“Do it then,” Bee hissed, while thinking, And ye’d better pray that it works, rebel. Either way, there won’t be any more emotional support between us.

  Nodding, the rebel closed his eyes and tilted his head up to the vaulted ceiling, pressing his thumbs into the temples more firmly. After several moments, he started to speak in a droning, toneless monologue that would have caused a lynching if he were to try storytelling as a sideline.

  “Put a bit of life into it,” she hissed, too quietly to be heard, before frowning at herself, realising the rebel was not telling this tale as entertainment; it was because they needed answers. The best place to get them was from the thoughts of the mad druid, however boring listening to the rebel might be.

  Or however treacherous the rebel might be.

  “Night was coming when the druid first saw the Bull’s Head stronghold—”

  “We already know he was at the rock,” Bee interrupted. “What we need to know is why.”

  “If you keep interrupting, we’ll never finish. Each time I break to answer a question, I have to remake the connection.”

  “Sorry. I’ll keep me own counsel, so I will.”

  “Anyway, he spent a lot of time gazing at the rock. Afraid, I’d say. You know better than me how daunting it can be.”

  “Aye, I do. That said, Rebel, we don’t need the commentary. Stick to the narrative.”

  “You promised,” Ruirech hissed. Bee nodded. Rhiannon tutted and turned her back, walking to the high arched window through which the demon’s spirit had flown. She guessed her mother was tiring of the friction between them and couldn’t blame her. If it annoyed Bee, it must be annoying others.

  “So, he stood gazing at the rock…”

  ***

  …shaped like a bull’s head. His mare skittered and whinnied, probably picking up on his racing heart. He might be young—not much over one hundred summers—and a mad fool: the other druids call him Myrddin Wyllt, Myrddin the Wild, but mad and wild he knew enough to be afraid.

  “You are right to be nervous,” he said, patting the animal’s neck. “It is a frightening place.”

  The rock was still half a league distant, but he could feel its oppression even so. Although he lived not far away—on another claw of Crub Ghe peninsular—Myrddin had never seen the entrance to Tech Duinn, preferring his tranquil home and herb garden at Sceine’s Cove. A safe place where he could grow herbs and talk to chickens and rabbits. He stayed away from the rock because of the rumours. Most especially the one about the existence of an arena from where someone with the power could open the portal to Dhuosnos’s world.

  “Why are you here?” he asked himself yet again, despite knowing the answer. The words of the Goddess had tempted him here. Myrddin was almost sure that those words were nothing but an elaborate ploy. Almost. Perhaps if he’d been fully sane, he wouldn’t have fallen for the schemes. The Goddess was renowned for subtlety and scheming and dragging the unwary onto an early pyre. But he could also see why she chose to tell him. Despite running the odd errand for her because it amused him to let the Goddess believe she was in control; he was also ostracised by his peers. This time it was different. It wasn’t an errand but something he might benefit from. If Dagda had truly hidden Lia Fáil under the arena, and Myrddin uncovered it, he would be unstoppable and no longer at the whim of capricious Gods and arrogant elders, who laughed at his grubby attire and fondness for solitude; elders who said being one with his surroundings was madness.

  Well, no more.

  They would all bend their knees to him, for once. They would sing his praise, and he would make them beg for his favours. With all that said, the moody black, red, and grey clouds over the headland were not helping his resolve. Instead, they were reinforcing the place’s menace, discouraging any visitors. Myrddin felt Dhuosnos’s malice in the sky above the rock, which was far more presence than he’d expected.

  “Fool! It’s in your head. All in your head,” he said, punching his forehead with a closed fist. “There’s nothing to fear here.”

  Myrddin didn’t move from the rise. Instead, he said, “The Four are said to be here.” And there was no question that they were to be feared. Anyone who said Dhuosnos’s inner circle didn’t scare them was either lying or a fool.

  The Four are faerie stories. Do you believe in children’s tales now? Think of the power in destiny’s stone. Think how you will bake them suffer. The Goddess told him that Dagda had hidden the stone under the Bull’s Head, in a secret space beneath the throne—the throne of some long dead king.

  But where does the oppression come from? he wondered, pulling his fingers through his long beard, getting some small solace from the age-old tic. And what are her motives?

  It wasn’t only her motives making him wary. There were also Dagda’s motives for hiding it under the Bull’s Head. On the one hand, leaving the stone so close to the Lord of Darkness could be considered extremely foolish. However, it might also be considered a genius stratagem. Who would ever think to look in evil’s realm for Dagda’s greatest treasure? But would Dagda take the risk, unless he knew the legends to be untrue, and, therefore, just a deterrent, logic argued? Myrddin had heard tales of the Scourges, and how the demons were herded back under the rock when they failed. He was nigh convinced they were the fanciful notions of a race prone to telling stories around a night’s fire.

