His comrades wasted no time in reaching down to take the arms of the first captain and drag him from the maw. He started and shook at their touch at first, but soon recalled their dedication and permitted them to draw him up. Creich spoke above all and knelt down to where Rómeas had been sat, not far from the edge.
The chieftain’s words of comfort left him when he now beheld the first captain blinded, injured, and broken, laying there before him. There was no formality, no congratulations, no awe at the bravery shown. “What happened?” was all he managed to say, and only with a great deal of effort.
Rómeas turned his eyeless head in the direction of the chieftain’s voice. The loose eyelids trembled over empty sockets and he bent his shoulders as though shielding himself from a foul wind. “Ch-chief,” he began, hardly above a whisper. Even though his voice was faint, a first for the huge man, all heard him as clearly as could be, for not a word was spoken by any of them. “The Ghlaírí sits at the e-end of a long tunnel. I s-saw it sitting on its dread throne, and b-before it lay a line of many blades. The same b-blades which were given by you j-just moments ago.”
The chieftain narrowed his eyes. When Rómeas did not speak again, he asked for what purpose the gifts were laid out. It was more than a few moments before the captain answered.
“I-it looked up at me when I stepped within the dark abode,” Rómeas continued, “And it asked me which knife to use, for it could not decide among the many treasures. It laughed and made j-jests at my expense there, and asked me for the reason as to my coming. I gave it without any possibility of misunderstanding. All it d-did in response was to laugh all the more cruelly.”
“And Rhíad?” The chieftain said firmly. “Where is Rhíad? Did you see my daughter?”
“Y-your daughter,” Rómeas slowly whispered, “Not far away from where the Ghlaírí sat upon its foul chair, Rhíad lay bound, hand and foot, with ropes of vine and shackles of hemlock thorns. I beheld her upon a bed of bramble, trembling and pale. The poor thing had such a look of terror and dread upon her face that I could not help but rush to her, sword raised in readiness to strike at her captor.” The captain paused, and it was only after some repeated questioning from Creich that he found himself able to speak clearly through his broken stammers.
“I had t-taken one s-step to the G-Ghlaírí,” he began, swallowing in between words. “Only one s-step b-before it sprung from its b-bed of bones…I never s-saw it close the distance between us. I saw only one last thing before the light l-left my mind, and the p-pain consumed me…I fell to my knees, and this seemed to satisfy the grim creature, for it began to speak to me once more.
“The Ghlaírí said that it was…choosing with which of your bladed gifts to…butcher the fair Rhíad…”
Whatever color remained in Chief Creich’s face drained and faded. A great wave came over him, and he fell to one side, barely catching himself before landing ungracefully. The frantic murmurs of discussion in the crowd seemed distant and muffled, and it was long before he could make sense of anything that was said around him. Fearfully, he looked up at his men and their expressions were no less frightened than his. Three veterans of the first squad had heaved their captain up and were helping him to a makeshift bed near the fires, and a small group from the other squads followed in turn.
The rest of the company had left to disregard whatever sense of order remained available to them. They spoke without regard or reason, and nothing resembling the circle of ranks remained where they once stood around the pit. The two remaining captains tried fruitlessly to silence their men, but the seeds of dread had been left to grow for far too long. The young skirmishers were the loudest and spoke over others the most, but they at least could move an ear to the words of the captains whenever they were barked out. The veterans, on the other hand, exchanged hushed whispers as they huddled to groups of their own, and when a captain gave an order, they listened only rarely. Those veterans of the first squad listened not at all, and nor did they speak. With heads hung low, they pondered the future of their squad, if a future there even would be. When a rare few took a brief look up, their heads went in the direction of Nían, captain of the second squad.
The more the company talked, the more heads turned in the direction of Nían. A silly rumor born from the stories the bards tell after supper might have been all that the prophecy of the Ghlaírí was, but a mind of reason is often at a loss when faced with such circumstances as the company now did. No longer did the soldiers whisper talk of the prophecy; now, they discussed it openly and without fear of ridicule. Some were even so bold as to speak of it directly to Nían himself. When at first, the grizzly captain ignored these ridiculous statements, the topic quickly became the sole object of talk around him, and he ceased to speak, looking out in deep thought at the pit. It was one thing to give serious thought to the possibility that one’s companion might be a foretold savior, but it was another thing to attempt a response when one was said to be such.
