EóGAN VI

  The catacomb of tunnels left countless approaches for ambush. If the frequencies of webbing was any indication, an attack from nearly any direction was a threat. Eógan drew Ronan’s spear from his back. The sardonic weapon immediately began to berate him, “I see I am worthy of your attention now Pecht. Long neglected in favor of a creeping insect.”

  “Are you jealous of Skellum?” Eógan asked. Liadan glanced at him with raised brows. He nodded at the spear with his hands. “I need your help Ronan, we are in danger,” he beseeched quietly.

  “A spider larger than a horse is suitable prey for a legendary weapon such as I.” Eógan rolled his eyes at the spear’s bravado. “I saw that!” the spear snapped.

  “How?! Never mind, we can address that later.” He stepped forward, drawing away from Liadan’s light in hopes to improve his vision in the dark. Where are Rhyolite and Skellum? he asked himself.

  “They abandoned you,” the Spear taunted.

  “Wait…” he began aloud. You can hear me?

  “Of course I can.”

  So I have been muttering to myself like a madman for no reason?

  “Not for no reason, it amused me,” the spear answered.

  “Eógan!” Liadan shrieked, bringing him back to moment.

  Long, disturbingly long, legs began to emerge from an opening in the roof of the cave. The limbs were bone white and bristled with pale wiry hairs. The stark contrast with the dark rock was unsettling, as if a ghost was phasing through the ceiling. Liadan scrambled away, passing behind Eógan. He scanned for other unseen threats, before placing his back to a wall.

  The legs twitched at the sound of their movement, seeming to pinpoint their location. Painfully deliberate, more limbs appeared, snaking around the edge of opening and gaining purchase on the ceiling.

  Eógan caught himself holding his breath as the spider’s head appeared. Its six eyes were a pale pink, set in three distinct pairs upon its albino head. One pair lay horizontally in the center of its acorn shaped face, while two framed it vertically. Its mouthparts were tipped by hooked fangs, long enough to be wielded as swords.

  “What should we do?” Liadan mouthed soundlessly.

  Eógan scratched at the sparse stubble on his chin, wondering if this would be the end of his journey. He shuddered at the thought of being bound in a cocoon of webbing, helplessly awaiting the bite of fangs. His grip on the spear tightened.

  “Prepare yourself,” Ronan encouraged.

  Slowly and as soundlessly as possible, Eógan and Liadan backed away. The spider’s abdomen was massive, at least four times as large as its head. Eight legs clung to the roof of the cave. The joints of its long limbs nearly brushed the floor and walls. It stalked towards them, keeping pace with their retreat. The mouth parts opened slowly, twitching in anticipation.

  Should we run? Eógan asked himself.

  “You might make it, your sweetling would not,” Ronan teased. “Use her as bait, that will give you time to escape.”

  Shut up, you.

  “She would do the same given the chance. Remember what happened in the dungeon?”

  Eógan brushed the sentient spear’s thoughts away, focusing on his current predicament. He met Liadan’s eyes. Despite her obvious fear, her resolve was apparent. The giant spider moved along the roof of the cavern smoothly, as if it had their scent.

  Eógan steeled himself, readying Ronan’s spear, while Liadan channeled her god’s energy into a filigreed barrier of light. The spider surged forward in an unexpected lounge.

  A bizarre chirping sound halted the spider a few hand spans from Eógan’s face. The noise repeated with increased intensity. The rumbling trill reminded him of a cricket’s chirp, magnified in volume and lowered in pitch.

  Rhyolite emerged from behind the cave spider, laughing uproariously. He lacked the breath to speak. “Her name is,” he repeated the chirping sound by rubbing grooved stones together. The spider pivoted to the priest, her bulbous abdomen nearly sweeping Eógan and Liadan off their feet. She scuttled towards him, dropping from the ceiling and lowering her head. The priest pet the spider on the ridge of her head, behind the eyes.

  Eógan stared in disbelief as the spider rubbed the pair of pedipalps between her front limbs together, the bristle-like hairs on them made answering chirps.

  “How are you?” Rhyolite cooed to the spider.

  “I have never been so unsettled,” Liadan observed as the spider stroked Rhyolite gently with one of her long limbs, rubbing it along his shoulder.

  Eógan was at a loss for words, possibly for the first time in his life.

  Skellum appeared, well behind the spider, keeping a healthy distance. Eógan was relieved to see his friend.

  “Come,” Rhyolite beckoned, “to the spider’s home.” The adoring couple led the way, not waiting to see if the others followed.

  “I have never seen him so happy,” Liadan remarked.

