Chapter 4
Dervla
The inside smells like damp stone and centuries of secrets.
Candles line the walls in iron sconces, their flames throwing shadows that move like they’re breathing.
The pews have been cleared, either pushed back against the walls or removed entirely, leaving a wide, open space of flagstone floor.
At the far end, by the altar, there’s a long table draped in black cloth.
Six figures stand behind it, still in their robes, hoods up, faces obscured.
Dramatic. Points for commitment, I suppose.
The door shuts behind me with a sound that reverberates through the stone.
I don’t flinch. I walk forward until I’m roughly ten metres from the table and stop, feet apart, hands loose at my sides.
I can feel Henrietta against the small of my back, warm from my body heat, and the weight of her is a comfort I refuse to feel guilty about.
No one speaks for a long moment. The candles flicker. Somewhere above me, a draught moves through the bell tower and moans softly, like the building itself is exhaling.
“Dervla Callaghan,” a voice says from the centre of the table. Male, older, with the kind of authority that doesn’t need volume. “Step into the circle, please.”
Please. Like I have a choice. I scan the room one more time, the exits confirmed, six bodies, no visible weapons, plenty of shadows where someone could be hiding, and then walk forward.
There’s a circle etched into the flagstone, maybe three metres across, the grooves worn deep and dark with what I hope is centuries of candle wax and not something more sinister. I step into it and plant my feet.
“Dervla Callaghan,” the voice repeats, and this time I place the cadence. It’s rehearsed. Ceremonial. This man has said these words before, to other people, in this exact spot. “Daughter of Cillian. Granddaughter of Seamus. Great-granddaughter of Padraig. Your bloodline is known to us.”
“Lovely. Do I get a prize for that, or is the genealogy lesson free?”
The central figure raises his hand flat, palm towards the ceiling. “Your lineage grants you standing. It does not grant you rank. Rank is earned.”
“Then let’s earn it.” I spread my hands. “What do you want from me?”
“Your blade.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your blade, Ms Callaghan.”
“I’m not carrying one.”
“You can hand it over, or it will be taken by force. Which do you prefer?”
I hesitate, but only because I am wondering what the consequences would be if I made them take it by force, but then killed them all with it.
Probably not good. For them or me.
I reach around and pull Henrietta out. “Oh, look. Forgot about that,” I say and step forward to place it on the man’s palm. “I want that back in the exact same state as I handed it over.”
“You will. If you survive.”
He places it on the table and steps back.
If I survive? What the fuck is this?
One of the six, steps forward and lifts a trapdoor in the floor. “You will run the gauntlet in under five minutes. If you take longer, then that time will be docked from the next test.”
“And if I don’t finish at all?” I ask.
“Then you don’t belong here.”
Fair enough. I peer into the trapdoor. Stone steps descend into blackness so thick it looks solid. The air rising from below is cold and smells of earth and something metallic that I don’t want to identify. Somewhere down there, water is dripping in a rhythm that sounds deliberate.
“Any rules?”
“Survive.”
I crouch at the edge and look down again. The candlelight reaches maybe four steps before the dark swallows everything.
“How do I know when five minutes is up?”
“There will be a bell at the halfway point. From then… you count.”
Count. While trying not to die.
Awesome.
I don’t give myself time to think about it. Thinking is the enemy of action, and hesitation is a luxury I can’t afford in front of six robed strangers who are clearly getting off on the theatre of all this. I swing my legs over the edge, hit the stone steps and descend.
The stone is slick under my boots. I keep one hand on the wall, counting steps. Seven, eight, nine—then the staircase curves to the left and the last of the candlelight dies behind me.
Total darkness.
My breathing sounds too loud in the enclosed space.
I force it through my nose, slow and controlled, and let my fingers trail along the wall as I keep moving.
The stone is rough, ancient, and wet in places where moisture has bled through from whatever sits above.
Twelve, thirteen, fourteen—and then my foot hits flat ground.
I’m at the bottom, and the timer starts.
Electric lights blink on overhead, and I move straight to what looks like an obstacle course.
