Chapter 10: Myrddin

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 Dornálaí 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 had never had to endure before: a combination of putrefaction and ordure, mixed with a pile of wolfhound vomit. She thought she understood what Dornálaí had meant when he described Breshlech Mór’s stink.

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 what about The Smith?

When the troop halted and left her trussed where she was, 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 else could they be? she asked herself silently. That was the golden question. Who else would have kidnapped 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.

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 the necromancer 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 gray 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 Fomorii with bite marks and rancor? She had her doubts.

Aside from the identity of her captors, Bee continued to wonder about Dornálaí. 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 his quest? The one thing he’d said that she had no trouble believing was that he was searching for the weapon of power that Bren was supposed to know about. That her brother knew little about anything made her wonder what the so-called God was really after. An Dagda said she was to prevent her brother from reaching the éigeas, but without an explanation. Could she believe what Dornálaí 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.

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 behavior 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. She saw flecks of rust falling from the iron as the points still 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.

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 the holes in her mask was darkness and deep shadows. However, soon after reaching the top of the stairs, 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 with an aging graybeard lounging in it as if he was the family’s prodigal son returned to cause mischief.

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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.

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. He has brought back the dead.

Bee had not met the Tuatha sage, but what she knew about him—that he was an old and respected wiseman—was belied by what was lounging in the throne with one leg casually tossed over an arm. He was supposed to be one of the leading powers in the Druidic Elder Council. Something about the image didn’t sit well with Bee.

“So, éigeas, it’s true,” she said. “Ye’ve raised an army of half-eaten, dead Fomorii.”

“Yes. Impressive, are they not?” he asked, watching her from under lidded eyes.

“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. Another worry that touched Bee was the chances she might have of surviving an encounter with him. But then, was there really any question? The graybeard had raised an army of dead monsters; of course, he was moon-touched.

Bee had to get away and tried testing the knots of her bound hands. They felt like leather, and she thought she might be able to break them with draíocht, and she began to probe them with her mind.

“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 Ogham inscriptions. You cannot call draíocht while your hands are tied. I told the snatchers to stick a bag on your head because I was afraid they would forget to use the leather I gave them. Putting the thongs in the bag seemed the best way to reinforce the importance of using them.”

“Ye know who I am?”

“Of course I know you. You are famous, Bee. The witch who drives us back underground when the need arises.” Us? What does he mean, us? “You and that monster Bairrfind. The Whitehead and her Neit’s Maidens are cruel beyond belief.”

“I’m confused, so I am. Are you not Myrddin of the Elder Council?”

“This is Myrddin,” he said, waving a hand over his torso dismissively. “I am Árchú of The Four. I took the old bundún when he was delving too deep into the arena under The Point of Death. In his case, curiosity 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 Árchú free of Tartarus 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.

“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 Brenós 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 instructions for the sage. Myrddin was supposed to seek out and defend Lia Fail—”

“The Stone of Destiny.”

“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 did not ward her, Bee wouldn’t stand a chance against one of The Four if they were at full strength. That Árchú had enough power to possess the sage meant he would destroy her without even leaving the throne.

“When he arrived, your brother became suspicious and refused to tell me where the stone 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. “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.

“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, sure it was not in any way sorry. “Take her to the dungeons.”