Bee had no idea how long they marched, because battling the need to puke up the oats and meat she’d eaten while gloating at Dorn kept her occupied. Even though she was swaying back and forth, it wasn’t the horse’s rocking gait making her nauseous, but the stench of those surrounding her, which was something Bee’d never had to endure before: a combination of putrefaction and ordure, mixed with a pile of wolfhound vomit. She thought she understood what Dorn had meant when he described Breshlech’s stink, and how his army of human warriors had been unable to stop from puking.
As they were riding across the plains, she’d been worried about how they could get into the tower. Now, slumped across the back of a horse, she was sure her entrance was guaranteed.
But where’s Dorn? she asked herself again. The more she wondered about it, the more she was convinced that he’d abandoned her.
When the troop halted and left her trussed on the back of the horse, Bee lifted her head to try to catch a glimpse of where they were. All she could see was that night was nearing an end, the deep dark lightening slowly. For some reason she didn’t understand, Bee thought it would only be a short stop, confirmed when a horse screamed, which was followed by a snuffling and grunting that sounded like a herd of pigs at a trough. She couldn’t confirm her suspicions because the pigs were on the other side of the horse from her bagged head, but then she didn’t need confirmation. What they were doing was obvious.
Mealtime.
Despite the evidence provided by her nostrils, Bee now thought the stench couldn’t be caused by an army of half-eaten Fomorii, raised by a necromancer, because she doubted that the dead would need to eat. What had Dorn called it? The stench of evil.
What else could they be? she asked herself silently.
That was the golden question. Who else would have abducted her in the middle of South Kingdom’s rolling plains? Which meant they were bringing her to the fortress of the dead and Myrddin, the self-professed necromancer.
He’s meant to be a self-centred moron, she remembered. When Finn told her Myrddin was meant to be high up in the Druid Elder Council, she’d almost corrected him. First, he was too young, and second, he considered his standing in the Druidic Circle to be a punishment and not a rite of passage.
Now, he’s a necromancer? If Ochall’s telling is true, she reminded herself. But, she supposed, the possibility that a rogue group of stinking Fomorii had snatched her on the plains not being connected to whatever was happening in Donn’s Needle was just too coincidental.
Besides, the rough material of the hemp bag on her head did nothing to hide their course, much less protect her from the stench. All she needed to do was lift her head to see they were heading towards a horizon paling with the grey of the coming dawn. That they were Fomorii seemed likely. Putting a bag over her head for no apparent reason was something she thought they might do. But long dead warriors with bite marks and rancour? She had her doubts.
Aside from the identity of her captors, Bee continued to wonder about Dorn. What might have happened to him: did he run? Was he out there waiting for an opportunity, or as seemed more likely, had he abandoned Bee to her fate, laughing as he retreated to the Fiery Mountain? But then, why would he have come so far just to abandon her? The one thing he’d said that she had no trouble believing was that he was searching for Lia Fail. However, the part about Bren knowing the stone’s location was beyond fantastical. Her brother knew little about anything, which made her wonder what the so-called God was really after. Dagda said she was to prevent her brother from reaching the druid but without an explanation, and certainly no mention of the Stone of Destiny. Why would her Master confide such a secret to someone as untrustworthy as her brother? Could she believe what Dorn had said? She kept coming back to where he’d gone and why.
He’s gone because yer childish need to get the better of him was too much, she suddenly realised.
If her hands hadn’t been tied behind her back, Bee thought she might punch herself. How many summers had she been alive? Certainly long enough to know that infantile behaviour never won battles, be they real or figurative.
Sunlight bathed the grass below the horse’s hooves when she felt a rise pull her slightly towards the animal’s rump. Not enough to make her afraid of falling off, but enough for her to know they were going up. Lifting her head, she tried to get sight of the tower, but her position was again on the wrong side of the animal. The grunts of her snatchers became excited, as if they were glad to have returned to their home. A wailing screech caused Bee to grimace and wonder at the cause, until they passed through a gate with a portcullis. Through the sacking, she saw flecks of rust falling from the iron as the points rose into the dark recesses of the tower’s gatehouse. The screaming was the lament of an aging edifice that wanted nothing so much as to sleep after so many millennia.
We have much in common, so.
Inside the walls, the stench of putrefaction clawed at the back of Bee’s throat. She felt the need to puke much more acutely than she had on the plains. Rough hands pulled her from the back of the horse, and she was half-carried, half-dragged up a set of stairs that seemed to go on forever. Initially, all she could see through her mask was darkness and deep shadows. However, soon after the ground below her feet became flat, she heard a door swing open on hinges that squealed almost as much as the portcullis, and the holes in her bag revealed a large room with shadows dancing in orange light. One of her guards pulled the bag off her head, and Bee found herself at the foot of a dais with a throne upon which sat an aging greybeard lounging in it as if he was the family’s prodigal son returned to cause mischief.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
Something’s wrong with this scene.
Bee couldn’t help a shiver running up her spine. There was an oppressiveness in the room, as if the air was mostly water, and breathing it was a physical chore. She felt a pressure between her eyes, enough to bring her to the point of a headache.