  Eógan agreed.

  ———

  The spider’s den was horrifying in how familiar sights were scaled to a degree that was hard to confront. Upon the surface, Eógan had seen especially large spiders catch prey as big as small birds; in this context, he was the bird. Some of the mummified remains of the giant cave spider’s meals bore tattered clothing, marking them as Tengu. Other cocooned leftovers included a bestiary of the underground world’s oversized insects.

  Guillaume’s sarcophagus was already present, making it clear that Rhyolite had left Eógan and Liadan alone in the tunnels to find the spider. He vowed to find an adequate way to prank the old priest and get his revenge.

  Long strands of intricate webs covered most of the cavern, lovingly tended by the spider. Rhyolite demonstrated a quality of web that Eógan had never been privy to. “Good,” the priest gestured towards a hammock of strands, proving how safe it was to handle with a touch. He could place his hand and easily remove it. “Bad,” Rhyolite said, gesturing to a different set of webbing. He said something in Tengu that neither of them understood, beckoning them closer. He extended his open palm to the bell-shaped segmented ends. He did not touch any of these strands. The spider looked on with her six eyes, fastidiously tidying her lair.

  “It looks like mushroom caps stacked atop one another,” Eógan observed.

  “It does!” Liadan agreed. “I never would have thought that a spider’s silk could be specialized.”

  “Sleep,” Rhyolite suggested as he returned to the webbing he had identified as non-adhesive and climbed onto the hammock. With an exaggerated sigh he stretched and closed his eyes.

  Liadan approached a similarly structured bit of webbing, closely examined it for any of the signs that it might ensnare her, and tentatively climbed onto it. “Good night,” she said with a weary yawn, settling into her bed. “Or whatever time of day it is,” she amended.

  Eógan watched in a mixture of awe and horror as the spider lowered her abdomen, positioning it near a natural niche in the wall. Strands of webbing were excreted, carefully combed by her spinneret. With delicate care, a third hammock was woven. The spider turned to him, tapping the webbing with a long pale leg. He thought it would be rude to hesitate, so he strode towards his bed. The spider backed off, climbing up the wall and across the ceiling.

  Skellum slunk from the shadows, keeping as wide a berth from the cave spider as possible. Eógan lowered a hand to his friend, which was grasped lightly by his smaller pincer.

  The pseudoscorpion froze in place, completely motionless. Eógan suspected that neither of them would sleep deeply.

  THE LAND OF DREAMS

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  Eógan stood on a rocky rise, overlooking an endless void of swirling pastel colors. Spheres dotted with distinct climates and terrains orbited slowly in the distance. Some were barren and arid, others lush with greenery. He had been here before, Lady Galdr had brought all of them here.

  Liadan walked up the steep rise to join where Eógan gazed off into the horizon. “Why are we here?” she asked. Her mouth did not move, nonetheless, her voice carried.

  “Some prophecy or vision would be my guess,” Eógan answered. He turned towards her and a familiar deracinated tree sat at the base of his perch: gnarled roots grasping like a hand. He pointed to it, Liadan was taken aback by its sudden appearance. Unlike the ancient tree marking the entrance to Lady Galdr’s bog, this dream version had a sturdy door in the center of its palm, were it truly a hand.

  They had no need to confer, their destination was clear. Perspective and distance warped drunkenly as Eógan jogged down the slope. Liadan followed him, studying her feet to combat a wave of vertigo. The dust and gravel they kicked up swirled, hanging in the air and coalescing into tiny orbs. She wondered if the floating islands in the endless void could be birthed but such humble origins.

  “Should we knock?” she asked. The door loomed above them, as tall as a tree trunk. The handle was well above their heads.

  “I am sure that we are expected.” As Eógan reached for the handle, the proportions of the door shrunk, adjusting to accommodate his stature. He hesitated to grasp the carved latch.

  “I think we should knock,” Liadan insisted. Intending to rap the door lightly, her knuckles struck thunderous booms.

  Eógan laughed, grabbed the handle and pushed open the door. The threshold was a void of nothingness. Gravity shifted, the doorway became the floor and both of them fell through screaming.

  Lady Galdr sat at her loom, the tapestry was in tatters. The room was identical to her cottage at the center of the bog. Colorful threads lay on the bare floor in snaking piles where they had unraveled. The weave that had bound them was undone. “Welcome, dearies,” she said with a sad smile. A cauldron burbled above a tidy fire, a thin and tall young man tended it with his back to them.

  “Was there no way to send a message?” Eógan joked, grinning ear to ear. “It is good to see you my lady.” The witch’s appearance shifted between that of a wizened hag and a breathtakingly stunning young woman.

