“This way!” he yelled, drawing his claymore and pointing it out with his right hand. “We’ll steer it away until the sunlight!”

As they began to veer away from the village, Farris glanced back to see that the troll was quickly gaining ground. Fortunately, the direction Sir Bearach had chosen was westward, away from the buildings and towards the slow-rising sun.

“It’s getting closer!” roared Fionn, as they approached one of the stone walls. “We’re running out of time!”

Farris vaulted over the wall. We’re lucky it’s still early, otherwise these fields would be full of—

It was at this single thought—not the death of the crewmen aboard the ship, not the ferocity of the beadhbhs of the Glenn, not the monstrosity of the mountain troll—but this idle musing that brought more terror to Farris’s bones than anything he had witnessed since leaving Cruachan.

He saw the cart first, bound to an old draft horse that barely looked fit enough to walk. Before the cart stood three peasants—a man, a woman, and a young girl—quietly tending to their crops.

“Troll!” he yelled, hoping it would at least alert them to the hulking death that was following. “Run fo—”

His ribs cracked, snapping like twigs in a child’s fist. Before he realised that the troll had struck him, Farris lay on the ground, face down with a mouthful of dirt. Using the last of his remaining strength, he forced himself to look up.

The troll stood in the middle of the field, both arms raised in the air with the bearded mechanic held in one beefy fist. Sir Bearach and Fionn stood to fight, the latter with fire burning in both hands. Sláine helped the woman and girl climb into the cart; the man frantically tried to mount the horse.

The troll roared and threw the limp, lifeless body of the mechanic towards the head of the cart. It landed in an explosion of splinters. The horse reeled on its hind legs, whinnying violently in response. The farmhand, knocked from its back, fell to the ground with his foot caught in a stirrup. As soon as all four hoofs hit the ground again, the horse bolted off into the morning mist, dragging the screaming man behind it.

Sir Bearach charged at the troll, roaring valiantly as Fionn shot bolts of fire at its face. The beast barely flinched when the flames burst against its skin; with an effortless swoop, it picked up the knight. Farris watched in horror as the knuckles of the troll’s fist whitened, crushing the knight inside his armour.

Sláine the White stepped forwards, away from the wreckage of the cart. She stretched her arms outwards as a cloud of stones and soil rose before her. With another elaborate gesture, the salvo of debris shot towards the lumbering beast. The troll roared in agony, but still stood strong. As the dust settled, the beast trudged towards the mage, huffing and grunting as it moved. Sláine tried to flee, but the troll reached her in a few long steps. It lurched, and sent the woman tumbling through the air with a kick. With a sickening crack, she landed at the far end of the field.

The troll turned and trudged towards the red mage. The young man stood his ground and threw another burst of fire at the hulking mass, but the beast did not slow. With incredible ease, the troll reached out and snatched the mage’s arm as he passed, dangling him high above the ground. With another hand, the troll grabbed Fionn’s swinging legs and began to pull. After a few painful seconds, a scream of agony and a spray of blood tore through the air; the mage’s body parted from his arm.

The troll paused to admire the carnage, eyeing the shattered corpses and blots of blood littering the field. Its gaze eventually landed on the two peasants, still hiding under the broken cart.

“No!” groaned Farris, forcing his knees under his body. “Run! Just run!”

He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, pulling himself to his feet. He grimaced as a sharp, shearing pain grated at his knee.

I can’t run, but by the Shadow of Sin, I’ll fight it.

Farris groped the ground until his fingers found a rock. He heard a scream, for the troll had grabbed the woman in one hand, beating her against the ground like a child with a broken toy. In shocked silence, the young girl looked on, her face pale as stone.

The troll sneered and tossed the woman’s shattered body aside, turning its gaze on the girl.

“Over here!” yelled Farris, forcing himself to stand straight despite the agony chewing at his ribs. When he found his balance, Farris shifted his weight onto his back leg and threw the rock, adding every ounce of his strength its arc.

For the second time in his life, Farris prayed. The stone soared through the air, and as sure as Sin, this time the Gods did listen. The stone hit the troll between the eyes, and the beast howled in pain.

“Come on!” yelled Farris. The troll turned and came lumbering towards him. He quickly scanned the mountains to the east, glowing gold with the rising sun. As it approached, the troll stooped down and picked Farris up off the ground.

He saw every detail of the monstrous face as he hung in the air. A long, wet tongue hung from its mouth, lips twisting into a hungry smile. The sides of its cheeks were wrinkled, but almost seemed like cracked rock in the light of the morning sun.

With a grunt and a heave, the troll hurled Farris across the field.

