The Rose of the Cliffs
Two nights ago, I received a wave from the Earl of Ardh Sidh, pleading with me to take our war on the undead out into the open field. I did not listen, but now, as I hear the walking corpses butchering and burning right outside my walls, I wish I had.
Fear was what drove me to do what I did. Both of my sons were once brave warriors, and the Gods have shown mercy in that neither of them lived to see their father become a coward. Aislinn begged me to open the gates, to take the townsfolk in while I lead the charge on the dead, but I refused. I claimed I was in no fit state to fight, that we would be safer barricaded deep in the Keep, but she would not see this coward’s reason. Instead, she donned her brother’s armour and rode out to meet the horde herself. I’m sure she’ll meet her death, too. But she shall die a hero.
Let it be known that when the dead came charging over the land, Aislinn Carríga did not yield. Aislinn Carríga did not hide.
Last entry into the journal of Earl Carríga of Rosca Umhir.
***
Fionn stared up at the rising cliffs as the tiny skiff rocked gently towards the coast, influenced by the soft waves of the Eternal Sea. Like a great curtain of grey stone, the cliffs seemed to hang from an iron-coloured sky, draping into the foaming waters below. Fionn took in the view with awe, though the knight’s voice in his head was a little less impressed.
Sure, you’ve seen them before, said Sir Bearach. The Lord knows I’d be happier to never see them again.
Fionn nodded, though it was fortunate that none of the others aboard the vessel noticed. Sir Bearach had a point. It was upon those cliffs that Slaíne the White had died, along with an engineer from The Glory of Penance. Fionn had never learned his name, and as the moons had drifted by one by one, he even struggled to picture his face.
Fionn stole a glance at the newcomer. The only other Human aboard, he seemed to be a lot more lucid than before. With a freshly trimmed beard and a set of new clothes, he was hardly recognisable as the old vagrant Farris has pulled out from the camps.
But his eyes, noted Sir Bearach. His eyes haven’t changed.
It was true. Both now, and on the day they first met, Cormac had the gaze of a man who had witnessed too much, and who regretted doing so little.
We owe him this, thought Fionn. We were the ones who brought the troll to his home. His wife would still be alive if it wasn’t for us.
True, said Sir Bearach. And perhaps the world wouldn’t be in the state of ruin it is now.
Fionn shuddered. It was a frightening thought, and perhaps one not worth dwelling on.
“There’s a pathway through the cliffs a hundred or so yards ahead,” said Garth, pointing at the rocks ahead. He rested his other hand on the shoulder of the boat’s pilot: a Simian larger than any Fionn had ever seen.
“Are you tellin’ me how to do my job now?” asked the Simian. Fionn had overheard the others call him Jacob the Blind, but he didn’t seem very blind at all. Simian names never made much sense.
“Of course,” said Garth. “I’ve been scouting this region for the past year now. Tell me, when was the last time the Humans of the Clifflands required your smuggled merchandise?”
“There could have been a market there,” said Jacob, barely taking his eyes away from the cliffs as he manoeuvred the skiff toward the coast.
The wooden vessel glided gently past the rocks. Only when the great cliff wall approached, could Fionn make out the pathway Garth had mentioned. It was less a pathway and more of a fissure, struck down the face of the cliffs and creating a tiny passage gently sloping upwards.
“Alright lads!” cried Garth. The four other Simian scouts aboard the skiff grunted in response. “Single file now. We all won’t fit through at once!”
***
A weathered dirt road took the company away from the cliffs, through the fields and into the old village. The walls of Roseán were worn down from the winds of the Eternal Sea, but the buildings within were ruined by an entirely different source.
Most of the roofs had been thatched once, but all that remained now were tangles of scorched straw atop crumbling wattle-and-daub structures.
“This used to be called the Sandy Road,” said Cormac, as if to himself. He walked at the back of the group, glancing back and forth across every aspect of the ruin. “My house used to be over there.”
He pointed toward a pile of rubble just beyond the path. From the tone in his voice, Fionn guessed that he didn’t want to take a closer look.
The path eventually widened out into a huge cobblestone square. It was here that the extent of the damage could truly be seen. A well stood in the centre, but that was all that remained intact. Burnt-out buildings lined the perimeter of the square, with dozens of broken windows and torn roofs between them. A mass of charred bushes and trees stood at the other end of the path, and the smell of burnt wood still lingered in the air. Just beyond that was a small chapel, its modest steeple reduced to a pile of assorted stones on the ground beside it, leaving a gaping hole in the structure’s roof.
“My brother’s house is beyond the church,” said Cormac, walking ahead of the others to lead the way. He raised a finger toward the opposite path, which meandered around the chapel and disappeared behind a hill beyond. “They used to call this the High Road.”
He’s far calmer than I expected, whispered Sir Bearach. One would expect the sight of your hometown destroyed to shatter a man’s mind.
Fionn considered the knight’s words for a moment, as he followed Cormac through the wreckage. Indeed, the old farmhand did seem utterly unmoved by the scene.
Perhaps there is nothing left to shatter, said Fionn. He’d left his family for dead, and spent a year living alone, dwelling on it.
Cormac stopped abruptly at the gates of the chapel. His shoulders slumped slightly, and he cast his eyes to the ground.
“The house is further up there,” he said. His voice seemed even more morose than before. “I’ll follow you up in a moment.”
Garth and the other Simians did not even question the request; they carried on up the hill as if there was no interruption. Fionn went to leave too but stopped in his tracks when he heard the squeak of the gate opening behind him.
What’s he doing? The gate closed with a gentle clink, followed by the sound of Cormac’s footsteps trekking through the rubble beyond.
When the footsteps disappeared, Fionn turned around. Cormac was nowhere to be seen.
Maybe I can catch him alone. Fionn took a step toward the gates. I never told him I was sorry for what happened back then, out on the cliffs.
Tell him I’m sorry, too, said Sir Bearach. It was my idea to lead the troll out into the morning sun.
Fionn pulled open the gate. Its rusted hinges protested, but his oversized arm proved more than strong enough to overcome them. He stepped inside and took a short, winding path toward the back of the chapel.
The yard beyond was full of upturned dirt and open holes, like a field ploughed by a drunkard. Fionn stepped over a mound but lost his balance as the dirt fell away under his weight. He caught himself as he stumbled, propping himself up against a slab-shaped stone structure behind him. As he regained his composure, he turned to examine the granite monument that had prevented him from falling.
