Fireblood (Whispers from Mirrowen 1)

– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

Paedrin watched Annon emerge from the woods, ashen-faced and quivering. That he had seen something startling was no mistake. He looked rigid with fear.

“What is it?” Paedrin asked.

Hettie turned sharply, seeing her brother for the first time. “Annon?”

The Druidecht’s voice was thick. “I nearly died.” He gestured back toward the waterfall. “There is a creature hidden in the mist of the falls. This is its lair. We are in danger.”

Erasmus’s face scrunched, and he began flickering his fingers, counting.

“What was it?” Hettie asked, approaching Annon and putting her hand on his arm to steady him.

Paedrin was a little surprised at the show of tenderness. He squeezed the shaft of his staff, peering into the woods, alert now for danger. His ears reached out, listening for the sound of the creature.

“The spirits in the Alkire call it a Fear Liath. There are few spirits in this area. They are terrified of it. It moves at night.”

Erasmus scratched his cheek. “In that case, we should not linger here. Better to get in and out of Drosta’s lair before the sun sets. You said that your uncle gave you a key to enter?”

“Yes,” Annon replied.

“Then we had better hope it still works. This way.”

Erasmus took them down a scrabbling trail at the base of the ravine, one that meandered back and forth, with heavy, stunted trees clawing at their faces and arms as they walked. After passing a dense tangle, they arrived at Drosta’s lair.

It did not require the Preachán’s eyes to spot the place.

The clearing was wide and littered with abandoned campfires. Trees had been hacked down and used for fuel. Broken fragments of stone and branches littered the ground. Paedrin moved ahead quickly, for there was a dome-shaped rock in the center of the clearing. It was likely a boulder, probably up to his waist in height, and smoothed around the edges from the elements. All around it were broken hammers, pickaxes, shovels, and crowbars. The ground was pockmarked with indentations, but on quick observation, showed a layer of stone, of solid rock. A few scraggly bushes had sprouted up amidst the debris. The wood from the spade handles showed their age and sharp spurs jutted from the lengths.

Hettie wandered to the other side, searching the ground for signs of motion. Paedrin watched her from the corner of his eye as she bent low to the earth and touched broken fragments of rock. Her eyes flicked this way and that, studying the scene.

“It’s the dome of rock,” Erasmus said, sniffing loudly. “In case you hadn’t figured it out, sheep-brains.”

“No one has been here in some time,” Hettie muttered. “These tools are well rusted. The wood has rotted. There are signs of at least five or six different camps that have stayed here.” She rose and walked around the base of the dome. “They tried many different ways to pry the rock.”

Erasmus hawked and spat. “It would require a steel beam and fulcrum to pry it loose. The beam would be too heavy for any horse or two horses, let alone making it safely down the trail. Twenty men might be able to lift one down here, over a matter of weeks. When Tyrus showed me this place, I told him that no one man would be able to open the dome.” He jammed his walking stick into the solid ground. “No digging to the treasure either. As I said. You need a key to open it.”

Paedrin rested his foot against the stone and pressed his full weight against it. It was unyielding.

Annon approached and rubbed his hand over the face of the stone. “Many have tried to move it.”

“And failed,” said Erasmus.

In Annon’s mind, he could almost hear the ghosts of the dead. The air was thick with memories. A hammer lay nearby, pitted with rust. He grabbed it and hefted it. The handle held firm. The head did not wobble. He looked at it as a remnant of the efforts of many men. The hammer represented failure.

Paedrin straightened, watching the Druidecht.

Annon breathed out softly, then inhaled the dusty air. “Tyrus said that only a keyword will open the entrance. He taught it to me.” He closed his eyes. “Vickensatham. Restimos. Alloray morir.”

It was the Vaettir tongue, and it surprised Paedrin that he knew it. Spoken a bit haltingly, but the words were correct. Awaken from your sleep. Rise from the dust. Open the gateway to death.

The domed rock shuddered. Annon and Paedrin stepped back as the enormous mass of stone separated from the earth, trailing dirt and flecks of debris. The boulder rose, hovering in the air, casting a shadow over the gaping circular hole now uncovered.