listen. Drunken song drifted from the distance, baritone and boisterous.

  “What is that?” Liadan whispered.

  He listened closely, struggling to discern words. He was struck simultaneously by a sense of familiarity and dread: the song was Allmál, the language of the Giantkin.