Creich examined the prone body of Rómeas upon the bedroll. Not a scratch or stain lay upon him, nor even upon his clothing. The only outward injury aside from his missing eyes was a great pattern of bruises just beginning to darken around his neck. Not quite a hand print, but clearly something had seized hold oh him down in the cave. He wondered at what creature could achieve such an action and not be cut to shreds or torn into a hundred pieces by the bear of a man. As he thought back to years prior, he admitted that he had never actually seen the Ghlaírí before. Could such a deadly foe really dwell in that pit above which he had stood so many times before? Did he come within arm’s reach of a thing that could bring ruin to even the first captain, only saved from its wrath by the offering of gold and jewels?
The more Creich looked at the empty eye sockets of Rómeas, the more ill he felt. With a reassuring, if insincerely-meant word, he rose to his feet. Passing through the throng of the company, he gave ear to their words and of the deep fears which colored their voices. As he moved like a spectre through the masses, he felt their gazes come to him, the sudden attention cutting their words short as they watched in anticipation. Most had been thinking a slow encroachment might have been the way of procedure, and if not that, then perhaps a champion might be sent down to parley. For their best man to return, wounded in such a grotesque and yet precise fashion, no thought of ordinary battle or intimidation remained with them. Even the notion of all rushing in, in a foolish attempt to overwhelm the Ghlaírí seemed absurd against a foe that could playfully inflict such a cruel injury. The second captain avoided his gaze as he approached.
“What do you think?” The chieftain asked, taking the captain by surprise. In a way, he was somewhat comforted by the question being so different from that which he had been asked by a dozen others in such a short time.
“There might be more to-,” he began, but thought better of exhibiting honesty in the current circumstances. Leaning towards the chieftain, he said in a low voice, “I think that more blood will be spilt before your daughter can be returned. I’ve no reason to disbelieve Rómeas’s words. I thought the Ghlaírí little more than a wight of ill omen and foul tricks, but I seem to have been proven terribly wrong.”
Creich looked to the dead grass at their feet. “I would give my life for her freedom, if I could be assured that it would be honored.” His voice broke, even as he spoke through gritted teeth. Aloud, he spoke to those that had gathered around the two. “Is that to be her fate? Cold and alone and left to fear and death? Would we be cut down like Rómeas, one by one? I say that if such a fate shall come to us, then let it be so. Bring me my arms, for I shall need to put up a fight. Nían, I pray that you would join me, for I am no fighter. As for the rest of you, I hope that your loyalty remains, if not to your chief, then to an innocent girl. What say you?” He raised the sword aloft, and many swords, spears, and javelins were raised in response. The chief grinned at Nían.
“Then let us be off,” he said, looking over to him.
“And what of the Prophecy?” a voice in the crowd asked.
“Shall the Ghlaírí be slain today?” asked another.
Nían gave a deep sigh. Earlier, he had hoped that ignoring the questions would lead to their end, and while that had been so for a while, it seemed that such a tooth would no longer work. Hoisting his spear, he straightened his shoulders and looked out to not only his own squad, but to the company as a whole. Three groups come together as one beneath a common leader.
“So be it,” he said, “Let us go forth. Worry not, chief. For I will be a strong-willed foe for the Ghlaírí to oppose.”
A cheer spread throughout the company, followed by the rattling of gear and shifting of feet on the grass. Surprise came to the chieftain, for he had truthfully not expected anything in response to his pained words. If anything, he had expected even less of a positive reaction to such a display given by a chieftain to whom one would give dedication. The thought of his daughter safely in their home flower through him, and the concern of his own well-being or even that of his soldiers dissolved into mist.
Stepping forward to the gaping maw, the chieftain and his second captain stood before their men. No longer was a parley in effect, for diplomacy had been refused. The siege had gone on for long enough, and it was time to storm the hall. Taking command of the second squad, and now of the first, Nían took a deep breath, letting the word of command boil within him to a raging intensity.
Yet whatever that word might have been, none in the company would know. Just as he opened his mouth to give orders, his attention was suddenly stolen to two oily lights from within the darkness of the pit. Looking down, he and Creich saw before them two pale blue eyes, perfectly round, lidless, and staring mindlessly at them. One pointed towards the chieftain and the other towards the crippled captain. Never did they blink, but each moved independently of the other, as though commanded by a double hatred of both men.
