The pit thereafter remained closely watched and surrounded, but no longer was the crowd any thicker than a row and a half of nervous novices. Over time, more and more of the company went to taking a shift with a cup of warm tea but as the day came close to reaching its end, greater portions of the guard had migrated to the auxiliary crowd where supper was now being distributed. Even though the scents warmed flatbread and cups of water made into a vague soup by means of a scoop of fat wafted throughout the clearing, reaching even those who stood above the unholy hole, the men had not been away from town so long that their anxieties would be lifted by such a delicacy.
“We ought to get a move on,” Nían whispered to Creich, who had not left his kneeling stance at the edge of the pit since his previous order, some time ago. The chieftain sat in defeat, but his head did not yet hang low.
“It must be a trap,” he sighed. “It just seems too simple.”
“To delve in and rescue Rhíad?” Brocc asked.
The chieftain narrowed his eyes. “To rush in recklessly...To send my men to senseless death...To throw away my thoughts in the belief that I can save her.” When Creich had sent Brocc’s squad to a brief respite, he had thought he had done so in an attempt to raise the spirits pf the men. As he knelt and muttered out pleas into the darkness, he found that he rather appreciated the reduced number of his men that witnessed his desperation. He shook, he growled, he whispered, he whimpered, and as time went on, fewer saw and even more fear entered his voice.
“All the same,” Nían went on, “I like not the thought of us staying here throughout the night. I can see the fear in the eyes of our men. The sun makes his final path to the valleys of the west, and the influence of the Ghlaírí lives in darkness, whether or not it truly lurks in those obscuring shadows. If we stand a chance of storming the cave now, there is no guarantee such a chance will still exist upon the coming of the dark. Fear is the shield of the Ghlaírí, and dread is its spear. The night will bring both in forces a thousand times greater than the squads we have brought.”
Creich gave a smirk without a smile, then looked back to the second captain. The great man stood tall enough that he needed to push his neck back up in order to look him in the eye. Nían gave a morose look to him in return, and bent to put his three-fingered hand upon the chieftain’s shoulder. Crippled and wounded though he was, he still felt every shake and shudder that Creich gave in the suppressed panic he had been in all day.
“Have a rest, chief,” Nían said, “We will stand here in your stead. There’s no advantage over the Ghlaírí you’ll have if you are sleepless and without refreshment.”
The chieftain did not wish at all to leave his post from where he had issued his challenge to the terrible creature that lurked below, but resolve and devotion, however strong they may be, cannot eliminate the needs of the body. With a downwards glance and a subdued resignation, Creich bent his aching legs to stand, grabbing hold of the hands the captains offered in assistance. He looked around at the glade beneath the reddening sky, at the half-glances every man took in the direction of the cave, at the uneasy expressions upon their faces, at the fear of the coming night that seeped throughout the air like fog.
“Only for a short while,” he conceded, “I wouldn’t wish for my own senses to be dulled by lack of food or drink or rest, but if any kind of answer rises up from this awful maw, I could not risk a long break that I might miss it.” Giving a final look back at the depths, Creich heaved a sigh and turned to the sites where the fires had been built. Rómeas and Nían motioned him that they would remain at the maw while Brocc tapped his back in comfort.
Just as Creich began his first step away from the cave, he was suddenly stopped before he could move even so much as a hand span. His eyes widened and his ears perked, for not a moment out of place, as though made in direct response to his action of departure, came a sound from behind and below, from the maw and from the void. Low and yet shrill, rough and yet silken, amused and yet vicious, a rhythm of slow laughter rang up to Chief Creich. Not once did it echo, even within the cave itself, as even when the dreadful noise rose to sting at the ears of those who surrounded the pit, the sound was as clear and close as if it had been whispered from just behind. Despite the quiet and distant origin, the whole glade was suddenly pulled to silence, and all spun their heads to look at whatever had created the awful giddiness.
