his fingers. "There's little I can do," he muttered, more to himself than Sláine as he pulled a metal torc from his own arm and secured it on Sláine's, above the wound. He tightened it as best he could, staunching much of the blood. It wasn't perfect but it would slow the bleeding enough to at least give him a chance of not bleeding to death.
He watched Dian clamber up onto the side of a tomb and release a single crystal from its setting in the ceiling. A weak chink of light picked out a cobweb on the far wall. It revealed more than Sláine wanted to see. The floor was strewn with bones.
"When the light blinds you, then its time to come out. Don't die, eh? I've buried one friend already this week. It wasn't exactly fun."
"I'll do my best," Sláine said wryly.
"No food, no water, can't even sit down. You know this is because of what we did, don't you? He wants to break you."
"Then I shall have to do my best to disappoint the old goat."
"Come on, boy!" Cathbad called from outside the cairn. "We'll seal you in there with him if you don't hurry!"
"Sorry... I've got to go." Dian backed away. "Coming, your holiness. Coming."
They rolled the stone across the doorway and sealed him in the darkness with the ghosts of the dead and the rats.
He lost all sense of time in the darkness.
At first he was strong.
At first he was stubborn.
At first he believed he would survive.
But all that changed as the darkness brought his ghosts back to haunt him. There would be no respite.
Sounds drifted up to him, rats chittering, and darker, fuller sounds that his imagination painted as the dead coming to drag him down to the Underworld. He closed his eyes but it made no difference to the sounds, they haunted him just as completely. At times he heard a longer dragging sound and a deep grumbling moan. At other times voices incapable of forming words, left to rasp guttural and incomplete sounds of pain and despair. He imagined it was Cullen down there, trapped somewhere between the Summerland and the Underworld, cursing him for condemning him to that vile limbo. In his head those sounds took on the more desperate edge of humanity. His mind swelled with the torments of that exile, his victim denied both heaven and hell.
The voices were his, he realised at some point. He haunted himself, accused himself, betrayed himself.
He tried to think of his friends, picture their faces in his mind, but he couldn't see them. He saw only Cullen and his dead father.
Madness lurked in the darkness of the burial chamber.
He couldn't find it in himself to feel angry.
He was surrendering, giving up.
He had killed both men. He deserved his fate.
Oh yes you do, warped one. Vile thing. Monster. You deserve death. You deserve suffering. You deserve your pain. Nothing more. Nothing less.
He knew that the voices of the dead spoke the truth. He deserved nothing more than pain.
So he gave himself to it.
Smells reached him too: dank must, rot, decay, and occasionally, like a ghost in the all-consuming dark, the pestilent reek of disease.
He suspected then what lurked in the depths beneath the Great Cairn.
Madness. That's what lies in here, warped one: the madness of a betrayer, the madness of a murderer, of a cold-blooded killer. The madness of- He silenced the voice. He needed to listen, to hear.
Not all of the Goddess's children were perfect, beautiful creations.
There was Avagddu, her firstborn: Avagddu, the vile personification of disease, decay and stupidity. Avagddu the essence of corruption, canker and treachery. Avagddu was a thing of the dark places. It shunned the light and contact with the Goddess's other children.
It couldn't be Avagddu.
Couldn't be.
The druids wouldn't shelter the monster.
They wouldn't.
Sláine pulled on his bonds but the chains were firm. He was trapped. He listened desperately for anything, any sound that might betray the beast.
Uncountable time slipped by.
More sounds haunted him and his mind began drawing
He watched Dian clamber up onto the side of a tomb and release a single crystal from its setting in the ceiling. A weak chink of light picked out a cobweb on the far wall. It revealed more than Sláine wanted to see. The floor was strewn with bones.
"When the light blinds you, then its time to come out. Don't die, eh? I've buried one friend already this week. It wasn't exactly fun."
"I'll do my best," Sláine said wryly.
"No food, no water, can't even sit down. You know this is because of what we did, don't you? He wants to break you."
"Then I shall have to do my best to disappoint the old goat."
"Come on, boy!" Cathbad called from outside the cairn. "We'll seal you in there with him if you don't hurry!"
"Sorry... I've got to go." Dian backed away. "Coming, your holiness. Coming."
They rolled the stone across the doorway and sealed him in the darkness with the ghosts of the dead and the rats.
He lost all sense of time in the darkness.
At first he was strong.
At first he was stubborn.
At first he believed he would survive.
But all that changed as the darkness brought his ghosts back to haunt him. There would be no respite.
Sounds drifted up to him, rats chittering, and darker, fuller sounds that his imagination painted as the dead coming to drag him down to the Underworld. He closed his eyes but it made no difference to the sounds, they haunted him just as completely. At times he heard a longer dragging sound and a deep grumbling moan. At other times voices incapable of forming words, left to rasp guttural and incomplete sounds of pain and despair. He imagined it was Cullen down there, trapped somewhere between the Summerland and the Underworld, cursing him for condemning him to that vile limbo. In his head those sounds took on the more desperate edge of humanity. His mind swelled with the torments of that exile, his victim denied both heaven and hell.
The voices were his, he realised at some point. He haunted himself, accused himself, betrayed himself.
He tried to think of his friends, picture their faces in his mind, but he couldn't see them. He saw only Cullen and his dead father.
Madness lurked in the darkness of the burial chamber.
He couldn't find it in himself to feel angry.
He was surrendering, giving up.
He had killed both men. He deserved his fate.
Oh yes you do, warped one. Vile thing. Monster. You deserve death. You deserve suffering. You deserve your pain. Nothing more. Nothing less.
He knew that the voices of the dead spoke the truth. He deserved nothing more than pain.
So he gave himself to it.
Smells reached him too: dank must, rot, decay, and occasionally, like a ghost in the all-consuming dark, the pestilent reek of disease.
He suspected then what lurked in the depths beneath the Great Cairn.
Madness. That's what lies in here, warped one: the madness of a betrayer, the madness of a murderer, of a cold-blooded killer. The madness of- He silenced the voice. He needed to listen, to hear.
Not all of the Goddess's children were perfect, beautiful creations.
There was Avagddu, her firstborn: Avagddu, the vile personification of disease, decay and stupidity. Avagddu the essence of corruption, canker and treachery. Avagddu was a thing of the dark places. It shunned the light and contact with the Goddess's other children.
It couldn't be Avagddu.
Couldn't be.
The druids wouldn't shelter the monster.
They wouldn't.
Sláine pulled on his bonds but the chains were firm. He was trapped. He listened desperately for anything, any sound that might betray the beast.
Uncountable time slipped by.
More sounds haunted him and his mind began drawing
Similar Books
