“Please,” the Ghlaírí joyfully said, “Come forward.”

Taken by surprise at the unexpected familiar man-like appearance of the creature, Narach found himself rather easily doing as the thing requested. No amount of resemblance to the daír form would have convinced Narach to lower the sword, but taking a step towards that which appears familiar is always considerably easier than doing so towards a figure totally foreign to nature.

Sitting stop the grisly throne sat a figure in a form so very much like a man that, were it not for it's terrible features, might have even been confused as such by one ignorant of the lore of the land. Pale and blue was it's flesh, like a sky behind a sheen of silky cloud, and upon that flesh, no mark or sign was made as to it's identification. Black hair fell over black eyes, and apart from that which grew from atop it's head, the thing was completely without any hair. It's face was, even by unusual standards, quite ugly, for the features upon it seemed stretched back far more than was natural for a man. As though a sculptor, dissatisfied with his work on a clay bust, took the crown of the head in his hand and pulled, elongating the eyes, narrowing the nose, making long panels of the cheeks, and creating an altogether mistaken image of a mouth. Inside that mouth lived rows upon rows of needle-like fangs, pressed together like a motley collection of arrows in a quiver, and as the Ghlaírí beckoned Narach to enter the chamber, all of these grey teeth were given to proper display in an offensive imitation of a wide grin.

Narach stepped carefully along a little carved pathway, but did not even go so far as halfway to the fire before deciding that he was at a comfortable distance.

“My n-name is…Narach…I-I've come on behalf of Chief Creich,” Narach just barely managed to say, unsure of what manner of address with which to use for such a creature. Though he meant to carry his voice in such a way that would be painted with words upon a panel of strength, all he managed was a weak stutter that none would hear except in a quiet room. The Ghlaírí widened it's dark eyes and it's grin turned to a look of wonder.

“Ooh,” the monster cooed, “Running far does he run on the land-he runs far on the land. I thought that-to myself-the chieftain would come himself-for my home-house-to here.”

“I heard the lady screaming in fright, so I…came myself.”

The Ghlaírí looked to Rhíad, and then back to its own throne. “Ahh…That was her calling-that was there-calling. I’ve a lovely bed of leaves here for me, and there I have for her a blanket of vines-for her. We welcome you down in the caves-in caves open-Narach-in the caves.”

“We?”

The Ghlaírí pointed a twisted claw at the bed of vines with one hand and another at itself. “Have you come to my home-my home? Searching up there-here-for something to-something for the chieftain-you come?”

“I have.” Narach had hardly understood a word that the thing that said past the initial question, but thought better than to ask his host to repeat the statement.

Upon the exchange between the guest and host coming to start, the bed of thorns upon which Rhíad was held began to shuffle. Though the girl could not move to sit upright, she rose her head as far as it would go to catch a glimpse at the scene. Tired and scared she looked, but as her eyes came to rest upon the boy wearing the colors of one of her father's squads, her face changed to one of relief and joy.

“You there!” She cried out, “Put your blade into this beast's black heart and then release me!”

The Ghlaírí laughed joyfully at the order, revealing once more the crowd of molded teeth. “I only say-do there upon the thorns-that I say-all soon enough-under thorns. You speak loudly-I hear sharply-loudly-I hear.”

“Rhíad!” Narach called to the chieftain's daughter. “I'm here, everything will be well, don't worry. I must make diplomacy first with the Ghlaírí.”

“Diplomacy?” The Ghlaírí said, looking confused. “I say tha-”

“Fool!” Rhíad shouted. “Just kill it now, and get me out of these chains! Don't be a coward!”

“I will. I just need to speak with it first and-”

“You don't!” She screamed, “You need to slay it is what you need to do.” Beautiful and youthful the chieftain's daughter was, she was an uncontested expert in wrathful expressions and cruel glares.

“So she speaks much-speaking-shouting-she speaks,” the Ghlaírí commented. “Funny, her words. I find her funny-laughing-I laugh, but tired she-tired is what my ears become. Tired is-hurting with her loud-shouting she shouts-at me. And it's rude-she has rudeness in her words-meaning what she means. I don't like it.”

“I'm not going to attack you,” Narach quickly said as he feared not getting the point across should Rhíad interject once again, “I just wish to come to some arrangements so that chief Creich's debt may be balanced.”

“Do something, you eunuch! Save the talk for later!”

As much as Narach appreciated the kindly encouragement, he nonetheless felt that he could accomplish little when he and the Ghlaírí were both interrupted every few words. It was only appropriate to assume that the chieftain's daughter would have more than a few things to say, however, and anything her further seemed a needlessly-hindering act. He took a deep breath as he briefly considered a new tactic.