  “This is the message, you twit,” Lady Galdr groused. “It is hard to reach the living when you are dead.”

  Eógan’s flippancy ceased, Liadan was too stunned to speak.

  “Now, now, fret not. My end came as no surprise,” Lady Galdr soothed in a voice that was both croaking and melodious. “This, however, should be of great concern.” She lifted tattered strands of the tapestry.

  “Have we failed?” Liadan asked, as she tried to gather and sort through the tangle of colored yarn strewn across the floor.

  “Not yet,” the witch answered, “there is little time to spare.” She called out to the young man stirring the cauldron, “Five cups dearie, our last guest is running late.”

  The young lanky man fetched five mismatched cups from a shelf, set them by the cauldron and began to ladle steaming broth.

  “Gu… Guillaume?” Liadan struggled to ask.

  He turned to her, looking hale and hearty, as if he had aged several years. “Do I know you?” Guillaume asked.

  Liadan was taken aback. “You do not remember me… or Eógan?”

  The young man stared at her, consternation painting his brow. “I hope that I have not offended you.”

  Lady Galdr rose and put a hand on Guillaume’s nape. “He is changed due to his time here. This demesne is intended as a waypoint, it is not a place that your kind should inhabit for long periods of time.”

  “Will he ever remember who he was?” Liadan’s voice faltered.

  “That is a reason why I brought you here,” the witch answered. She jabbed a finger gnarled finger into Liadan’s chest. “You must bring him back, only your god has that power.” The witch paused. “Well… not the only one to possess that gift; the only god’s whose price for resurrection does not come at too dire a cost.”

  “How would I begin to perform such a ritual?” Liadan protested.

  “All will be clear when the moment is right, dearie, trust that you are on the correct path,” Lady Galdr answered cryptically. “Above all else, do not succumb to the temptation of a shortcut.” Her eyes bore into the Gaídel’s soul. “Do not trust the honeyed lies of evil entities.”

  Liadan thought of the nightmare that had plagued her while her faith in the Broken Man had been shattered. The destruction wrought by an unimaginably powerful being upon Eógan’s people and the land they resided on. She gasped, realizing that she had never told him of what she had seen.

  Lady Galdr caught her eyes and subtly shook her head side to side. Tell him when you reach the surface, the witch projected into her head. “Guillaume, will you please open the door?”

  The Jotman obliged, swinging it open as far as the frame would allow and standing dutifully to the side. The threshold was a pulsing barrier of raw energy, magic ebbed in swirling eddies.

  A large form tumbled into the witch’s hut. Red limbs thrashed about and stony spikes pierced through the rushes on the dirt floor, gathering around the Tengu. It was Esker. She eyes were wild, as if she had been awakened from the midst of a dream.

  Guillaume pulsed with negative energy, a wave of it rippled through Esker. The stones shaped by her geomancy crumbled into pebbles.

  Esker looked up, astonished. “My friend,” she said, her voice welling with emotion. “I have missed you.”

  Guillaume looked uncomfortable and shuffled his feet.

  Esker rose, brushing fragments of rock from her military uniform. “Did I say something to offend you?” she asked Guillaume.

  “I am sorry, I do not remember any of you,” he answered. “Have some broth.” He ferried the eclectic cups to the table, placing one by each seat.

  Esker eyed him warily, edging over to stand by Eógan and Liadan.

  Lady Galdr sat at the head of the table and gestured for the others to join her. Guillaume sat to her left and Eógan to her right. That left two open seats, one next to Guillaume and one on the opposite side.

  Neither Esker nor Liadan made a move.

  “Sit!” the witch commanded. Esker took several long strides and tucked her legs as she sat down next to Guillaume. Liadan was the last to join the table. “Try the broth.”

  Eógan and Guillaume obliged immediately. Liadan blew across the steam of her cup. “Is there any point to drinking while in this state? Are we dreaming?”

  “What nourishes the mind, nourishes the body,” Lady Galdr answered.

  Esker took a sip, while Liadan held the cup in her hands, warming her fingers.

  “I brought you here to keep a promise,” the witch began. “I told each of you that we would meet one last time. This marks that occasion.” The mood around the table was somber. “What we began together, you four must finish.”

  “And how are we to accomplish that?” Eógan asked.

  Lady Galdr boxed his ear. “Use this time wisely, cease your whining.”

  “It was only a question,” Eógan pouted, rubbing at his earlobe. Her eyes narrowed. “Yes my lady. How can we finish anything together, when all but Liadan and I are apart?” He pointed at Guillaume, “Also, he is dead.”

