Chapter 60
Chapter sixty
The Mountain
They walked for hours, yet the path seemed to wind and twist endlessly before them. As the afternoon sun settled above, Skyre considered making the call to turn back.
“Can you see it?” he asked Cían. The young Aard had hurried ahead, but even he now slowed in exhaustion.
“We must be close, sire!”
“How can he be so giddy when one slip would have our lives?” Torin said and the others chuckled.
Skyre knew their strength would wane, yet, with each footfall, each crest conquered, he felt it.
Pride.
Up the slope they climbed, pressing onwards as trees were replaced with stone.
His bones ached. His fingers blistered. Still, they pushed higher, till the air thinned and the earth was the fog beneath them.
Never had Skyre known such heights. Not when they crowned him on Bráth Aghmuir, not when he came to his throne in Rhyd-hal. Not even that day upon the pines in the grove.
Closer and closer they drew to the top, till he thought they would touch the sun itself.
He craved it. Fresh strength burned in his muscles and he strove upwards.
He passed Cían, with his youthful heart, and was beyond Torin, who knew the earth, and went higher than Eirn, who came from the cliffs, until he crested the peak.
His palm gripped the stone and he hoisted himself over, his feet again finding purchase as the slope levelled upon the mountain’s collar. Skyre gazed out above a sea of cloud. He laughed and hollered across white waves. The wind was warm and wild and his lungs drank deep.
He knew in that moment: it was not the province of a king, but the power of a man.
And it was beautiful.
Cían laughed and patted his shoulder. “A second wind, sire?”
Torin joined them, catching his breath. “He could give a hound a run for its wares.”
“Have we made it?” asked Eirn.
“Here!” cried Cían with excitement. “There’s a tunnel! I think it leads to the summit!”
It was a tight fit, hardly high enough for their heads nor wide enough for their chests and they had to duck and squeeze in one by one.
Skyre went first.
Despite its size, it had almost certainly been hollowed out and made smooth by human hand. A theory which proved true when, near the mouth, his eyes caught strange markings upon the wall. They were half-carved and painted, though the pigment had long faded.
“My Vaich, what do you see?” Cían called from the bottom.
The images depicted an ancient scene. A woman in white amongst a sprawl of forest. He supposed the trees might once have been green, though now were dark, gnarled and… familiar.
They were Urna’ha.
He could just make it out—a vision of birth; of men hatching from the womb of the wood.
This was the story of the Awakening.
He knew the tales of the first men and of those who had traversed the mountains into Escgalia. Had this been chiselled by the hands of ancient tribes?
His eyes drew back to the pale figure at the center and his heart twisted.
Undeniable.
“You have been here before…”
“Sire, we’re coming up now!”
Skyre hurried along the tunnel. Curiosity burned within him. If men had come there long ago, what else would they find at the top?
The mountaintop dipped down, a depression in rock and stone.
Earthen pillars were arranged like idle sentries, the hardened spokes of the mountain’s mighty crown.
Before them stretched the summit—its guts dark and cavernous.
Climbing to the pinnacle seemed almost certainly impossible, but the cave mouth beckoned hungrily.
Despite the bright afternoon sun, Skyre shivered in its shadow.
Cían balked. “Incredible! Oh, that Grandpa might see this! His story dinnae do it justice!”
“Aye,” muttered Eirn, “but it seems he wisnae wrong, either.” He dug in the dirt with the toe of his boot, revealing a long, yellowed bone.
“Think these are the men who came for the monster? Or the golden warrior?”
“Those are just stories!” snapped Torin, startling the younger.
“Aye, leave him be,” chided Skyre. Though a wariness grew within.
The men fanned out between the standing stones. Skyre was hopeful for more carvings, but what they found, instead, was more bones and bodies, long left to decay.
Torin’s voice wafted over. “These bones are old, but… They arenae old enough.”
Skyre watched the sky. It would be getting dark soon.
“Aye,” he said quietly, “Let us not linger. It is a deep unwelcoming I feel in my teeth.”
“Sire! Come quick!” Cían called. The men rushed to meet him.
They met in the middle, and Skyre said, “Better not be another of your tricks.”
But the words died on his tongue.
For there, stuck within a cracked stone, was an iron axe, bound with leather and trimmed in gold.
He was breathless as his eyes drank it in. Even now, after years of weathering, its edge glistened sharp.
“By the flame,” said Torin.
“My god…” said Eirn.
“It is real!” cried Cían.
“It can’t be.” Skyre had only known beauty like that but once in his life. He could not pull his eyes away.
Cían beamed widely up at him. “Take it, sire! It should be yours! Become Cárthsíarna!”
The men were silent. No one had any taunting left.
Could it all be true? The story of Cathal, the hero who had gone up the mountain to protect the village, who had slain legions with a single swing…
And only one was strong enough to claim it.
“Cían,” said Skyre quietly, “take it up.”
“Me?” asked the younger, puzzled.
“See if you can.”
Cían looked hesitant and a bit uneasy. He glanced back for confirmation.
Skyre nodded.
Carefully, Cían reached for the axe, his youthful hands gripping the haft. He pulled.
The blade did not loose.
“Try again,” Skyre encouraged.
Again, the youth pulled, his feet digging against the earth, his knuckles white upon the grip. But the blade remained.
“Again.”
Once more, Cían pulled till his teeth ground and his breath puffed out of him.
“I cannae do it, sire.”
“My Vaich, allow me,” said Torin. Torin was older and larger, with great muscles from plowing.
Skyre nodded, and the man gripped the axe tight near the head.
He pulled. He grunted and groaned, but the axe did not budge.