Creich whirled about and flung himself back to his knees, gripping at the dead grass about the rim of the pit. “Show yourself coward!” he screamed in a response of his own. Several more threats he sent down into the shadows, and yet the laughter did not continue in turn. With a growl of frustration, the chieftain sprung to his feet and made for the carts of treasures. One by one, he pulled trinket and bauble, coin and candle, ring and rod from the bundles. One by one, he flung them down into the hole. One by one, the shining tribute bounced off of the dead grass and filthy stone of the cave floor and disappeared into the shadow of the tunnels.
The company watched in shock as Creich repeated his earlier challenge with a renewed vigor of frenzied rage, delivering valuable treasure with curse and fury. Many put down their supper and took up their arms once more, cautiously returning to their ranks around the hole. Even in his frantic shaking, Creich noticed the coming of his men.
“Well?” He shouted at them, pausing in his assault for the first time, “Don’t simply stand there! Give the Ghlaírí what it desires! If gold is what is needed, then gold it shall have! Throw! Throw!”
It was some moments before those around him joined in the delivery, and none did it with even a portion of the passion that Creich exhibited. Even when a young man held a plate worth more than what he earned in a season, he still looked in confusion and unease at those around him, and the expression was returned in ample supply. Sure enough, the company all partook of the act of throwing treasures into the pit, and easy opportunity though it might have been, the scene was far too much for even the more dishonest of the crowd to think to let a coin or bracelet accidentally fall into his sleeve.
Gold and jewels rained down as droplets in a waterfall through which the evening sun dances. Evening twilight glimmered off in thousands of tiny stars, appearing for only a moment when the sun reflected perfectly in the cast and polished surfaces. Only for a moment before the shadows overtook them, naturally.
The downpour went on fiercely, and no participant was so fervent as the chieftain himself. Seeing the force with which he hurled down chain or knife, many shuddered at the thought of being struck by such a thing. Perhaps in a lighter time, the absurdity of their actions might have been met with more mirth and grins, but even to those men who had known Creich for their whole lives, the man seemed to them to have had the pillars of his mind toppled and the walls shattered. Many wondered if his senses would return should his daughter be returned to him, and just as many feared the possibility that they would not. With each thing he snatched from a cart and cast into the darkness, he let loose a string of curses and insults, many of which devolved into wordless grunts of rage and hopelessness.
The mindless savagery of Chief Creich was suddenly halted, if only for a short while, when a hasty step as he turned from heaving a weighty mantle from a cart caused him to collide with a nearby veteran. Both were sent stumbling backwards, and Creich, encumbered by the unwieldy thing, fell completely to the ground. Frantically looking back and forth, he spat and stumbled to his feet, brushing fragments of dead grass from his trousers.
“Stop!” he cried out, “Stop it all of you! That is enough for now! More words must be had now.” He staggered over to the hole, declining the aid of the veteran with whom he had run into, bearing with the pain of a sore leg regardless.
“Now Ghlaírí! Is this not what you desire?” He took a quick look at the carts, which were now nearly half as full as they had been just a few moments earlier. “I’d say there is now enough for two years of tribute laid freely as a gift upon your doorstep. Give me a sign that the fair Rhíad yet lives, and the rest shall be yours.”
The final word of Creich’s demand repeated throughout the glade, and all held their bodies still, not daring to breathe. The word returned, and each time, it grew quieter and quieter. At last, the final repetition was so faint that one might not hear it without straining his ears, and then, there was silence.
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And then, the Ghlaírí answered. With an explosive crack, a thousand yellow bones shot forth out of the hole, flying up into the air like water after a boulder has fallen into a still lake. Upward they were flung, and down upon the heads of the company they fell. The men of the company all jumped in shock at the sudden onslaught of projectiles that rained down upon them, but as the volley had only occurred once and no further bones followed, it did not take long for them to lower their hands from above their heads and look about at the wreckage.