“My lady,” he began as calmly as he might manage, given the circumstance, “There's no violence happening now, so-”

Of course, Rhíad would listen to none of it.

The Ghlaírí revealed it's grotesque smile once again, and placed it's arms upon the bones of the chair. “Hearing-hear. I can't hear him-hear him. Set a silence-that's quiet-upon you-that you make-or don't say.” With a sudden jolt, it flew from the throne like a frog keeping from a leaf, and bounded for the bed upon which Rhíad was bound. Narach flinched at the thing's speed, and felt a great relief that he had not attempted to charge the thing, quick as he might be. For the first time, setting the Ghlaírí with his own eyes, he came to understand the difference between facing those like himself and those of a demonic and monstrous origin.

As the Ghlaírí came to the bedside, Rhíad let out another wave of shrieks, but before she could form a word, her captor silenced her. With a wave of it's fingers, begun and ended in the blink of an eye, a new blanket of vines rose up from the bed as though obeying the unspoken command. Slithering over the mouth of Rhíad, the cords muffled her voice and tightened until all that was left was a faint murmur as she seemed to accept the futility of shouting.

Narach only watched in sickly awe at the mysterious powers over the vines the Ghlaírí commanded. If the debate come to combat, he had little confidence that a victory would be possible. He thought back to the sight of the eyeless captain and the trembling resignation he emerged from the pit with. The strongest man of Doraí, felled by the vicious magic of the Ghlaírí. He felt a great knot form in his throat, and suddenly, the sword in his hand felt extremely light and blunt. If the razor-edge of Rómeas's blade was as good as an old boot against that primordial energy, this useless trinket only served to fire his arm with it's weight. Nonetheless, his fingers never opened their grip upon the silken-wrapped hilt.

“Now then,” the Ghlaírí darkly purred, still admiring it's work at the complete ensnaring of Rhíad, “You said that there was some diplomacy you wished to conduct?” A moment went by before it slowly turned it's head to face Narach. No expression was held upon that idle blue face, and much remained obscured in shadow now that it faced away from the fire. The dread chill Narach had thought conquered suddenly sprang up through his back as the endless eyes of the Ghlaírí set his sights upon him once more.

“I did,” Narach replied, “I...wish that the lady Rhíad would be let free and permitted to return to her father. Even moreso than I, her father wishes for this. He will happily negotiate a bargain with you as penitence for that belated tribute which sits outside this cave for your taking, right as I speak.”

“How does he seek penitence?” The Ghlaírí asked, and although Narach could not be certain of it, he thought he saw tiny sparks of the fire reflect in its eyes. By instinct to beholding such a loathsome creature, he lifted the sword slightly. He caught himself quickly and ended the guard, but the Ghlaírí had watched the movement in a disbelieving awe.

“With sword and fist?” it mused in a tone full of hurt and shame, closing its eyes and lowering its matted head, “What indebted man seeks vengeance against he to whom he owes the debt? Men of opportunity? Shall he consider me at fault when I whisper a word to drive all the kine in his fields to madness? Or my sowing a kernel of rot into those same fields as not a retaliation but an unbidden offense? Is that the reason the chieftain has come to the doorstep of my home?”

“It isn’t.” Narach lowered the sword as far as he could manage a subtle guard. “This is for…I was just…I didn’t know of what was inside the cave, so I thought it better to have some kind of arms.”

“Perhaps that is true-maybe it is true-true,” the Ghlaírí went on with a nod, “Why is it-that you say-you say-I should unbind my fair guest-bidden and bedridden-guest that is beside me? She is a fair trade-she is-she-is-for that which I was-that for-denied and neglected-keeping from me by the-was I-from the chieftain?”

Narach did not immediately respond. A poorly-chosen word now could be disastrous. He feared the thought of what might befall him should he make any statement that might offend the Ghlaírí, even unintentionally.

“Chief Creich has brought you your tribute, and with it an ample addition as a show of his desire to make amends with you. It is a simple apology and a trade at great benefit to you, I think.”

“What could the chieftain-could he be-he-knowing well and not knowing-have any idea-or so he thinks-of what harm-that is harm-that was dealt to me-to me? What does he offer-so brought he brings-with him-with him-that can repay these debts?”

Thinking better than to answer directly, Narach went to assert the claim. “Chief Creich has come laden with much in gold and jewels as recompense for your overdue tribute. I believe you're aware of the first offering that was sent down earlier.”

The Ghlaírí, hearing this, lowered its slanted brow to a grotesque and nearly vertical angle. “Gold and jewels?” it asked with a puzzled expression, “How much does the chieftain bring?”

