He nodded towards the bar, and Morrígan did as she was told. She carefully considered every word he said, suspicious that it might be a trap of some sort. She was well aware that in the old stories, Simians were often depicted as thieves and rogues. With another glance through the window, she saw that the fire was almost quelled outside: four Hydromancers worked together, pulling water out from the well and spraying it over the burning trees.
“Hurry!” called the Simian. “Bring it in here!”
Morrígan brought the pack to him, placing it on the ground. Fashioned to be strapped over two shoulders, the bag was designed to carry a heavy load. Despite its weight, however, there was little inside.
“No, no. Don’t open it that way!” The Simian pointed a heavy traveling boot towards the pack. “There’s a false opening on the bottom, see?”
Morrígan pulled all the contents out: several rolls of parchment and a dozen or so inkpens of different colours. Once empty, she turned it upside down, but saw no way to open it. She looked up at the Simian.
“Like this?”
“No, there’s… see those things that look like steel teeth along the bottom? On the other side, there’s a tag you can pull across to open it.”
Morrígan’s fingers found a piece of metal, hidden under a flap of fabric. With a gentle tug, it ran smoothly along the bottom of the bag, opening it up like a gaping mouth.
“Now, there you’ll find some lock-picks. Just take one and bring it here. Quickly!”
There was another strange object in the compartment that Morrígan hadn’t seen before, but she ignored it and grabbed what she assumed was a lock-pick. It looked like the needle Sorcha had given her before, but shorter and heavier.
“Here, give it to me. In my mouth.”
She tentatively walked over to the prisoner and offered him the pick. The Simian opened his mouth wide, wider than Morrígan imagined her own could. She placed the pick inside, and with a flick of his tongue, the pick vanished. The Simian smiled.
“Now,” he said, his speech still surprisingly articulate, despite his mouth being full. “There is an instrument in the bag: gold, with a wooden handle. I need you to take it and hide it. If these fellas find out I’ve got it, they’ll behead me on the spot.”
Morrígan reached inside and placed her hand on the instrument. Picking it up, she found the object to be much heavier than it looked. About as half as long as her forearm, it curved at the end, as if designed to fit neatly in one’s hand. A silver inlay adorned a golden sprout, wrapped around the handle like a string of thorns.
“What is it?” asked Morrígan, holding it up to her eyes.
“It’s dangerous. That’s all you need to know. Take it and leave. I’ll escape myself when the time is right.”
Morrígan thanked the Simian and carefully put the bag back where she’d found it. Leaving the inn, she found the fires outside almost fully extinguished. Those who had stood to watch had already returned to their homes.
As she crossed the Square, she held the device tight in her hand. Remembering what the colonel had said before about the intercepted Simian cache, Morrígan reckoned it must be something like that: a weapon.
Yarlaith needs to see this. She wondered if the power of the Simian engineers was indeed stronger than their magic.
She suddenly realised how strange it was that she had thanked the prisoner, even after threatening him with fire moments earlier.
Perhaps he was a spy? Maybe he manipulated me into freeing him?
Unable to find an answer to these questions herself, Morrígan carried on home. She jogged back to the caverns with the Simian weapon held tightly against her chest, and her uncle’s satchel forgotten in her pocket.
Chapter 12:
The Flowers of the Glenn
Farris licked dirt from his lips when he woke. He tasted blood. His face was pressed against the ground, and it took him a full second to notice the dull ache that plagued every inch of his body.
I drank too much again. He opened his eyes to nothing but darkness.
Voices came from all around him, screaming, crying, calling for help. He tried to move, but barely managed to shuffle his body inside the tiny, confined space. Finding some room, he attempted to move his arms, but they were stuck, wedged awkwardly under his own weight. He attempted to shift his legs but felt little sensation below his hips.
With a sudden pang of terror, Farris realised that he was trapped under the wreck of The Glory of Penance.
His heart began to pound as he wriggled his head, curling his lips to the side to catch a breath, but he could only manage a muffled cry of “Help!” A great weight pressed down against his chest; his lungs clogged as if filled with mud. Again, he called for help, but he quickly realised that he wasn’t the only one in trouble.
The ship… the crew… they’re all trapped too.
Farris’s body convulsed as he began gasping erratically.
I’m trapped. I’m trapped, and I’ll suffocate and starve. I’m trapped and there’s nothing I can do until I suffocate or starve.
The thoughts repeated in his head as the anxiety tore through his body. There’s nobody left to find me. I’ll die in this coffin because there’s nobody left to find me.
He screamed again, even though he had no idea how many others had survived the crash. Still… he heard the voices. He tried to twist his neck again, barely moving it an inch, and in the corner of his eye he saw a speck of daylight through a gap of twisted lengths of wood and steel.
“Help me!” he called. To his relief, the light flickered.
There’s someone there!
He took a deep breath, ignoring the grains of soil that rolled into his mouth, and roared again.
“In here! I’m in here!”
Another voice spoke, louder than before, but still Farris couldn’t make out the words. A soft sound quivered overhead, and a tiny stream of debris trickled down onto the nape of his neck.
