Fionn furrowed his brow. “Why did she free you?” he asked.

Garth sighed. “Not a day goes by when I don’t ask myself the same. She seemed like an innocent girl at first. Doe-eyed and curious. She didn’t seem afraid to see me, bruised and chained. But… something changed. One moment she was like a kitten, then the next, there was fire in her eyes. I don’t know if it was something she saw, or something I said, or—”

Garth’s jaw fell open at that thought. “That’s it,” he whispered. He turned to look around at the room. “These caves… it all makes sense now.”

“What?” asked Fionn. “How does—”

A guttural roar of fear echoed through the chamber. The other Simian did nothing to hide the sudden terror on his face as Garth and Fionn turned to face him. With eyes wide and white he raised a trembling hand and pointed at the far end of the laboratory.

There, stood a hunched figure, clad in grey robes. It shuffled slowly through the chamber, dragging one foot behind the other. Its head hung crookedly on a slouched neck, swinging this way and that with each step.

Garth responded immediately. He reached into his shoulder-pack and pulled out a brass item, identical to the one Fionn had just found. Except Garth wielded this one like a weapon, aiming the open barrel towards the stranger.

“Stop right there,” he said, the strength of command in his voice. “Not one more step.”

But the figure did not slow. As it came closer, the shadow over his face receded to reveal an aged man. The bottom of his robes was scorched and blackened. Two arms swung back and forth as he walked, but one looked far thinner than the other. Only when the figure reached the light of the torches, did Fionn realise that the arm was stripped of flesh, and consisted of burnt and broken bones.

In the following instant, Fionn recognised the face of the old healer who had saved him.

“Yarlaith?” he asked, but the old man did not respond.

“I won’t warn you again,” said Garth. “One more step, and I’ll shoot.”

Yarlaith shuffled forward again. With a deafening bang, smoke erupted from the weapon and something seemed to whiz through the air, too fast to be seen. Whatever it was, it struck Yarlaith right in the forehead, and the old man finally stood still.

“Is he dead?” asked the other Simian, after a moment. When the smoke cleared, it was evident that the man was still standing, yet he remained motionless.

Without a sound, Yarlaith sprang into a sprint. He bounded towards the Simians, both hands stretched outwards. Fionn flinched back with fright, until he saw the blank, dead gaze of the old man’s eyes. Before another second could pass, Fionn flicked his flint rings together, grabbing hold of the spark as it appeared. He flared the fire in his soul, and engulfed the old man in flames, mere yards in front of where the Simians were standing.

The figure collapsed to the floor; his arms and legs folded over one another in a manner no living person’s would. Garth gasped with fright, and the other Simian held a hand up to his face.

“He was already dead,” muttered Fionn. The Simians didn’t respond. They watched on as the old man burned in silence. Those lifeless eyes stared back at Fionn, unblinking behind the flames.

Fionn gestured back to the table. “Gather up the notes. There might be more, so we better leave at once.”

“Of course,” said Garth, tearing his gaze away from the burning corpse. “Is there anything else you think we should do?”

“Yes. You can start by telling me more about what the Silverback has been keeping from me.”

Chapter 22:

The Council of the Triad

The Clifflands, Point Grey, Rosca Umhír, Ard Sidh… all have fallen to the undead horde. Yet, I am confident that the mages of Dromán can fight back this threat. Why, if the mages are overwhelmed, and if they too join the dead, then the final light of our hope shall be snuffed out. They cannot fail. Gods above and below, don’t let them fail.

Diary entry found in the remains of the Seachtú of Dromán.

***

Farris stood in the Hall of the Triad, shifting his weight from one foot to another as he waited. In these meetings, he’d typically have a seat to himself for the proceedings, but today, the chairs were reserved for those returned from the field, gathering information on this undead horde.

Gathering paper, too, apparently, thought Farris, noticing the huge stack of notes piled up before Fionn the Red. The young mage didn’t seem at all perturbed by his expedition to the old village of Roseán, though Farris doubted they didn’t at least run into some trouble down there.