First up is a series of concrete pillars spaced about a metre apart, with iron bars connecting them at different heights.
Some at knee level, some at chest, some overhead.
I have to weave through them, ducking and climbing in a sequence that’s designed to disorient.
I hit it at a sprint, dropping under the first bar, vaulting the second, twisting sideways through a gap that’s barely wide enough for my hips.
My top catches on a bolt and tears at the hem.
I don’t stop. The concrete is cold under my palms as I haul myself over a waist-high bar and drop to the other side.
The second obstacle is a trench, maybe two metres wide, filled with water so dark it could be a foot deep or six.
No way to tell. I back up three steps, run, and launch myself across.
My left foot catches the far edge, boot scraping against stone, and I throw my weight forward, rolling onto solid ground.
My right knee takes the impact hard enough to make me hiss through my teeth, but nothing’s broken.
I’m up and moving before the pain fully registers.
I stumble into a narrow corridor with walls that press in claustrophobically tight, shoulders-brushing-both-sides tight.
I have to turn sideways and shuffle, which slows me down and makes my pulse spike in a way I don’t appreciate.
The walls are rough stone, and they scrape against my back and chest as I push through.
Halfway along, something gives under my foot.
“Fuck!” It’s a pressure plate.
A jet of freezing water blasts from the wall at head height, blasting me in the face. The shock of it makes me gasp, but I keep moving, shoving through to the end of the corridor where it opens up again as I wipe at my eyes.
A bell rings. Loud, harsh, echoing off the stone.
Halfway. Start counting.
One. Two. Three.
The next section is a climbing wall with rough stone with iron handholds. I leap up and discover that they are slippery as fuck with grease.
I fall at the first attempt, landing on my arse. “Fuck. Fuck.”
I scramble to my feet and wipe my palms on my leggings, but it barely helps.
The grease is industrial, thick, and it coats everything.
I grab the first handhold again, this time gripping harder, fingers curled so deep my knuckles ache, and pull myself up.
My boots scramble against the wall, finding a toehold that’s barely a centimetre deep.
I haul. My arms scream. The second handhold is higher than it should be.
It’s designed for someone taller, someone with longer reach, and I have to lunge for it.
Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three.
My fingers close around iron and slip immediately. I jam my boot into a crack in the stone and use the friction to hold myself while I re-grip. This time, I squeeze until my forearms burn and drag myself up another half metre. Third hold. Fourth. The grease thins near the top like a reward.
I hook my elbow over the top edge and heave, getting my torso over, then swing a leg up and roll onto the platform above. I lie there for exactly one second, chest heaving, before I drop over the side and get knocked off my feet by a palm flat against my chest.
“Oof,” I groan as my back hits the wall, knocking the air out of me.
The figure looms. He is at least twice my size, hooded like a fucking executioner.
He doesn’t need a weapon. His hands are like sledgehammers.
He swings a fist, and I squeak and duck before he takes my head off.
How the hell am I supposed to get around him?
I guess that’s the test and why they disarmed me.
Fuckers.
He swings again. I roll sideways along the wall, feeling the displaced air as his fist connects with stone instead of my skull. That’s going to hurt him, but he doesn’t even grunt. Whoever this is, he’s been trained to absorb pain and keep coming.
I drop low and try to dart around him, when his foot hooks my ankle, and he yanks back. The flagstone rushes up to meet my face, and I barely get my hands out in time, catching myself with a jolt that reverberates up both arms.
Fifty-eight. Fifty-nine. Sixty.
I kick back with my free foot and connect with something solid. His grip loosens for a fraction of a second, and I wrench my ankle free and scramble forward on all fours before finding my feet. There’s a doorway ahead, a dark rectangle cut into the stone. I sprint for it.
He’s fast for his size. I hear him behind me, boots pounding the stone.
I don’t have time for this shit. Keep moving, Derv.
I hit the doorway at full speed and slam my palm against the stone frame to pivot left, following the corridor as it bends sharply.
His footsteps are right behind me, close enough that I can hear his breathing—steady, controlled, not even winded.
Professional. This isn’t some student in a costume.
This is someone who does this for a living.