  There is only one way to discover the truth.

  Shaking his head, the druid nudged his horse into motion and rode down the hill. Reaching the level ground before the tunnel, he saw a rail fastened into the rock of the bull’s cheek and wondered why it was there. Dismounting and tying his horse’s reins to it, he remembered hearing that some long-dead king dug his fortress out of the solid rock only to discover the arena and the portal hidden beneath.

  Even if the legends are untrue, which man of sane mind would dig in such a menacing place?

  “Come, get yourself into this arena,” he said, punching his thighs none too gently, his logic still telling him he’d no reason to be afraid, because even if real, the demons would be secure in their prison. According to legend, the power needed to get the portal open was far greater than any he possessed, and no one else was insane enough to be here. Despite his logical mind—the mind of one trained in the Druidic arts—his fear meant intellect took a lowly second place to instinct, which was telling him to run. Run and don’t stop until you get back to your roundhouse and herbs.

  Myrddin shook his head and laughed at his weakness, which made him frown. Where he would have expected the laugh to echo through the tunnels, there was nothing. Tugging on his beard, he stared at the black hole. It showed no invitation. The tales—fanciful or not—told how Whitehead’s warriors needed burning whips to drive the demons through it, and it came as no surprise. Gazing at the hole, he shuddered. It repulsed any light, and it certainly repulsed him. There was no sound, not even the drip he would expect from caves and tunnels, especially the eerie ones. There were no low moans or high shrieks of the wind in chimneys and crevices. It was just nothingness. Darkness. Emptiness. And fear.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Are you afraid of the dark?” he taunted himself. “Think of the power,” he told the rockface, before plunging into the black.

  He was surprised to find that the tunnel was spacious and well-lit, in contrast to the entrance. Seeing the sconces lining the tunnel walls, he realised some shield stopped the light from breaching the hole; perhaps the same magic that kept the torches burning. There was no dripping, because the walls were dry. A broad set of stone stairs led down into the rock’s core.

  Despite recognising the spacious and well-lit tunnel as a warning, the druid ignored his logic. Once again punching his thighs, he started down. Reaching the bottom stair, he saw a long corridor with tunnels heading left and right. The corridor ended at a tall archway. Grotesque beasts carved into the columns were so lifelike, they appeared to have been frozen in the act of writhing towards the arch’s apex.

  The druid held his breath as he edged down the corridor and under the archway, where he came to a stop. As soon as his eyes adjusted to the light, what he saw made him exhale in a rush of pent-up energy.

  “So, the Arena is real, at least,” he whispered into the gloom.

  The room was a hexagon with a high, vaulted ceiling. Columns like those at the entrance joined each of the walls, their lifelike demons writhing up and joining at the arena’s apex. Each wall had been constructed of some dark material that soaked in the light, seeming to be at battle with the room’s torches. Aside from the entrance where he stood, there were doors in four of the walls. Either side of each doorway, sconces held braziers emitting enough light to see by, but not enough to win the battle and diminish the Arena’s gloominess. Someone had carved a channel shaped like a pentagram into the floor, its northern point aimed at the dais. Someone or something, he thought. The channel’s sides were smooth as if eroded by aeons of liquid running through the grooves. A dais with a massive throne of black stone stood directly opposite him. The Goddess told him that the catch to open the secret space where Dagda was supposed to have hidden Lia Fáil was in one of the gargoyles carved in the front of the throne’s arms.

  Myrddin stood at the entrance for many moments, building the courage to walk into the arena. As he stood there, he felt that the monsters carved in the arches were watching him. Laughing. Disdaining his frailty. He was not usually one easily intimidated or frightened, but this time it came on him as soon as he saw the rock, and it was welcome. Fear encouraged caution, which he considered a wise approach.

  Unable to stand the eyes any longer, the druid edged into the room.

  He dared not cross the pentagram, so he walked around it. As he passed the first archway, a coldness came from within. The cold clamped his lungs so tightly it was difficult to breathe, making him feel like he’d fallen through the ice on a frozen lake. The same sensation flooded over him as he passed the second arch.

  When he reached the dais, the throne seemed to be throbbing, warning him to stay away. Screaming at him to run. Run, you fool! But he could not. He’d come too far. Soon, he would be the most powerful druid in the Fae Realm. Surely, that promise was enough to keep him there. He tried to smile and call himself a fool but found he didn’t have the energy. Suddenly tired, he climbed onto the dais and sat on the throne.