Hollow bones from birds’ wings, thick bones from a bear’s great limbs, splintered hooves and antlers from deer that not outrun predators, and a great many skulls of children cracked and rolled as they hit the ground. Pale shards hailed down all throughout the company, hitting many and falling off, and others landing to remain stuck atop a shield or upon a shoulder. Not a trace of meat or sinew was left upon any of them, but some soldiers discovered, to their disgust, that a fair amount of the bones were damp with some colorless liquid.
Some cried out in shock, others in terror, and yet some had lost the sense to utter a sound. When one would step back in surprise or recover his balance after the blast, the soft crunch of dry grass was often colored with the thick popping of a rib or leg bone of some small creature breaking beneath heavy footfalls. The company, once recovered from the surprise assault, poised their shields once more while the captains shouted out commands. Spears thrust back and forth into the cave, threatening any who might dare to leave, lest the rows of so many points of steel seek and shred. The young skirmishers hearkened little to the orders of their captains, thrusting wildly at any shadow that flickered upon the rotting earthen rim. Even the veterans were little more composed, for they too, frightened of any new onslaught, forgot the rhythm of their squad’s attacks, and likewise sent an attack upon any shadow, lest it suddenly jump out and grab hold of them.
Throughout it, Creich remained silent, for something had caught his eye as the bones were flung upward into the sky. So little sunlight now remained shining down upon the glade, but as a scant few were light enough to reach up and be caught in those final rays, a fair reflection came down to his eyes. For a moment as some few bones were illuminated, he saw there little golden stars and lines, thin and briefly disappearing once the bones fell back into the shaded twilight.
Surprised though he was by the unexpected volley, his shock soon turned to confusion as he looked down upon the dozens upon dozens of bones that landed by the soldiers’ feet. Bending low, he took hold of an arm bone, far smaller than his, and narrowed his eyes at that which was neatly looped about its length. Carefully, he removed the strands of hair from its bight upon the bone. Whether it was because the tie itself was loosely applied or the material was so fine and thin, the three hairs gently freed themselves and floated lightly as Creich held them between two fingers. No glimmer they then gave as they might have beneath the golden sun, but as he held the strands near, the ethereal shine came forth, even in shadow.
Every bone, big or small, stale or grisly, long or round, that had been expelled out from the maw of the cave was adorned in such fair trappings. All about, as the bones came to a resting place, the thin lines of color about them came ever the more clear to the soldiers that looked down upon them. Like a marker of some sanctified relic or a masterwork of golden wire, the hairs of Rhíad appeared forth all the more brilliantly against such remains of that which had died long ago.
“No other lady of the Mháner race has tresses such as this,” he muttered, holding the strands in his trembling fingers, “Veins of deep gold found amid a fertile earthen soil. All others may have fool’s gold or dirt in which too many crops have been long overgrown. Only Rhíad, daughter of the fairest of the daír, stands within such a radiance.” By his side, the ancient bones snapped and crunched between his white-knuckles. With a look over to where the captain Rómeas stood, and gestured for his spear, but the broad and heavy red-bearded man kept his fingers wrapped around the weapon and shook his head in a perfect line, no uncertainty wavering its path.
“No,” he said, “It’s too dangerous for you, chief.” Pausing, the large captain gritted his teeth and shook his shield arm. Looking over to his squad, he called out in a shout to the nearest of his men, a stout veteran of some forty years, “Fetch me a lantern, and you,” he gestured to the next closest and held out the spear and shield, “Come and take my arms. I could take neither of these with me in the cave.”
Creich was reluctant to let his best man enter into the cave alone, but as there was little else of an alternative to be had, and the soldiers were becoming increasingly restless and superstitious. To his luck, if nothing else, Rómeas was a man rarely prone to either of these two moods, and though he hated the thought of dredging into the pit, his rank as captain of the first guard was earned strategically and kept mightily. Even now, no man in Dórai or in the hamlets around could best him in strength. Even hindered, he could throw the next best wrestler to the ground, or carry as much of a burden as the next two. The only man to give challenge to him had been Nían, and it was for that reason itself that the second captain had been allowed to keep his rank after becoming crippled.