It doesn’t matter. I’ve silenced the agents. I’ve prevented the ship from reaching Penance. The king’s plans have already been foiled. Even as he hit the ground and went rolling off the edge of the cliff, Farris didn’t care.

The sun has risen.I’ve caused the death of many today, but I’ve saved the life of one….

His body fell broken amongst the jagged rocks of the shore.

Farris stared up at the trees and bushes along the top of the cliff, their branches and leaves bare in comparison to the warped splendour of the Glenn. His neck was twisted, his throat dry, but still he managed a final, crooked smile.

Where have all the flowers gone? A gentle wave washed over his face, filling his lungs with saltwater.

Epilogue

“From here, the tracks continue all the way to Penance, Your Grace. A single, straight line, uninterrupted as the raven flies.”

Chief Engineer Santos rode next to King Diarmuid Móráin, pointing out the details of the Simian railway tunnel. The journey from Cruachan had been long, but Santos still spoke with the brimming enthusiasm of a salesman lying through his teeth.

“There are five more outposts between here and our city. If it pleases you, we wish to show you just one more.”

Aye, and then we’ll have to travel all the way back. Diarmuid sighed. They had been riding for hours, deep under the surface of the earth, and all Santos wanted to do was show him how brilliant the Simians had been in their design of Alabach’s first underground trade route.

If the next outpost doesn’t have a brothel or a beerhall, I’ll scrap the damn project myself.

The king travelled with Santos and an escort of five Simian guards, but being the only Human there only bothered him slightly. Although his predecessors had been small-minded bigots, his own reign was meant to usher in a new age of unity between the two races. This magnificent hole in the ground was supposed to do just that. It would have been easy, if it wasn’t for the Silverback and his dissidents, raising their fists and beating their chests over in Penance.

The Silverback’s rebels are a tiny minority. Diarmuid’s eyes focused on the steel railway tracks shimmering under his horses’ hooves. Argyll was nothing more than a common criminal, but he claimed to have plans for the future of his people. They were always his people. They never belonged to the Crown. They never belonged to the Triad, or to Borris Blackhand, the one they had elected to power. They never even belonged to themselves. Argyll the Silverback was the authority on who belonged to whom and claimed that he’d rather die than see his Simian people ruled by a Human king.

So why doesn’t he do just that?

“Here we are!” announced Santos, reining his mount to a halt. The Chief Engineer of Penance was thin for a Simian. The hair that covered his body was chestnut brown, with tufts of greys and white speckled across his shoulders. He had been grinning since they left Cruachan, but his eyes always lied. He constantly assured the king that everything was going smoothly, according to plan, but Diarmuid knew about the deaths. Four Simian miners lost their lives during the construction of the railway, buried alive when one of the tunnel ceilings collapsed. Four deaths, and Santos was willing to brush it away with a smile and a refrain of “Your Grace.”

To Diarmuid’s utmost despair, the outpost was vacant of barmaids and whores. The tunnels had been narrow and alive with the light and buzzing of oil lamps, but the outpost was wide, empty, and eerily silent in comparison.

“Santos, is there anyone present right now?” he asked, climbing down from his horse. Diarmuid spoke in his usual kingly voice, which normally caused the common folk to scurry and flee before him.

“No, Your Grace,” answered Santos. “Of the twelve outposts, only those adjacent to Cruachan and Penance are occupied as of now. However—”

The Simian paused, tearing his eyes away from the king.

“It was nothing, Your Grace,” he said, shuffling in his saddle and running a hand across the back of his neck. “Just some of my men… they claimed they saw something as they excavated the site. They begged me to show you but… well, it’s silly really.”

King Diarmuid nodded. “Show me, and we’ll head back. My horse is tired, and my arse is sore.”

“Of course, Your Grace, this way. It was nothing but an oddity.”

Santos led him to the edge of the clearing, and the royal Simian guards followed in silence. The outpost itself was a steel construction, built to accommodate off-duty engineers and provide a quick route up to the surface in case of emergency. They walked past the outpost, however, towards the edge of the cavern.

“Here it is, Your Grace,” Santos said, pointing to a space on the stone wall.

The walls through the tunnel had been grey and damp, with only the occasional cluster of fungi to break the monotony. Here, though, there was something peculiar. The wall was uniform, for the most part, but there was a strange slab, pushed right into the centre, just below eye-level. Unlike the curving, circular stones that surrounded it, the slab was jagged and irregular in shape. Diarmuid counted seven uneven sides, each extending out at a different angle. This wasn’t the most peculiar thing, however.