Frozen in fear, Creich looked down at the eyes, unable to bring himself to search the surrounding darkness for any shape that would reveal the form of the Ghlaírí. There was nothing. Not even a shadow among the greater shadows that gave indication as to it's grim form. And yet the eyes that gazed up at the two shone in the light of the half moon that had come to appear in the darkening sky as two blue points against the consuming void.
A moment of silence passed between the three. One looked at the other, who looked at another, who looked at the one.
Suddenly, a realization came to Chief Creich as he started at the blue eyes that floated in the shadows. When he first beheld them, surprise had closed his memory, but as he looked closer, he saw that the things were not so unfamiliar to him as he might have thought, but rather the same two eyes that Rómeas, captain of the first squad, had looked bat him with, just before delving into the pit. A great weight sink in his belly, and his head swam with an awful pressure. Nían just have noticed the same thing, for he let out a disgusted grunt and took a step back.
Before any could react to the sight, the eyes of Rómeas suddenly shot forth toward the two. Carried upon two pale stalks, now illuminated by the dwindling dusk light, the eyes sprang forth from the hole and were flung directly at the chieftain and the captain. In the brief moment that the two white orbs flew through the air, Creich caught a single image of what it was that had thrown the eyes. Briefly caught by the light of a fading dusk, two pale arms extended forth from the dark, fingers splayed out as an eyeball left the palm. Never had Creich seen nails so long and twisted. Each one was badly rotten by time and grime, and the hand as a whole looked something like a dead bramble from a past season. Just as soon as he had seen enough to make a clear picture of what it was that he saw, the arms disappeared back into the shadows, and no more remained except for an endless black void.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
If the company protected their heads and jumped in surprise when the bones had been going up from the pit, no such reaction was had when the eyes were forcefully thrown up to the leaders. Even though, just a moment before, they had been roaring and cheering at the newfound courage to enter the pit, the insulting return of Rómeas's eyes all but destroyed their will to even move.
A laugh then emerged from the hole, but it was not in the same manner as had been before. The first cruel laugh had been distant and faint, and this second round was ever so dreadfully different. Close enough to be within arm's reach, and clear enough for every grotesque croak and cackle to offend the ears of every man present. Enough to haunt him for days and nights to come, when silence would let his memory wander, and the black thoughts of the cave would return to him.
As they all stood in terror, the laughter ceased and was quickly replaced with a pair of running footsteps, rapidly decreasing in volume as the maker returned back the way it had come from. All were held in captivation of the footsteps until nothing more could be heard, yet the new silence did nothing to ease their minds.
Creich would have moved to make some kind of address, but fear had taken hole of him in it's iron fingers and caressed his neck with a razor talon. To merely draw breath seemed to carry the risk of death. Within the pit, the shadows grew all the more dark and empty. Although the world outside still carried some trace of light in the last moments of day, the pit contained within a terrible darkness, blacker than a night with neither moon nor star, and neither fire nor hope. There, standing at a juncture between life and death and nothing in between, Chief Creich saw only a demise filled with pain and torment. There was no Rhíad, for she was already lost, laying distant and dead.
Beside him, Nían fared no better. None around them could shake the foul dread of the Ghlaírí, and none could bring himself to speak against the silence of a lost cause. Night was a quickly approaching and overtaking the twilight, and all traces of day had long departed from the haunted glade. First had come fear, them came hopelessness that are away at their spirits until finally came the lost reasoning. A strange and twisted self-preservation, born of little thought to happiness and to only the desire to not perish at that which one had narrowly avoided.
When Creich finally broke the silence, his voice was like the monstrous fin of a dead tree falling in a quiet forest.
“What terrible foe is it that lays within that hole before us?” All strength of will had left him, and that voice which only just before had talked his soldiers to a courage yet unknown now faltered to that of a despair-stricken and defeated man.
A movement to his side caught his eye, and Creich turned to see the sword of Nían lowered until the point touched the brown earth at their feet. The captain stared unblinking at the pit. When the projectile had been thrown at him, he flinched in surprise, but had not bent to pick up the grisly thing. No one around him spoke, for they too had seen the Ghlaírí's response. Even those far from the hole and blocked from view by the others seemed to understand perfectly well that something terrible had happened, for no whispers or open questions came from the outer circles.