“Three times the yearly tribute.”

At the mention of the amount, the bent head of the Ghlaírí swiftly arose and it's whole body seemed as though a new life had suddenly sprung forth within. Though it moved only little, the shadows seemed to abate and a cheerful expression came forth like a spark suddenly lit in the darkness. The Ghlaírí retreated to it's throne and resumed it's place upon the bones pile. Since first turning to look at Narach, all this was done without the Ghlaírí turning even slightly away from him, like an owl observing a mouse.

“Gold...” It muttered with a wide-eyed hungering gaze, “Gold and jewels, just a goodly gift-that gold that he-gold is given and paid for. How much does the chieftain have that he brings-in his coffers?”

“Three times the usual payment,” Narach said, doing his best to maintain as little betrayal of his fear as could be managed. In days to come, he would think that he achieved this rather well, though in the moment he believed quite otherwise.

If the Ghlaírí seemed interested in the first mention of freely-given treasure, it held an altogether different reaction for the statement of how much was to be offered. It's black-taloned fingers shook, the ashen-blue skin faced to nearly white, and if there were ever any confusion that the face belonged to one of the daír, the outward expression how completely destroyed it. No man, old or young, wild or constrained, good or ill, could have ever produced such a look of bestial hunger. The many teeth glistened in anticipation, and a long red tongue fell from dry lips as though to taste the words that had so enticed the creature.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“Generous the chieftain is-he is. Goodly-given he is. I couldn't decline it if I had-if I had-Such gold that shines like gold-jewels shine as the stars do-gold does.”

Trying once more to keep his emotion from reaching his face, Narach stoically nodded as a faint bit of hope rose within him. He seemed to have found a weak point in the Ghlaírí's methods.

“I can't promise you anything besides what Creich brought to offer, but I can tell you that he would pay handsomely for the safe return of the lady Rhíad. Even more than what awaits you in the wagons outside your home.”

“Even more-more that is brought-more even is that?”

“Even more. So long as Rhíad is allowed to go free, unhindered and unharmed.”

The Ghlaírí looked down at it's fingers that were now shaking nearly as much as a flopping fish out of the water. With a single deep inhalation, it s eyes grew to a disgusting size, and it leaned forward to Narach.

“The royal rod!” It hissed. “That royal rod of silver and lined with reliefs of little men, emblazoned in crystal!”

Narach was confused for a moment, for he found some difficulty in understanding what the Ghlaírí was referring to. He tried to recall every memory of seeing Creich with such a thing, but nothing was so specific as what the Ghlaírí described.

“I’ll give the girl with the hair-with her hair, and the chief in the land-the land-will have good wishes for me, and for those things that I give-with good grace-to him and his flock. No ill thoughts to him and none to me-so I should-should I-hope to think. Only for you-Narach-Narach-do I have for you-only-A gesture honestly made-with honesty-that I wish for you to do-for me-to do. Just that-is that. If such a treasure-if it be that treasure of the silver-of the silver-that which your drop into my hand, purposeful-and that is to say thankful, I will be-here in my home-my home. So then will-as it happens-happening and doing-I will let the lady go to where she may please.”

“I think that Creich would be more willing to see to this offer if Rhíad were returned first. He is an honest man, I can assure it.” Just as he said so, Narach suddenly realized the obvious blunder he had made. “I-I can see why you might be reluctant to agree to this condition,” he stammered in recovery of his poor choices of words, “but I think even you would agree that this most recent delay was the first of it's kind, among the many years in which Chief Creich has met the deadline.”

The Ghlaírí raised a feathery eyebrow. “My trust has been wounded-How has kindness been to you? Lied to-that was to me-telling lies and ignoring promises-promises. This credit you ask for-for credit from me-hearing so-is a risk to me-risking from the chieftain. He would have little-so very few-to lose, yet I would have much to lose in my fairly-taken prize.” It's head lowered for a moment, as though the Ghlaírí were deep in thought. For a spark of time even quicker than blinking, a subtle smile came across it's hungering lips. Narach saw not the smile, but he saw the shadows of it's face grow darker.

“What of a promise made by you-you making promises-Narach of Doraí?” The Ghlaírí raised it's narrow head, but the shadows remained. Only the two obsidian eyes reflected any light, and that light was black.

Before in the lair is the best, Narach had felt chills scratching at his bones. He liked not the Ghlaírí in the slightest, and had wanted only to take Rhíad from her bonds and leave. As the Ghlaírí now spoke, the chill that once scratched at him was replaced by a dread ice that seized his body with such force he found it nearly impossible to breathe for some time. Whatever warmth the fire might have provided, he felt none of it. The light of the flames grew weak in the miserable and frigid dark.

