Morrígan went to examine the opening. It was perhaps six feet tall and widened even more as it descended into the ground.

But is it large enough for a Simian?

From the maps in her uncle’s study, she knew that Penance was beyond the Glenn, and it was likely that this tunnel burrowed right through into the Simian City of Steam.

Morrígan left her fear at the cave entrance. Curiosity guided her into the darkness.

Carefully, she slid down over the cold, damp stone. She found herself let out in a larger chamber.

The ceiling spanned high overhead, with stalactites hanging down like sharpened teeth, each covered in a smooth layer of white mineral. The walls were uneven all around, some bearing exits and tunnels extending out in different directions. One had some light shining through. Still aware of how night was falling quickly outside, Morrígan walked towards it.

How could I have lived so near these cliffs, without ever have seen these caves?

Running water trickled all around, as if a thousand streams ran through the ceiling and the walls, but there was not a drop of water in sight. Still, she continued.

Where the Holy Hell am I?

The tunnel widened, and Morrígan noticed that there were several hollows eroded into the walls. At first, she dismissed these as natural formations, but they became more and more frequent as she walked. When she saw three together, perfectly arranged one on top of the other, she examined one more closely. Despite all her thirst for adventure, despite how she’d tried to be brave since she entered, when she looked inside the hole, Morrígan gasped.

The sound echoed and resounded around the cavern. The shrieks of bats and the beat of their wings called back to her in the distance, but the skeleton that lay within did not move.

It was aged and decayed; its bones broken here and there. An iron claymore was clutched in its hands, the handle wrapped with dead fingers and spider’s webs. Morrígan reached in and picked up the weapon. It felt heavy and awkward in her hand but helped in restoring her courage.

And besides, it’ll no longer help a dead man fight.

The hollows grew more numerous and ornate as she went. Some had bags of jewels and old belongings laid out next to the dead. Others had faded inscriptions in a strange language etched above their openings. The fleeing Simian was forgotten, though it was not the dim light in the distance that kept her going. Her uncle had once said that the burial place of those who died during Móráin’s Conquest was lost to the scholars of Alabach, but Morrígan couldn’t help but feel that she had found it.

Eventually her tunnel joined up with another. This one had a stream of running water, which she followed, her imagination running wild with possibilities. Had no one really been here since the days of Móráin’s Conquest? Why wasn’t this place teeming with scholars and archaeologists?

As she walked, she noticed an odour, like warm, decaying meat. The further she pressed through the cave, the more unbearable the stench became. Eventually, it filled the air like it had its own physical presence, thick and heavy.

The passage finally widened into a grotto, and the river ran into an underground lake. There was an opening on the far side that led downwards into another chamber, light spilling from its entrance. Morrígan shimmied around the edge of the water towards the room, careful not to breathe in through her nose.

As she got closer, the inside of the room came into view. There were torches there, dozens of them, but those weren’t what caught Morrígan’s eyes first.

Wooden tables lined the walls. Twisted corpses lay upon them. Some were bloodied with torn rags, others decomposing and spilling forth rank odours. Many were missing arms and legs, but limbs and heads of all shapes and sizes hung from the ceiling on iron hooks. Slabs of wood stained with dried blood covered the ground, and strange vials of liquids and powders stood high against the walls on wooden shelves.

She walked through the room, tightening her grip on the sword.

What in Seletoth’s name is this place?

Some of the corpses were of bone, while others were all flesh and no skin. Many wore bright armour of gilded gold and plate-mail, with extravagant adornments and embroideries throughout. On one table was a fresh body that Morrígan recognised as the labourer who had died during the Harvest Moon festival. His ribs were torn open, exposing the remaining organs that hadn’t been devoured by the beadhbhs. Both his arms were removed and hung gruesomely on the wall behind.

Another pile of bodies lay discarded on the ground nearby. One was the knight who had been killed by the troll, all that time ago. His hair still seemed alive like fire, but blood was clotted in clumps around his face and beard.

Finally, her gaze fell onto the largest table of the room. It was arranged differently to the others, not crooked and corrupted with blood. On it lay a beautiful woman, dressed in a clear, white gown that stood out stainless against the gloom. A delicate veil shrouded her face, but it was thin enough for Morrígan to make out who it was.

