The evening was quickly growing cold, with darkness setting in from the east. Morrígan wore only a simple gown and cardigan, for Yarlaith had forbidden her to bring out her beadhbh cloak again, considering those that attacked the village.
She stood by herself a little longer, fantasising about the day she’d learn magic and leave Roseán to study in the Academy. She had seldom left the safety of her tiny village, and it had been hundreds of years since Humans had even stepped foot outside of Alabach, in fear of the Grey Plague that drove them from their homeland.
We don’t even know what the plague was. She looked to the misty peaks of the Glenn to the north. How can everyone be so content with living out their lives in a cage?
The view of the Glenn was serene and silent; the local wildlife retired earlier and earlier each night with winter setting in. The mountains stood before her, drained of colour in the waning light, like a dusty oil painting. The overgrown grass of the surrounding fields stood completely still, separated by thick, motionless hedgerows like stone walls.
It was the stoic tranquillity of the scene that made the movements of the dark figure all the more jarring. Morrígan squinted through the dimming light and saw something shaped like a man — a very large man—creeping towards her. It grew clearer in her vision with each step.
A Simian!
She recoiled in horror as the stranger approached, but he too paused when he saw her. For a tense moment they looked at each other, alone in the empty field, in silence.
Is he here to harm me?
Although his arms and head were exposed, the Simian wore a heavy chest-plate, tinted deep with blue. He carried a simple leather pack over one shoulder, and his fists seemed strong enough to crush stone. His dark, hairy face was stern and stolid, but there was a hint of apprehension in his eyes. After a moment’s breath passed, he spun on his heels and bolted up towards the Glenn.
“Wait!”
Morrígan gave chase. The Simian must have been a spy of some sort, watching the Geomancers at work. If there were others nearby, Morrígan needed to know.
But he couldn’t be a threat. He wouldn’t be fleeing if he was a threat.
The Simian’s long muscular legs carried him far quicker than Morrígan’s, but he was still within sight as the mountains rose up overhead.
Maybe he can help. Maybe he can get his engineers to move the troll.
Still, she carried on, even as her breath ran short and the Simian disappeared into the hills ahead of her.
What if the others were right? What if there really isn’t a war? What if we’ve been given false information about the Simians this whole time?
It was only now that she realised how close she was to the mountains. The Teeth of the Glenn stabbed the sky, rooted deep into the ground before her. Morrígan stopped to examine her surroundings, hills and winding paths extending out in every direction.
Where did he go?
She considered her options. It was getting late, and soon it’d be too dark to continue searching.
She turned back towards the village, but something caught her eye. The rocks of the mountains were uniform all around her, like a man-built wall, but several feet away, the smooth stone turned rough. She followed the shape of the stone. A dark, yawning hole stood at its base.
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.