When a frightening sway came to Narach's perception, it took him nearly every ounce of will he possessed to force his leaden limbs to move so that he might catch himself from falling forward. The sudden action brought him back slightly to awareness, and he breathed through the cold as much as it stung him to do so.

“W-what promise is it that you ask, Ghlaírí?” His voice was dry and cracked, and as he spoke, no strength propelled it forward.

Being so preoccupied with his own wrenching sensations, Narach had not noticed the changes in the Ghlaírí's demeanor in the brief time he was catching his breath. The shadows had largely receded from the Ghlaírí's face (for better or not, he thought), and the smile was one which was thankfully closed and revealed none of the spiny teeth.

“The fair lady shall be freed of her vines and thorns,” it said, as though reciting a message like an ambassador, “And back into the living embrace of her father she may return to, without a scratch or stumble. Should you agree to my condition, I will release the vines at once.”

“The royal rod is your condition?”

The Ghlaírí's smile widened, but it's lips later only just enough for a thin line of the grim teeth to be seen. It raised a skeletal hand, and with it, raised three dark claws. Upon the forefinger rested a dark and smooth ring. “My condition is three days from now. I want the royal rod of Siólla do Braoíl before the sun touches the eastern horizon, three days hence.”

In a moment of silence, the dark ring upon it's finger seemed to face into a deeper darkness. Like a piece of metal dissolving into air and leaving only shadow in it's place.

“If this condition isn't met, then you Narach of Doraí, will bear my curse.”

As the Ghlaírí spoke, it did up from the throne and returned to the bedside where Rhíad lay shaking.

The ice returned, and Narach froze in place. Though his body felt nearly immobile, he still had some power of speech that remained. “I-I can't agr-”

Narach's words were suddenly halted as he started in fright. The moment he had begun to speak, the Ghlaírí raised it's ring-adorned hand and placed the twisted claws over the vines that bound the lady Rhíad. At the slightest touch, a greater tension ran through the rope-like cords, and Rhíad gave a deeply-muffled cry in response.

“Wait!” Narach cried, “Don't hurt her! Is there no other deal that could be made? I swear it to you that I will do whatever I can to bring you the rod in the time you require, but I can't agree to having an omen laid upon me as punishment.”

The Ghlaírí raised a single finger, and the thorns of the vines raised up like the hairs on a cat's back as it poised to strike a cornered mouse. The thorns grow longer and tapered ever more sharply. A single prick seemed as though it might be enough to gut a wild boar. From below, Rhíad's pained cries grew more desperate, but the vines only muffled them further.

“There is not,” the Ghlaírí growled in an amused tone, “Those are my conditions. I've laid them before you. You're now the one with the choice of what happens to the fair lady. You've done me no wrong, so you naturally will be free to go.”

The vines pressed deeply into Rhíad's body until her fair skin rose higher than the bones which held her. Along the green stems, her skin grew red and strained. The thorns lowered until they lay hardly a hair's distance above Rhíad's bare flesh. Each one curled and tensed as though it breathed in the warm scent of her blood and revealed in the anticipation of such a rare feast. The lady screamed all the louder, yet no more than a whisper it became from behind her terrifying prison.

Narach shook at the sight. Slowly the bones moved about their captive, and if they did not tend the poor girl to pieces then certainly her captor would. He thought of what the sight might be like, and was nearly sick. He thought of the light of Doraí that the people had in their hearts being snuffed out, and clenched his fists at the injustice. He thought of the heartache the loss of a daughter would inflict upon the mother and father, and could not compare it to anything he knew in his young life.

“Stop!” Narach shouted, breaking the frigid hold over him. “Stop hurting her! I will do as you ask! I accept! Just please stop it! Let her go free!”

The vines ceased to weigh down so heavily upon Rhíad, but they did not give way any further than a tight hold. Once again, the thorns raised upwards like prickly fur and shuddered in the dank air. Great shadows emerged from the darkness and swam around the Ghlaírí.

“So be it,” the Ghlaírí said, “So valiant and true-that is valiant he seems to be-to be. How very kind are you-kneeling over there-there, that the lady may-happy-happily-to free. Let me put a mark-first before some-before others-that comes before everything else you or I might do.”

All while the Ghlaírí spoke, the heavy panting of Narach's exhausted breathing echoed throughout the cavern. The sight of Rhíad laying helpless between the two jaws of death had stricken him with a great sickness, and as he clenched his first over the grip of the sword, he realized for the first time, with some shock, that he had dropped it in his previous bout of icy terror. Bending, he went to retrieve it from where it may by his feet, but at the lowest point, he changed his path and began to kneel.