“Mother!”

She wanted to scream. She wanted to run. She wanted to burn the Godsforsaken place to the ground and take her mother’s body to the graveyard where it was supposed to be.

She considered the others whose bodies had been violated in death. The labourer from the festival had died slowly and painfully, but somebody had decided that he would be tortured in death too. The bodies of the warriors who had fought bravely during Móráin’s Conquest had been retired here to honour their deeds for eternity, but someone had removed them from their resting places and brought them to this… butcher’s shop.

Morrígan screamed. This time, it wasn’t only the bats and the mice that answered her, but a familiar voice.

“Let it all out, Morrígan. Terror is the appropriate response to what I have committed myself to.”

Morrígan turned to see Yarlaith the White standing behind her. She gasped for a breath she couldn’t catch; her heart pounded against her chest like beast in a cage.

“You…?”

“Yes, Morrígan. I am the one who defiled these corpses.”

“But… why?” For a maddening second, she thought of cutting her uncle down with the claymore still clutched in her hands. But her grip was looser now than it previously had been.

“It started shortly after the troll attacked,” he began, his voice surprisingly calm. “Do you remember Fionn, Morrígan? The Pyromancer? You saw what happened to him out in the field. You heard his screams of agony as I tried to heal him. Do you remember seeing him after his recovery? Do you remember his arm?”

Of course she did. Although her mind was paralyzed with fright, it conjured up a very vivid picture of Fionn the Red and his oversized right arm, like a blacksmith’s.

“I told the Academy that I re-attached his arm, but it was nowhere to be found out in the field. He was alive when he came to me, but the others were dead, Morrígan. This I need you to understand. I disobeyed our religion’s most sacred laws in order to save a young man’s life, and that’s all that should matter. That night, in my clinic under the stairs, I sawed off the knight’s arm and attached it to Fionn’s body.”

Morrígan glanced back at the corpse of the knight. One arm was indeed severed from his shoulder.

“That should have been the end of it,” said Yarlaith. “But as I sewed the arm to Fionn’s bloody stump, I felt something stir. I grasped at the flesh, and instead of healing it in the manner I’ve perfected in all my years of training, I felt something else. Something different. Fionn’s blood was already flowing into the dead man’s arm, but with a twist, I was able to pour life into it. The lad woke screaming and found himself in possession of a new limb.”

Morrígan shook her head. Even with the very small understanding of magic she possessed, she still knew that this was impossible. To take the limb of one person… and attach it to another….

But none of that was important right now.

“What is this place, Yarlaith?” she said, some defiance rising in her voice. “What have you done?”

The old man smiled. “It’s simple really. There was an arm: a single Human arm that I managed to breathe life back into. I could have stopped there. I could have written a letter to the Academy and gotten a nice grant to continue my own research. But I did not. I found this place long ago and used it to store blood potions away from the prying eyes of the Gods. There is a tunnel nearby that leads right under my house, and I can access it from my study, in secret.

“I decided instead to use this place to test the limits of this Seventh School of Magic. For if I was able to revive a severed arm, why not something else?” He leaned in close to Morrígan and whispered, “Why not a whole person?”

Mother!

Morrígan’s heart surged with everything from loathing to excitement.

“You… you think you can bring her back?”

“No, Morrígan. I know I can. It will take time to get the spell right, but I know it’s possible. There is another tunnel from the lake that brings you under the graveyard. With a few careful calculations, I’ve been able to steal fresh bodies from their graves to run some tests. I haven’t been successful yet but….”

He paused and walked over to Morrígan’s mother, placing a hand on her forehead.

“But I know it can be done. I have faith. Even though it goes against everything the Church stands for, I still have faith. When my work is complete, the smallfolk will rejoice, for I will have conquered the unconquerable. For only if I succeed will I not be branded a heathen and killed as one.”

In silence, Morrígan considered all he said. Her mother looked so peaceful and beautiful, even in death. It almost seemed as if she were sleeping, and it was easy for Morrígan to picture her smiling and waking up. Morrígan remembered having a similar thought during the funeral.