Chapter 9: Crossing the Plains

From the Fiery Mountain to Breshlech Mór was a two-day ride over more or less flat plains. Bee had never been in the tower. She’d passed it many times on her way to the Point of Death, the entrance into Tartarus where An Dagda imprisoned the Giant and his demon horde. For as far back as she could remember, the tower of Breshlech had been abandoned to its shades. The stories told of the tower’s last stand, when the Fomorii opposed An Dagda’s invaders, and how the besieged warriors had refused to yield. Left with no choice, they’d taken to eating their dead before the end. The food was gone; the animals—dogs, cats, horses, even the tower rats—had not been spared. The tales said it took a full moon cycle before the besiegers realized that the last defender had died. When they broke into the tower through the undefended gate, the evidence of what happened was everywhere, gory in the gruesomeness of its detail. The legends claimed that many lost their guts’ contents at the foetid stench once they made it inside. They also said that eating the meat of their own poisoned those who did it, which was the whole garrison.

Bee had no idea whether the tales held any truth. She supposed that if Ochall’s words were in any way accurate and Myddrin was in command of an army of the dead—an army he’d risen using his new talents as a necromancer—there couldn’t also be truth in the tower’s legends. Not unless there was an army of the half-eaten occupying the tower. She nearly laughed at the image of an army of warriors full of teeth marks. And, of course, there would be rancor between those who did the eating and those who were the meal. At that thought, she couldn’t suppress the short bark of laughter.

“I’m glad someone is in a good mood,” Dornálaí said.

“Ignore me. I think I’m a little shook, so I am.”

“I understand why you might be. It has been a trying few days. Come. The sooner we get started, the sooner we will be there.” Bee nodded and swung up onto her horse. She said nothing, but clucked her tongue and used her reins to steer the mount eastwards towards the rising sun.

The sun was only midway to its zenith when they caught sight of the tower. Although it was still several leagues distant, the plains between the foothills of the Western Wall and the solitary mountain where Breshlech stood were as near to flat as made no difference. Shading her eyes, Bee could see the broken toothed tower’s silhouette on the distant horizon. Even so far, it caused a shiver to run up her spine.

“Not a pretty sight, even so far,” Dornálaí said, scratching his cabbage-like ear, his mouth twisted in a half-grin, half-grimace.

What is the meaning of that expression? Bee wondered.

“Have ye been in there?”

“Not since the fall.”

“The fall. Ye were one of the besiegers?”

“I was the captain, to my bitter shame.”

Bee wondered about the enigma that was the ring fighter riding beside her. His expression was so full of sadness that she was almost ready to believe he wasn’t one of her many enemies. Almost. It was far too soon after she’d convinced herself that he was an enemy for her to change her mind.

“Why shame?”

“I always thought we could have done more…” he trailed off, his eyes staring into the distant past.

“Are the legends true, so?”

“Mostly.”

“Eating the flesh of their comrades poisoned them?”

Dornálaí shrugged. By the shape his face assumed after the shrug, Bee surmised he didn’t want to talk about it. Turning to the front, she stared at the distant tower and wondered what would happen when they arrived. Despite appearing to be sane, Ochall had also seemed to be one who would believe anything anyone told him. He’d begun the construction of a wall to hide his kingdom away because his old ancestor, Balor, was seeking help. The King was like a hare caught in a shadow from some winged predator. Perhaps it was fear for the safety of his people that made him so, but she thought a little backbone would not be amiss in a man who ruled a kingdom. Often, the trick of a good leader was knowing when to act and when to shy away.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Dornálaí surprised her when he said, “Whatever the truth, the tower was full of stinking, half-eaten corpses. The stench was not just one of putrefaction. It was the stench of evil, and my Tuatha warriors were not ready for it.”

“You consider the Fomorii to be evil?” Bee asked, unable to stop an eyebrow from hiking. The original natives of the Five Kingdoms were similar to the Tuatha in that they had two arms and legs and walked upright, but they were brutish, with little intelligence, beings well suited to mindless armies, used in the brunt of an attack. For her, evil by its very nature required more intelligence than the Fomorii possessed. Could a cave bear be considered evil because it killed without compunction?