He put his foot upon the stone, leveraging himself, but even as his skin flushed and his veins bulged, the axe did not move.
Next came Eirn, who tugged and groped uselessly, then the next man, and then the fifth. Till all who was left to place his hands upon the iron was the Vaich.
“It is just like the story,” whispered Cían. “Only Cathal could wield it.”
Skyre remained still. He thought, he might go forwards, and place his hands upon it, and fail aside the rest.
He had passed trials before, but all of those were primed for his success.
This one cared not for his blood nor his birth.
It did not know his name. It had lain in wait for a hundred…
maybe a thousand years, and no one had it allowed to claim.
If he failed now, then suppose he was never divine.
Just a man with a crown and a scar on his chest.
His body hummed, brimming with a need to prove himself… and yet, he wondered if it should matter. If he went down the mountain with the axe held high, would they cry his name? Would they bow before him?
Maybe it would change nothing. Maybe it would bring no happiness. Yet, to defend a realm, a people, a heart…
That would be a thing of legend.
He reached forth, his fingers grazing the grip. Its heat pulsed deep within. It seemed to breathe beneath his touch, and slowly, he clasped his hand about it.
The mountain shook.
The men faltered, their feet digging into the dirt, eyes frantic as the trembling grew.
“Another ettin?” said Eirn.
“An earthshake?” said Cían.
But it was neither. It was nothing natural at all.
Skyre released the iron handle and his gaze pulled towards the cavern as a great, echoing groan arose.
“What is it?” growled Torin. “Tell us, boy! How did the story go?”
Cían quivered, eyes wide in fear. “I-I dinnae ken! They said the monster was… was some devilish thing! A creature of ravenous hunger—”
A wave of smoke poured from the cave, beating against them like a tide. The air stuck in their lungs and they coughed and choked upon it. Skyre peeled his teary eyes open, finding something staring back at him from the dark.
Something frightening.
And familiar.
Two eyes of molten gold blazing in the shadow.
He was frozen in place, breathless and emptied of strength.
He remembered the moment. The heat. The bodily sound of a roar, piling in the throat.
The cave lit up crimson and there was a rush of wind as the field was drowned in a torrent of fire.
Skyre was pushed aside as Cían threw himself upon him, pressing him down into the dirt.
The heat was unbearable. It flooded the summit like an open forge, only the stones braced against its force. And when it passed, the air was left trembling.
Fearfully, Skyre glanced aside, seeing nothing but smoke and sparks.
“S-Sire…” He looked up at Cían over him. “Are you… alright?”
“Yes, I’m—” Skyre’s heart dropped. From the side, Cían seemed as he had moments before, youthful, happy…
full of life. But as Skyre’s vision came into focus, he saw that half of him was black and charred.
His arm was gone—instantaneously cauterized—and his leg was horribly burned.
But his head remained intact and for a fleeting moment, Skyre thought… he might live.
He gazed across the field.
Torin was gone. And what remained of him was little more than roasted bone. Eirn and the others had taken shelter behind the stones, but no one moved.
No one breathed.
“W-what do you suppose… it is?” mumbled Cían.
“Don’t speak,” hissed the king, “save your energy!”
One of the men looked about frantically, eyes locking on the tunnel.
Skyre shook his head. “Don’t—!” But the man rushed up, legs pounding against the earth as he dove forwards.
The fire followed once again, spilling into the field.
Skyre grabbed Cían, cradling him tightly beneath his shoulder till the flame passed.
The man was dead, and the rest understood.
Skyre gazed up through the cloud of ash. It would be supper soon. The hall would be filled with the smell of spice and mead would be flowing. And the druid would be waiting. Waiting…
But the king would never come back down the mountain.
Across the way, Eirn reached for his blade. Skyre watched him, feeling his heart cleave.
“Cían,” he whispered, “I must leave you for a while. I’ll come back for you. Hang on and… and don’t die!”
“Aye… sire…”
Skyre leaned him against the stone. He swallowed the lump in his throat, pulling Cían’s blade from its sheath and braced it against the dirt. He doubted he’d have much time, but if he was swift… if he was swift, he might make it.
He took a shallow breath and propelled himself forwards. He ran, faster than he had in all his life, and as he crossed the field, he heard it.
Skyre leapt behind the stone as the torrent unleashed again. Eirn pulled him behind as the fire washed the field, leaving a scar of ash in its wake.
He was alive.
But for how long?
“There’s no coming down from this, sire,” said Eirn.
“I ken it.”
“We die… or we fight and then we die. I choose the latter.”
Skyre considered a moment. “Seems the damned thing needs to breathe. If we can feign the fire, at least we could get a better look at what we’re up against.”
He glanced to where the last of their party sat in wait. He, too, looked frantically towards the tunnel.
“Fealty is harder to find,” muttered Skyre. The man quivered, eyes darting towards the king and Skyre let out a bitter laugh. “Then go ye wily bastard and make yourself useful.”
It was a moment more, but the fear won out, and the man dashed for the tunnel.
“You stay,” Skyre said to Eirn, “I’ll turn!”
“But—”
“Do what I say!”
The fire followed, the man’s cries burning on the air, as Skyre forced himself up. His fingers tightened around the two blades, and the moment the fire died, he stepped out upon the field.
And his heart seized.
A great terror passed over the sky. And on its back, it bore the light of creation…
Dust collected in tawny clouds, and through it, he saw him once and for all.
Not a god, but an ancient beast…
A serpentine body, and eyes of gold, and wings to stride upon the sky.
It came from the west and crossed over this land…
Two great horns of fury and breath full of flame.
… and was never there again seen.
AEon’Righ.
Bringer of sun.