Upon Rómeas’s announcement that he would venture forth as emissary, voices and whispers flooded throughout the company. Many doubted his success despite his ability, while others stressed that he take some some greater precaution against the magic of the Ghlaírí. Even in their distraction and confusion, some still brought to mind the thought that it would have been Nían who would delve into the cave and destroy the Ghlaírí. In the end, he listened to none of these things, and although his men gave protest to this decision, Rómeas was not one to be easily swayed from a position built with stone and mortar. Even when he lowered himself into the pit, lantern in one hand and newly-drawn sword in the other, arguments came to him in greater supply than support. Even when all traces of him that could still be seen was the yellow glow of lamplight illuminating the dull and dusty stone walls, the soldiers huddled about the pit and bickered.
Creich knew not what to say to any of it. Since finding his daughter’s hair cruelly torn and used as a message, he had been nearly too shaken to move. After Rómeas had insisted upon placing the life of his men and his chief above his own, Creich had found a secret comfort in the opportunity to set himself down a short distance away and wait for the dizziness to leave his head.
He knew not for how long he sat there, collecting his thoughts and attempting to get his unsteady breathing under control. Long enough for some development on the state of Rómeas’s descent to occur, it seemed. While in the midst of some anxious thought, an archer came to him and announced the quiet approach of Rómeas’s distant footsteps in the cave. Coming back to the world around him, Creich stood and watched the crowd huddled around the hole grow denser as the men readied for the first captain’s return. Passing forth through the crowd was by no means an easy thing, for although his men would otherwise have gladly yielded out of his way, most were far too distracted to even notice his approach, and some had even failed to notice his departure, just a short while ago.
From above, the chieftain carefully listened at the entrance of the cave, hearkening to the faint echoes of foot on stone and dirt, back and forth in a low rhythm. The distant trampling came slowly and heavily, as though the boots were made of iron. In time, the volume grew greater, close even, and yet no light of the lamp shone against the walls of the tunnel. While the idea of jumping down to greet their captain seemed like an expected thing when the footsteps were first heard, it now seemed one of the last things the men huddled around the pit were interested in doing. For although anticipation and hopes were high (after all, it was the first captain that had been the one to make the venture), the sluggish pace and lack of any announcement kept their unease from ever truly leaving their minds.
As the rhythm of footfalls came ever closer and the form of Rómeas finally appeared as a shape within the darkness, the excitement over the captain’s return suddenly ceased among the company. The man who had climbed down the pit and delved forth, lamp and sword in hand, had done so cautiously but steadily. He walked as a stalwart seeker, ready to raise a blade valiantly against what ever shape he might come to meet. Yet he who they saw stumble from the shadows and crawl his way to the higher ground had lost whatever courage or steadiness that was once held. Though it was indeed Rómeas that emerged into the twilight of the cave’s maw, he spoke not at all, huddled his shoulders, and both his lamp and sword were nowhere to be seen. Instead, with each hand, he groped along the wall of the cave, feeling his way up and along the stone. His head was bent low towards the ground.
The soldiers about the hole might have welcomed his return, but at his state, they only stared and gaped. Slowly, shaking, Rómeas lifted his face as though to look out and see the reliving familiarity of these men he had grown to love and serve.
And he would have seen their faces in return, had his eyes still remained within his head. In their place, red streams fell from empty holes marking the face like one of the dead. Nauseous silence struck through the rows of onlookers like a moment of shock after the tolling of a bell. Weakly, Rómeas stepped forward in his blindness, and from his dry throat came a series of choked words, forced from his body as though the effort cost him a tremendous deal of a dwindling vigor.
“Th-the Ghlaírí,” he stammered, “I-It is w-waiting for you.” In the same way one might heave for air after rising up from a deep water, the captain drew in an uneven and desperate breath.
“The Ghlaírí..I saw it sitting atop a bed of heads and skulls…It is horrible.”