instincts, to rut, to hunt, to kill, to feed, swelling up inside him like a siren from below - the call irresistible.
Sláine surrendered to it, and it was good.
A connection grew, slowly at first but he felt it building.
He felt the tie between his flesh, his spirit, and the earth itself. He felt Danu's strength flooding into his veins, and it refused to be tethered. It was power capable of shaping mountains, mere ropes could never hope to harness it. He pulled at the heavy iron chains binding him, testing their limits as well as his own. His arms trembled though not with weakness. It surpassed anger. He became the mountain, resolute, indomitable, and indefatigable. He became the river, decisive, driven, a torrent that refused to be quelled. He sacrificed himself to the power of the Goddess as it swarmed through him.
In a momentary lapse of reason he saw visions of who he might yet be if he walked from this tomb. They danced before his eyes, hallucinatory bursts of light and sound as his head swam with the earth sense. He saw the health of the land, and encroaching on it, the sickness of the Sourlands eating away at the lush pastures and rolling hills, devouring the very body of the Goddess - and it sickened him.
It sickened him enough that he knew it could not be allowed to happen, not while he lived and breathed. The earth power was inside him, a part of him, as much as his blood was. He was a child of the Goddess. Sláine thought of that ghostly maiden he had seen two summers gone, leading the dead king into the trees. He would not fail her.
He held his head high and leaned into the chains, all of the power in his shoulders and upper arms braced by his legs for one final massive push.
He felt the anchor pins straining. The sound of iron grating on rock betrayed their weakness.
It was surrendering, but it needed more.
His arms spasmed uncontrollably, the pressure so intense it came close to buckling his joints.
Raging, Sláine summoned every last ounce of strength and surged away from the wall. It was done. The sheer power of his final press was enough to rip the anchor pins out of the limestone wall.
The chains clattered about his feet. He staggered forwards, the shaft of sunlight finding his face, and as he breathed in he felt the fears of the mortal world fade away. He was the land. He was the mountain. He was the river. He was eternal.
He broke the ropes, banging his wrists together until the hasps shattered and the locks sprung open, and left them on the floor with the bones.
He knew, without needing to see, which of the stones was actually the door. He picked his way through the bones, breaking them underfoot in his urgency to be out.
"Lug be praised!" Dian cried, seeing the huge door-stone brushed aside as if it wasn't there.
Cathbad squinted and scowled at Sláine as he emerged, triumphant, from his trial.
The young Sessair warrior was changed by his ordeal.
He stood taller, his muscles more prominent, but wrong. His entire musculature was deformed.
"So it's true," the surly old druid muttered. "Sláine Mac Roth really is blessed of Danu." He shook his head in disbelief.
Others seemed less surprised by the young man's survival. King Grudnew appeared to be particularly happy with this latest turn of events. He turned to his warlord. "I'd say he's proven himself worthy, wouldn't you, my old friend?"
"Without doubt, the Goddess touches him, sire. That makes him more than worthy."
"Druid," Grudnew commanded, watching Sláine discard the door-stone. "The trial is satisfied, wouldn't you agree?"
"The boy is alive."
"No, druid, the man is alive. He has lived through your barbaric ritual and proven the right of Murdo's claims, that he is indeed gifted with the warp-spasm just as the greatest warriors of the Red Branch ever were. Right proven by your own trial absolves him of the deaths of Cullen Mac Conn, and his father Conn of a Hundred Battles. All shall know his innocence - and there shall be
Sláine surrendered to it, and it was good.
A connection grew, slowly at first but he felt it building.
He felt the tie between his flesh, his spirit, and the earth itself. He felt Danu's strength flooding into his veins, and it refused to be tethered. It was power capable of shaping mountains, mere ropes could never hope to harness it. He pulled at the heavy iron chains binding him, testing their limits as well as his own. His arms trembled though not with weakness. It surpassed anger. He became the mountain, resolute, indomitable, and indefatigable. He became the river, decisive, driven, a torrent that refused to be quelled. He sacrificed himself to the power of the Goddess as it swarmed through him.
In a momentary lapse of reason he saw visions of who he might yet be if he walked from this tomb. They danced before his eyes, hallucinatory bursts of light and sound as his head swam with the earth sense. He saw the health of the land, and encroaching on it, the sickness of the Sourlands eating away at the lush pastures and rolling hills, devouring the very body of the Goddess - and it sickened him.
It sickened him enough that he knew it could not be allowed to happen, not while he lived and breathed. The earth power was inside him, a part of him, as much as his blood was. He was a child of the Goddess. Sláine thought of that ghostly maiden he had seen two summers gone, leading the dead king into the trees. He would not fail her.
He held his head high and leaned into the chains, all of the power in his shoulders and upper arms braced by his legs for one final massive push.
He felt the anchor pins straining. The sound of iron grating on rock betrayed their weakness.
It was surrendering, but it needed more.
His arms spasmed uncontrollably, the pressure so intense it came close to buckling his joints.
Raging, Sláine summoned every last ounce of strength and surged away from the wall. It was done. The sheer power of his final press was enough to rip the anchor pins out of the limestone wall.
The chains clattered about his feet. He staggered forwards, the shaft of sunlight finding his face, and as he breathed in he felt the fears of the mortal world fade away. He was the land. He was the mountain. He was the river. He was eternal.
He broke the ropes, banging his wrists together until the hasps shattered and the locks sprung open, and left them on the floor with the bones.
He knew, without needing to see, which of the stones was actually the door. He picked his way through the bones, breaking them underfoot in his urgency to be out.
"Lug be praised!" Dian cried, seeing the huge door-stone brushed aside as if it wasn't there.
Cathbad squinted and scowled at Sláine as he emerged, triumphant, from his trial.
The young Sessair warrior was changed by his ordeal.
He stood taller, his muscles more prominent, but wrong. His entire musculature was deformed.
"So it's true," the surly old druid muttered. "Sláine Mac Roth really is blessed of Danu." He shook his head in disbelief.
Others seemed less surprised by the young man's survival. King Grudnew appeared to be particularly happy with this latest turn of events. He turned to his warlord. "I'd say he's proven himself worthy, wouldn't you, my old friend?"
"Without doubt, the Goddess touches him, sire. That makes him more than worthy."
"Druid," Grudnew commanded, watching Sláine discard the door-stone. "The trial is satisfied, wouldn't you agree?"
"The boy is alive."
"No, druid, the man is alive. He has lived through your barbaric ritual and proven the right of Murdo's claims, that he is indeed gifted with the warp-spasm just as the greatest warriors of the Red Branch ever were. Right proven by your own trial absolves him of the deaths of Cullen Mac Conn, and his father Conn of a Hundred Battles. All shall know his innocence - and there shall be
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