Gryffynhall (the Danu Cycle: Fiann Trilogy Book 1)

Chapter Eighteen

The Gryffyn fiann were finally on their way back home. Over a month of searching, with almost fifty other fianna, and there was still no sign of a single Fomorian going in any direction. The king had begun to relax, realising that Dwendardien would still be weak and the Sidhe had time before they needed to rustle their forces. The fianna had been dismissed to their respective stations, with only a few still on patrols.

Eamon and the rest had been gone from Gryffynhall for almost three months now, and he was starting to miss the boring routine he so glibly derided previously. He would welcome a wash and a proper bed. Though, he had met some lovely ladies on the road. He smirked, remembering a few of them in greater detail.

"I cannot remember the last time we were out in the wilderness so long," Nessa grumbled, echoing his thoughts. "I feel as though I could wash four hundred times and still not be properly clean."

"I am sure you could find someone to help you with that, Ness," Rohan laughed.

"You offering?" She turned and gave him her most sultry look.

Eamon laughed, glad it was not him under that gaze. Even knowing her as well as they all did, a man was hard-pressed to stand stoic under that look when she chose to give it.

"Better you than I," Eamon called and a stick flew from Nessa's direction, hitting him in the head.

He was glad of some humour, the way ahead would be hard going. It was the least preferable way of travelling to the Borderlands realm from Tir na nŎg. They were just coming up on the beginnings of the path now and he could tell the others were feeling his apprehension. Sidhe were not afeared of much, not really. However, when faced with a path of pure darkness and nightmare, even the bravest among them shivered a little, though they would never admit just how much.

The dark hole in the forest loomed up at them, looking out of place amid the greens and dappled sunlight.

"Gah, it gets me every time," Nessa said, wrapping her long arms around herself. Her purple-blue hair, braided haphazardly, lifted from an unfelt breeze.

Unspoken, as one, they stopped before the hole.

"Right. I need not remind you to stick to the path, move as quickly as you can, and try not to stop," Eamon said, looking around, trying to sound cheerful.

"You do not need to, but it is always good when you do." Moira smiled stiffly.

Tiernan passed a rope between them and they lashed themselves together so they could walk in single file, Eamon at the front, Conor at the back. They checked the knots of the rope three times before Eamon declared them ready to go.

"Stick to the path..." he told himself as he passed through the threshold. "No matter what you see..."

He shivered involuntarily as the cold seeped into his bones. Blackness stretched along in front of them, to either side and behind them. Under his feet, Eamon saw the path, slightly greyer than the rest of the place. He could feel the darkness pulling at him, sucking the colour and life from them. They could withstand it, they knew they could this time the same way they had so many times before. Still, it did not make him look forward to the near two weeks of no sleep and constant blackness.

In his mind's eye, he pictured his destination; the front doors of Gryffynhall, the sweeping staircase leading up to them. Just for a moment, there was a blonde-haired figure standing at the top, smiling, her green eyes flashing in the sun.

He dismissed the image, even when the figure seemed to dance through the darkness around him, her face contorting into something malformed and hideous before she disappeared entirely in a burst of ravens.

"By Danu, I hate this place," he muttered as the disembodied screeching started up.

From all around them, wails and shrieks erupted as though the Hunt itself was on the move. Eamon shuddered again as the cries thundered into his mind, setting his head to throbbing and his body to shaking. He felt the hair at the back of his neck prickle, as though they were being watched, though there was nothing to be seen.

Finbar was behind him and Eamon felt his hand grip his arm momentarily. His strength bolstered for the moment, Eamon powered on ahead, unable to help this hand moving to the dagger at his waist on more than one occasion.

It is barely two weeks, he repeated to himself, hating how he jumped when the shrieks rose in volume.