And again, that stench. It’s not just ancient putrefaction.
Grunts and snuffles caused her to gaze around at the host within the room. What she saw shocked her. Skeletal warriors, dressed in war gear, most of the flesh missing, but enough hanging off to provide monstrous drapes for the misshapen bones of a dead army. She didn’t understand where the stink came from, because there was no rotting flesh, or not much, anyway, to account for it. Bee almost laughed at the idea that they would be full of bite marks. Of course, the days when any marks would show had long since passed.
So, Ochall’s words were true. Myrddin has brought back the dead.
Bee had not met the druid, but what she knew about him, that he was a nervous youth with no confidence, was belied by what was lounging on the throne with one leg casually tossed over an arm. Something about the confidence of the druid on the throne didn’t sit well with her.
Maybe he’s much stronger than his reputation.
“So, Druid, it’s true,” she said. “Ye’ve raised an army of half-eaten, dead Fomorii warriors.”
“Yes. Impressive, are they not?” he asked, watching her from under lidded eyes. The words were not like what she would have expected from a self-conscious druid.
“Why did they stop and eat the horse?” she wondered aloud. “They’ve no stomachs.”
“Force of habit, I think,” Myrddin said and then howled a laugh that caused her neck hairs to tingle violently. When he howled, he opened his eyes wide, and she caught a flash of something. Was that flames? It was gone almost as quickly as it had arrived, and she passed it off as tiredness. He continued to laugh for several moments, and Bee felt sweat break out in her underarms and the creases of her forehead.
Is he touched by Rhiannon? Is that why he’s doing it?
If he were moon-blessed, he would not be the first one to lose their sanity because they held a position of trust, power, some might say. But then, was there really any question? The greybeard had raised an army of dead monsters; of course, he was moon-touched. More than just moon-touched she wondered if he might be one of Rhiannon’s pets, an honorary wolf.
He might kill me on a whim.
Bee had to get away and tried testing the knots of her bound hands. They felt like leather, which she could easily break with draíocht, and she began to probe the bonds with her mind, searching for the inevitable weakness.
“You waste your time,” Myrddin said.
“Waste me time, how?”
“I can feel you trying to tap the power, Bechuille. I warded your bonds with glyphs. You cannot call draíocht while your hands are tied. I told the snatchers to stick a bag on your head because I was afraid that they would forget to use the leather. Putting the thongs in the bag seemed the best way to reinforce their importance.”
“Ye know who I am?”
“Of course I know you. You are famous, Bee. The witch who raises a shield so the Maidens can drive us back underground when the need arises.” Us? What does he mean, us? “You and that coven behind you. And then there is Whitehead and her Neit’s Maidens, who are cruel beyond belief. And they say we are evil,” he scoffed.
“I’m confused, so I am. Are you not Myrddin the druid?”
“This is Myrddin,” he said, waving a hand over his torso dismissively. “I am Archu of The Four. I took the old bundún when he was delving too deep in the arena under The Bull’s Head. I have heard tell that curiosity can be fatal. In the druid’s case, it turned him into a vessel rather than a corpse.” The demon laughed again.
The words as much as the cackling caused the prickling of sweat beads to spread over Bee’s body. To have Archu free of Tech Duinn so soon after the last scourge implied that another was imminent. Finn told her the Scourge had been three hundred summers before, but three hundred summers was nowhere near enough time for a full recovery. Her scar was still itching, for Tuatha’s sake.
Oh, Mother, give me strength, she prayed.
“Why are ye here, creating all this?” she asked, waving at their monstrous companions, trying to show a nonchalance she didn’t feel.
Ignoring the question, the demon said, “I have Brenos in the dungeons. He’s proving less than reliable.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Bee asked. “Reliable in what sense?”
“Danu sent him with a scroll for the sage. Myrddin was supposed to seek out and defend Lia Fail—”
“The Stone of Destiny.” It was Danu, not Dagda. No, it can’t be. Only the Master knows where he hid it.
“Do not interrupt me, witch,” the demon hissed. She saw the flames behind its eyes again, and her heart began to palpitate. Even if leather bonds weren’t warding her, Bee wouldn’t stand a chance against one of The Four if they were at full strength. Not without her coven and the Maidens. That Archu had enough power to possess the hapless druid meant he could destroy her without even leaving the throne.
“According to the scroll, your brother knows the stone’s location. When he arrived, he became suspicious and refused to tell me where it is. He has since been in the dungeons, where the jailer has been encouraging him to divulge the information. Do you know where the stone is?”
“No. I didn’t even know anyone had found it until just now. That’s if yer telling the truth, so it is.”
“Why would I lie?” the demon asked, staring at her with eyes she thought could bore holes through her flesh. “As you have no doubt guessed, I would kill you now, except as soon as we get the stone, we will need a witch to open the bridge, and I fear your brother won’t last that long.”
“What do you mean?” Bee asked, half whispering. They will also need a summoner.
The demon misunderstood her question, thinking she was worried about her brother.
“The questioning has been severe. I am sorry to say the jailer can be a little zealous at the best of times.” Bee frowned at the demon; more than sure it was not in any way sorry. “Take her to the dungeons.”