When no answer to the chieftain's question came, other than a weak gesture from the second captain, Creich spoke once more. This time, he let his voice grow no louder than a whisper and let none except for Nían recurve his words.
“I wonder if a success is even possible, my loyal captain,” he said, “You see the things laid out before us as well as I do. I lead as a chieftain, but of the strategies of war, your thought would be more correct than my own. What say you?”
“I say nothing of either side,” Nían replied after two deep breaths of contemplation. “How many shall die in our attempt to infiltrate this abominable cave, I do not know, although I could guess that a great many would not live to see the morning light. The day had been lost, and night now falls upon us. Let those who would perish know the sun for one last time. Return in the night to Dórai or sleep amid these trees, to make another attempt on some other day. The Ghlaírí has tricked us into waiting for the sun to go down. In that case, I say to let ourselves be tricked no longer. Such a motion may bring anxiety to your ears, chief, but I say to make the descent tomorrow morning. If Rhíad just wait, then so be it.”
As he spoke, Creich closed his eyes and flattened his face. Indeed, the words of Nían troubled him, but the idea of delving into that cave in the dark which Rómeas had been defeated in during the evening was even less comforting.
“And what then?” He asked, wishing less and less to think of the answer. “Must we fall into the shadows then, when only the doorstep is illuminated by the light? Nían...” His voice lowered even further to a grim hiss. “Look at those around you. See the terror in their eyes, and the raw flesh of their spirit now that the armor of a false hope has been peeled away.”
True, when Nían went to do as Creich told, he saw the courage replaced with trembling unease, and the loyalty to the chieftain replaced with a pretty self-preservation that betrayed thoughts to dessert and flee for one's life. It was not the fear in the faces of the skirmishers that gave him such ill feelings. Not the young men, just barely come of age, who might have felt a similar deep their when faced with confronting cattle thieves or extortionists. If was when he looked into the eyes of the veterans that the fear was returned back to him. Men who had faced pain and death, and had had to be the harbingers of pain and death. Those who had seen others like themselves strike out at them, others trained cleverly in peace and those hastily trained in desperation. Those men knew when threats of death were reflected in the spearheads from the light of a red sun rising, and they now knew of a death that came from the red sun itself.
Nían was just about to give a word to his chief when, over the terrible quiet that had fallen over them, a new sound from a new voice came forth from the pit. Yet unlike before, this voice did not seep out of the pit as the laughter of the Ghlaírí had done. This new voice spiraled outward in a single strike like a bolt of lightning across the sky. No laughter it was, and not did if come from the foul throat of the Ghlaírí.
A sharp shriek given out by the lady Rhíad. None who had ever heard her voice could have mistaken the tone in the pit as coming from any other. Even rent into a timbre of terror and panic, the ever-green flute of the throat still holds it's signature sound, no matter what loathsome mode it plays among. The cry of Rhíad rang once, echoed twice, and then fell to silence.
If there were some inspiration or drive to rally the hearts of the company, it had since left Creich. The cruel hearts and challenges which the Ghlaírí issued forth had scrapped away at his resolve piece by piece, slowly but surely. He thought of what fate might come to Rhíad, but so too did he think of what fate might befall any who would dare to enter. Through some miracle of will, he turned his head only so slightly as to see those that stood around him, spears and shields in hand. Seeing their faces and what dreadful expressions were presented thereupon, the conclusion quickly came to him that he likely appeared no better. The color of their cheeks had left entirely, and many shook in place. Some dropped their weapons so that they might cover their ears and shut their eyes as a weak defense against that which their senses had beheld.
“What-” Creich began, hardly able to keep his voice steadier than a wobbling cart or louder than a feather falling, “What do you think?”
Of all those among the company, Nían seemed the most stricken and terrified of entering the pit. It was not a fear displayed like that of the others, however. While some members of the company groaned or wrinkled their faces, those unconscious changes to their countenances were those that gave a more honest display of the will that remained. They motioned and acted to make some attempt at shaking away the terror that assaulted them, but in their faces was resistance. A defiance against that peril from the pit. Many would break and flee from the glade, there was no doubt, but such an act was born of a thought that there might be a possibility of survival if only one could evade the source of their fears.