“No. Not the Fomorii. Whatever was behind them.”

“Behind them? What does that mean?”

“Do you know why humans are here?” Dornálaí asked, watching Bee from the corner of an eye that seemed to be mocking her lack of knowledge.

“An Dagda brought them here to populate his new world.”

“In part, that is true. Mostly, though, he brought them here to use in the fight against the Giant and his demon horde—”

“I thought he created Partholon and the horde to scourge the humans,” Bee interrupted.

“That is the story he likes to promote. The truth is, he brought the humans here because he needed a species that would be impossible to stop. Humans are like roaches. Once they gain a foothold, they are almost impossible to stamp out. And they will not cease until they have destroyed all in their path.”

“But what about the scourge?”

“The Giant is immortal. An Dagda cannot kill it; even the humans cannot kill it. Therefore, he created Tartarus and Neit’s Maidens to keep the monster in check. Every now and again, the horde escapes, aided by The Four. Each time they escape, you witches and Neit’s Maidens force them back into their prison. Once under The Point of Death, Partholon begins rebuilding his horde and his power. It is a cycle that has become never-ending, of course. A circle has no start and no end.”

“That goes against everything I’ve been taught, so it does.” Uttering the words brought it home to Bee just how much Dornálaí was asking her to accept. He was throwing doubt on everything she considered sacrosanct, even on her reason for being.

“It is a lot to take in, I know,” he said with a firm nod, as if he was emphasizing his understanding of her lack of acceptance.

He is either very wily, or I have been made a fool of by the one I respect the most.

The thought did nothing to improve Bee’s mood. She found herself in a black or white quandary, and neither one nor the other filled her with confidence. With no gray to fall back on, left black: in the company of a wily enemy, or white: betrayed by her mentor and—she hoped—friend.

“Look, with all this talk, the time has flown by,” Dornálaí said.

He was not wrong. The sun had already set, and the shadows were lengthening. It would soon be dark.

“I’m ready for sleep, so I am,” Bee said, drawing rein and swinging down from her horse. She didn’t wait to see if her companion was of like mind. In truth, she didn’t care.

It wasn’t long before she had a fire going and her cauldron bubbling with oats and dried meat, giving off aromas that made her juices start to flow. One of the things Bee liked most about long travels was sitting beside a fire with a bowl of something warm and filling, and maybe a cup of mead or ale.

“I am still not sure this is a good idea,” Dornálaí said after they finished eating. He was watching her over the lip of his bowl.

Bee shrugged, still not sure whether she cared what he thought. She had no intention of sitting in a cold camp dreaming of oats and dried meat when the tower was still the best part of a day’s ride away. Even if there was someone in the tower and they saw the fire, it would take them the whole night to reach it. No commander worth the name would send his warriors the best part of ten leagues because he saw a distant fire. It was also possible, or maybe even likely, that there was no one in the tower. The more Bee thought about it, the more she became convinced that Myddrin as a necromancer was something of nothing. The éigeas had a reputation as someone not to cross, but he was also meant to be trustworthy: a true Tuatha. Somehow, Bee could not see him turning to necromancy; it just didn’t make any sense.

“Well, ye can mount a watch. I’m going to sleep.”

Dornálaí said nothing but continued to watch her over the top of his bowl. She couldn’t decide what the new look in his eyes signified, but she had to admit that she didn’t like it. It was almost like a sneer.

***

Bee supposed it was the stench that woke her, although it could have been the grunting communication between her assailants. Whatever it was, when she came awake, she realized her conviction that there would not be any risk from lighting a fire had been wrong. As the grunting monstrosities visible in the half light trussed her like a bird for the Beltaine feast, she realized she had started the fire because Dornálaí told her it would not be a good idea. Thoughts of the ring fighter forced her to look around, desperate to catch his eye and show an apology for getting him into this scrape, but try as she might, Bee could not see him. It was true, there was much confusion around the camp, and she might miss him, but she didn’t think so. She thought he had probably abandoned her on the plains as revenge for not accepting his advice.

Damn him to Tech Duinn, she thought as one of the stinking monsters pulled a bag over her head. Amidst more grunting, she felt herself lifted and tossed onto the back of a horse.