Some of the Triad’s scouts sat at the other end of the table. These had travelled further south, by the Strongholds of Ardh Sidh and Dromán. Only half had returned, and those that did looked far more dishevelled than when they left. One sat with his face buried in his hands, shaking ever so slightly beneath his armour.

“If we may proceed,” said the Silverback. He rested a thickly muscled forearm across the table, leaning over toward Fionn and his stacks of papers. “Firemaster Fionn. Tell us, what became of Roseán?”

“It’s destroyed, sir,” said Fionn. From the hesitation in his voice, Farris reckoned the young mage wasn’t sure if ‘sir’ was the correct way to address Argyll the Silverback. “Ruined beyond repair. There was little we could learn of the horde from the state of the village itself, only that the undead are a force unlike anything we’ve witnessed before.”

The mage gestured to the pages and books piled before him with his oversized arm.

“These are the notes and reports of Yarlaith the White,” said Fionn. “He was the local healer in Roseán, and brother to Cormac.” The other Human nodded solemnly at the mention of his name. “These notes indicate that Yarlaith was experimenting with the Nature of Death, endeavouring to bring the dead back to life.”

“Necromancy,” interjected Ruairí. “It wouldn’t be the first time that magic has been turned to the dark arts.”

“But this is the first time anyone has succeeded,” said Fionn.

A panicked mutter ran through the hall at these words but was silenced at the raised hand of the Silverback.

“So,” said Argyll. “Was it this Yarlaith the White who set the dead loose on Roseán?”

“I don’t believe so,” said Fionn. “It’s not quite clear what transpired, but on the night he succeeded, Yarlaith reported that he discovered what he called ‘the true Nature’ of Necromancy. It was this revelation that caused him to halt his research. His writing indicates that his niece, Morrígan, would not take this news lightly, but that’s all we know.”

“And now she is the one leading the horde,” said Garth. “We found Yarlaith’s… corpse in Roseán.”

The slight hesitation made Farris narrow his eyes.

He’s hiding something.

Garth cleared his throat. “We hypothesise that Morrígan killed her uncle on hearing that he would not be continuing his research and finished the work herself. This would put her at the head of the horde, while leaving Yarlaith’s corpse in the caves.”

The Silverback turned to Fionn. “As a master or arcane knowledge,” he said, “what do you suppose he meant by ‘the true Nature of Necromancy’?”

Fionn’s gaze fell to the floor. “I suppose nothing. I know for sure what he meant.”

He stood from the seat, holding out his oversized arm to the others. “This is the arm of the late Sir Bearach Carríga of Ard Sidh. Last year, after traversing through the Glenn, we were pursued and attacked by a troll. I lost my arm in the struggle, but Sir Bearach lost his life. Yarlaith of Roseán was able to remove this arm from Bearach’s corpse and attach it to my body.”

This was met with audible gasps scattered across the room. Farris shuddered at the thought.

Of course.The troll tore his arm off. Even the sound of the tearing flesh was fresh in Farris’s ears.

“But there is more,” continued Fionn. “Ever since that day, my magic has been stronger than it has ever been before. For the soul of one dead man has been bound to my own, and the soul is the fuel for magic. I have since learned that the Church has outlawed all practise of magic on corpses for this very reason. If one mage discovered how to harness the soul of another, for their own power, the outcome would be devastating.”

A torrent of whispers ripped through the room. Farris recalled his experiences with Sir Bearach. Sure, he had been a typical high-born Human, condescending to the point of arrogance, but when the time called for it, he fought with courage and put the well-being of others before himself. To imagine his soul being used now as fuel for a mage was… unsettling.

“I believe your tale,” came a voice from across the room. It belonged to a Simian, leaner than most who accompanied him. His cheeks were gaunt, and his complexion pale beneath lightly coloured hair. When he spoke, his voice quivered through the words, but he did not seem afraid. From the stern stare of his eyes to the blank expression on his face, it seemed like nothing could rattle this scout.

“I believe you,” he repeated. “As I have seen her power first-hand.” He turned to the Silverback. “But I must report that Dromán has fallen.”