No such resistance lived within the face of Nían. Tall and mighty though he stood, no degree of willingness to fight was displayed upon him. He wore a look not of shock, but of resignation. Perhaps he might have truly feared the Ghlaírí, but perhaps not, Creich wondered. In place of where resistance would have been, there was only acceptance. The sword would not be cast down to the ground in surrender, but neither would it be raised in defense. There would be pain surely, but with luck, it would be swift. A broken bone or cut flesh ails the body, but the likelihood living past it defeats the lurking rot of despair. To stand at the precipice of the home of the hungering Ghlaírí as it gave out its challenge was to suddenly understand that the lurking rot had already consumed one’s fate.
Had he his wits fully about him, Creich might have found some marvel in the thought that Nían was still able to find balance upon his two feet. Even as the captain spoke, Creich saw out of the corner of his eye, a skirmisher fall to his knees in a heaving haze.
“I don’t know,” Nían replied at last. Unlike his chieftain, his voice wavered not for a single syllable, but even more so than his chieftain, his voice was so quiet that if any other sound existed in the glade, no matter how small, Creich would not have heard him. Yet upon hearing the voice of the captain, faint as it was, Creich was suddenly reminded of those words that had been whispered among the company. To him at that moment, the prophecy seemed somehow so insignificant a thing, and nevertheless it was strange and unlikely enough that the notion brought him to a new mind.
“In the fel hours when all seems hopeless,” Creich mused, unsure of what he could say and more so of whether he should speak at all, “Heroes are awakened. Its…just a choice that one has to make, and…then you will fulfill the prophecy.” For a moment, the uplifting tone of a hope falsely-born gave cadence to his voice. Perhaps he might have even believed his words himself, briefly.
Nían moved his eyes to look at the chieftain, but his head remained as still as ever before. When he opened his mouth to speak again, the dryness of his throat made even the slightest exhalation irksome and stunted. When he began anew, his voice was no more loud than before. “We must turn b-”
The screams of Rhíad returned once more, cutting off the words of the captain. Louder and more afflicted with horror they were this time. Up they echoed through the maw, and yet the echoes did not cease quickly, for Rhíad began again as soon as the first shriek had ended. Standing alone in the shadows of an approaching night and fleeing sun, the company were suddenly roused from their stupor and set to quickly talking among themselves. Some broke the ranks and rushed to the fires, and others trembled behind their shields. Only to their neighbors they spoke, for the echoes of screams were loud enough to give distraction and misdirection.
There, at the foot of the pit, closer than any others, only Creich and Nían were privy to a secondary voice beneath the cries of the chieftain’s daughter. Low and quiet, the laughter of the Ghlaírí joined in the malefic song.
“I am sorry my chief,” Nían said, bowing his head, “I-”
“Lady Rhíad!” A third voice from amid the company cried, “Don’t worry!”
In deepest surprise, for nothing could have prepared them to hear such a thing, the whole of the company was momentarily broken from their fear, and their minds were filled with confusion at what had happened. Everyone had been speaking, but at hardly more than a whisper or hiss. The newly-joined voice of a young man sent them all to confusion at his sudden entry.
Looking to the origin of the cry, Creich saw the parting of the crowd, soldiers moving lest they be run into by the speaker. A moment later, a young skirmisher wearing the colors of the second squad burst forth, running to the pit. In one hand, he carried a lamp taken from the fires, and in the other he bore a feathered and gilded sword taken from the carts of tribute. Creich had seen the boy before, but he couldn’t remember his name.
All were too stricken with awe to make any sense of his actions, despite the purpose being clear to them in retrospect. Watching the bizarre sight, still as stone, they stared as he ran to the dirty edge and without so much as bending to carefully scale down the walls, jumped to the floor and rushed onward to the darkness.
“Lady Rhíad, don’t worry! I’m coming!” As the boy’s footsteps grew more distant, the echoes of his voice soon trailed off into silence, and the light of his lantern was quickly consumed by the shadows of the maw.
Even words of prophecy could not have predicted such a sight. With a stolen lamp in one hand a stolen sword in the other, the boy ran onward to the doors of fate, prophecy laying dead behind him.