  “Do you possess his body?” Lady Galdr asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you think to preserve it?”

  “We did,” Liadan answered, grateful for Rhyolite’s sarcophagus.

  “Even better.” The witch was pleased. “You could bring him back in a state of decay, but the results would be… unpleasant.” Guillaume did not appear to be bothered by any discussion of his mortality. He obediently sat, sipping his broth.

  “You suggested that the Broken Man could return Guillaume to life. How is such a thing possible?”

  “Did your god’s body not mend on the third day after it was torn apart? Did he not appear before his firmest believers, prior to ascending to a greater plane?”

  “He did,” Liadan answered with more conviction than she felt.

  “Then how could one as powerful as you, by the very favor of said god, be plagued by the incessant nagging of doubts?” Lady Galdr challenged. “Are you an instrument of the Broken Man’s will, or are you a foolish child?”

  “I…” It felt ridiculous to accept such responsibility, but the alternative was more unpalatable. “I am,” she asserted. This time the words and the sentiment behind them were united.

  “Then silence your doubts and trust that the Wyrd will provide a proper path!”

  “I will, Lady Galdr.”

  “And you!” The Witch focused her fiery gaze on Esker. “Why must I pluck you from the bowels of a dungeon? Have you not tired of such accommodations?”

  The Tengu lowered her head. “I wished to help guide my people away from ruin.”

  “By abandoning your fate and risking the end of the world?”

  “I apologize, it was a mistake.” Esker wiped at the tears in her eyes. “My people would not heed me, they are stubborn.”

  “And who do you think has taken them down such a dark path?” the witch challenged.

  “Our leadership has compromised the values my kind has held for generations.”

  “No child, you have encountered that which twists your people. Much as I saw the force behind that idiot High King’s ambition escape from its prison.”

  Esker was aghast, her mind reeled. Could that fever dream have been more than a figment of her imagination? Was that spirit that threatened to overwhelm her real?

  “Did it try to sway you with a dark gift? Tempt you with something?” Lady Galdr probed.

  “My arm…” Esker swallowed hard, recalling the taunting imagery that had been seared into her mind. “That thing, that monster, promised to replace my missing limb.” She raised the stump of her left arm. “It showed me what could be. It was perfect, stone as elegant as flesh. But then… it all went wrong. I-I lost control.” Fragments of that nightmare tormented her anew.

  “What about me?” Eógan asked, feeling left out of the exchange.

  “What about you?” Lady Galdr echoed.

  “There must be something important for me to do as well!”

  “Have you not been listening, you foolish child? You are ALL important!”

  “Would it kill you to make that more clear,” Eógan muttered under his breath.

  The witch stared at him. “Given that I am already dead, I feel no obligation!” she snapped back.

  “What happened?” Liadan asked, trying to ease the tension around the table. “Do you mind talking about your…”

  “How I died? Not at all, dearie.” The witch’s demeanor softened. “I was burned alive on a pyre in a ritual that unleashed the dracolich that you imbeciles disturbed.” She reached across the table and took the Gaídel’s hands. “The abbess has drawn power from a source that is unfamiliar to me, she and her acolytes are a terrible danger.”

  Liadan put a hand over her mouth. “The girls from my village… she did something to those innocent girls…”

  Lady Galdr tightened her grip and patted her hands soothingly. “It is not your fault, you could not have helped them.”

  Liadan hung her head as guilt threatened to overwhelm her.

  “I saw one of those nuns,” Esker added. “One dressed as Liadan was when we first met.” She held Liadan’s attention. “She conjured strange magics, dark energy that writhed and twisted around her. She killed many Tengu soldiers as if they were unarmored.”

  “Most troubling,” Lady Galdr mused. “This explains why the weave is in such a state.” She let go of Liadan’s hands and gestured to the tangles of yarn strewn across the floor. “The Wyrd is changed, I am blind to portents in this state.”

  “How can we help you?” Eógan asked.

  “Do not fret for me, dearie.” Lady Galdr pinched his cheek. “Another will take my place, you must protect and guide her.”

  “Where can we find her?” he continued.

  “The same place that you had planned to meet.” The witch eyed the group. “At my home.”

  “We left you a message, Esk,” Liadan clarified. “At the temple.”

  “It is good that we gathered here, I do not know if I would have been able to return to that site.” The Tengu flexed her large hand. “I am caught between two large stones.” The idiom was simple enough for the others to comprehend.

  “Would you like more broth?” Guillaume asked cheerfully.

  Eógan, Esker, and Liadan awoke, no longer in the Land of Dreams.