“Please,” he barely managed to say, and even that came out as little more than a whisper. “Just let her go. She has done nothing to you.”

“On my word, I shall do just that,” the Ghlaírí vowed. However, rather than raising a finger and undoing the vines, it stepped around the bed and made it's way towards Narach. Every slow step was made as though some faint wind guided it like a falling leaf. Swaying and floating, the Ghlaírí approached the young skirmisher where he kept in defeat.

For the first time seeing the Ghlaírí so close, just within arm's reach, Narach fully beheld those features which had hitherto been obscured by the dim light. Where the flesh had once seemed drawn taught over pointed bones, there appeared bulbous welts beneath the skin, like masses of some irregular mold. The long hair that fell matted and twisted was accompanied in places by thick strands of flesh, as though many rats lay within the hair and let their filthy black tails hang down about the Ghlaírí’s head. Both feet were heavily webbed.

“What will happen to me if the rod is not brought to you in three days?” Narach asked.

The Ghlaírí grinned, and all illusions once worn were lazily cast aside. A slow, cruel smile began, and before the lips could part in their own, the endless crowd of misshapen teeth forced their way through. Each one was wet and glistening with giddy hunger and impatience. No light reflected from the dark eyes, and all that was left were two black voids in the shadow.

“If I am not-and not-given that which Narach of Doraí has-had-has promised to me-sworn for my honor, then retribution-upon him-upon him will be laid. A deadly face-a horrible thing to look at-and swift will be the doom that falls upon the onlooker.”

If Narach had been given even a moment longer to consider his bargain, he would have been sick and shocked. Yet no moment was given, for as the Ghlaírí finished it's proclamation, it's pale arm shot up into the air, and upon us finger, the black ring consumed all light. A third new void in the dark. Narach gave a quick gasp of surprise, and nearly fell backwards at the sudden movement from the languorous creature.

The arm only remained in the air for half of a breath span before it came down once more. As it fell, it took in a new path, a path towards Narach's head.

Narach didn't feel the fleshy hand that struck him. He didn't feel any of the bent and twisted claws that tickled him. He didn't feel the force that knocked him back. Nor did he feel the continued pressure of the hand held fast to his face.

He might have screamed, but if he did so, he was not aware of it. Either his hearing had failed him, or the incessant buzzing of a thousand-thousands insects that filled his ears blocked his cries from his perception. The din grew loudly as one, as though the swarm came through from before him, passed through and around him, and then dissipated into his body. That ringing might have diminished, but it would not leave while the Ghlaírí’s hand still remained pressed upon his face.

Pain shot through him, from the hand of the Ghlaírí into his head. Down to his limbs it surged, wracking every once of flesh, blood, and bone within him. Only for a moment did the pain ring before it ceased, leaving nothing but numbness and sore warmth. He never realized his swoon. He never saw himself falling towards the ground.

At first, the clammy hand of the Ghlaírí had overtaken his vision, but as he instinctively focused his gaze, a great sinking black clouded all. Spewing forth from the round and perfectly smooth shape of the ring upon the dreadful finger came endless streams of darkness. The traces of light upon the cave walls above him were not snuffed out as like most absence of lights. The shadows of the ring swallowed the light whole. A darkness that consumed.

In ever so swift a time, the mind of Narach began to fail him. Horror gave way to shock. Shock gave way to regret. Regret gave way to confusion. Confusion dissolved, and in it's place was little more than a vague consciousness aware of only it's immediate surroundings. In such a mind, Narach forgot the intention to keep himself upright, and like after a sleepless night, he fell backwards even as his eyes remained open.

Even in that half-awake state, there existed some small remnant of thought that called out to Narach. Like a distant onlooker to some catastrophe, it showed and waved, desperate to get his attention towards the situation at hand. A terrible mistake! The thought seemed to say. It might have said that, but there was no point in verifying the message, for just as they were spoken, Narach forgot them.

Falling to the grimy floor of the cavern, Narach thought he heard a great thud of some sort, but whatever concern was left in his mind was insufficient to bring understanding to what it was. Indeed, it would have been an odd thing to consider the splitting of one's own senses to the extent that the sound of hitting a cave ground would become disconnected from the sight and fell off the same thing.

Narach never considered it, though. Perhaps in another situation, he might have found it a funny thing, even.

Odd indeed. The sound of Narach falling to the floor as his mind began to fail him and sleep overtake him, might resemble some other sound. It was a strange resemblance, but to one who might have paid it a close ear, the low echo of Narach's taking body wounded very similar to the doors of fate slamming shut just behind him.