  The change in the arena was immediate.

  Where iciness and silence had prevailed moments before, a hot wind rushed into the room with a whoosh. Dust whorls spun a frantic dance around the pentagram, stinging his face and the backs of his hands. Rubbing his eyes, he stopped when something spoke from the archway to his left.

  “You dare to sit in the Master’s seat?” The coldness seeping from the archways he passed had been chilling, but it was nothing compared to the voice.

  Turning, Myrddin saw an apparition standing in the arch. No, not standing, he amended. Floating. Despite being insubstantial, gossamer almost, he knew who it was.

  “Archu,” he whispered. So, the Four are also real, he allowed. Everything must be true.

  The demon bowed its head slightly. “You did not answer my question, human.”

  “I am not human, I am a druid,” Myrddin hissed, even though aware he was in deadly peril.

  “Druid or human makes no odds. Why are you here?”

  The druid didn’t know what to say. He knew he couldn’t admit he was after the Stone of Destiny. If the demon learnt that Lia Fáil was under him, it would kill Myrddin out of hand and recover the stone for its master.

  Eventually, he said, “Curiosity.”

  “Then you should know. The penalty for curiosity is death.”

  The druid watched the demon’s face, looking for the change that would precede any movement. The skin was glowing like the embers of a smith’s fire, giving off neither light nor heat. The eyes were pulsing like burning charcoal under the bellows. There was a red ruby in a strap on its forehead. Over the ruby, the demon wore a tall, black, shiny, and strangely shaped hat with a brim. It was a peculiar affectation for a servant of Dhuosnos, and the druid wondered where he got it.

  The demon remained under the arch, watching him, just as the druid watched it, like a strange mirror, as though they were frozen in time. If not for the grin on Archu’s face and the glowing eyes, he might have thought the demon was sleeping.

  Do something, Myrddin hissed to himself, which galvanised him. Without taking his eyes off the apparition, he darted for the arch to the stairway and freedom. The gossamer form of Archu disappeared from its archway and reappeared at the exit, blocking any escape. Although not of substance, the demon took hold of the druid’s wrist, and he felt his flesh burn. Despite the flames, the burning was from cold and not heat, deep through to the core of his bones. It seemed to be worming its way into his inner being, freezing everything as it delved.

  Myrddin screamed.

  The demon laughed with a cackling, insane pitch. It was not long before the freezing intensity caused the druid to sag into a blackness so profound that Myrddin knew he would never escape it.

  ***

  “The last thing the druid saw as darkness engulfed him was the demon’s flaming eyes and a ruby so red it reminded him of blood.”

  Finishing the story, Ruirech rubbed his face vigorously. Bee read a profound tiredness in his heavily lidded eyes and surmised that gnostic touch took as much out of the rebel as draíocht took out of her.

  Good.

  “I’d heard he was a bit mad and wouldn’t make the council,” Bee mused. “I didn’t know the others called him Wllyt.”

  “Yes. If that is a true telling,” Rhiannon added, “then he is not the brightest ember in the forge, which is probably why she chose him.”

  “Do ye think Lia Fáil is really under the rock?” Bee asked.

  “No. The Goddess invented it to get this mad excuse for a druid into the arena,” her mother said. “She even convinced him that running errands for her was his idea. Fool. His possession by Archu was planned, as was raising the dead Fomorii warriors. There would be a much greater chance of success with the demon’s spirit in the Kingdoms, even if it was in another’s body.”

  “And yet, they failed,” Ruirech said.

  “The dead army was far less of a threat than they believed,” Bee mused. “Ye think Credne was in it from the beginning?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. I think the dagger and the compass came later. They have changed their plans to suit that change. I would say whoever stole them intends to get them to Dhuosnos in Tech Duinn.”

  “How?” Bee asked.

  “I do not know,” Rhiannon said.

  “So, Rebel, who do you think the Goddess is?” Bee asked, without looking at him.

  Ruirech shrugged and shook his head. “He only ever thought of her as ‘the Goddess’ and never put a name to her.”

  “I think we can safely say that the Goddess is Morrigan,” Rhiannon said. “We can also assume that she is in the arena, and it was she who lured your brother there.”

  “So, what do we do now?” Ruirech asked.

  “You, Human, should return to your base in the Great Forest. You will be of little use where we are going.”

  “I am coming with you. I don’t care how much use I’ll be.”

  Bee turned to him and said, “We won’t need ye, Rebel. Ye’ve already done too much.”

  “I’m coming.”