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“People who have too much imagination, I’d warrant. Humans bury their dead underground, remember, and we Myrkálfar burrow through it. I have crossed the path of many a ghost in my time, and none of them have been in any way threatening.”
“Said ghosts probably had more sense than to tackle someone who could make their bones disappear,” Lugh said, amusement evident. “It’s a shame the same cannot be said of the living.”
“Indeed,” Cynwrig agreed, voice dry.
My gaze went back to the island and a sudden reluctance to go there rose. Which was stupid. I’d never been afraid of ghosts—as Cynwrig said, they were rarely dangerous—and zombies were the work of fiction, not reality.
But there were plenty of other undead possibilities when dealing with magic and old gods.
I hesitated and then said, “Is it possible we could be dealing with something like a lich?”
Traditional folklore said they were powerful sorcerers so determined to live forever that they transferred their soul into a magical object that both trapped and protected it, keeping them in a living state well beyond the realms of a natural lifespan. But according to Mom—who’d apparently clashed with one on a hunt when I was a teenager—it wasn’t life so much as half-life. The lich’s body gradually shriveled to a skeletal condition but remained able to interact with this world as long as its soul was safe. They were generally sorcerers who’d crossed the old gods in some way, and who were forced into the lich state to serve whatever penance the god chose.
Given the skeletal green hands I’d seen, it was a distinct possibility. Thoughthatwould suggest a god had either been involved in the theft of the Claws or had at least engaged the humans who’d stolen them—though to what purpose if all they were told to do was hide them in random spots again?
Was this all part of some grander scheme?
“Lich are rare,” Lugh said, “but at this stage, I wouldn’t be writing any possibility off.”
I took off my backpack, placed it beside Cynwrig’s, then undid the little straps locking the knives into their sheaths. Unlike the previous caving event, I’d done the sensible thing and strapped them over my caving suit. If there was a lich on that island, every second I wasted getting the knives into my hand could be the difference between life and death.
I returned to Cynwrig’s side and studied the bridge for a couple of seconds. “I’m not doubting your building skills or anything, but itwillhold the weight of the three of us, won’t it?”
“It was designed to support two and it will most certainly do that. I think it best if I keep a rear guard. That tunnel is our only exit point, and we need to ensure it remains clear.”
That made sense given we had no idea what would happen when I found the ring.
IfI found the ring.
I stepped up onto the narrow bridge and shuffled forward cautiously. The stone remained reassuringly solid, and after a few seconds, I increased my pace, making it to the island without incident. As Lugh came across, I shone my flashlight up and down the empty shore, then up at the barrier that separated us from the island’s interior. It included the rusting remains of carrier trains, big sheets of metal that had come from gods only knew what, and long lengths of twisted train track. I did not want to know who or what had twisted them, but I seriously hoped we didn’t encounter them.
Lugh stopped beside me and shone his light onto the wall. “Do we climb over that crap, or is there a path into it?”
“There’s a path. This way.”
I followed the curving shoreline around to the left until I found it. It was narrower than I’d thought and forced us to move cautiously through the rusting forest that tore at our clothes with sharp metal fingers. Whoever had constructed this was obviously determined no one was getting in—or out—easily.
I ignored the shiver that once again stole across my skin and ducked under an arch lined with metal teeth. The ground rose gently from where I stood, with the treasure chest its crowning glory.
The fact it was just sitting there, all shiny new and innocent-looking, had trepidation stirring. It seemed too easy to simply stroll up and open the thing, which undoubtedly meant it wouldn’t be.
Lugh stopped beside me and swept his light around. There was nothing to see. Nothing other than bare ground and that treasure chest.
“I’m not liking the feel of this,” he said after a moment. “I’ve seen too many people walk into too many traps that were set up just like this.”
“Even if itisa trap, we really have no choice but to spring it.”
“As is also often the case,” he replied, in a sage sort of manner. “I suggest we draw our weapons before we go any further.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I take it that means you’ve brought a gun?”
“No, I brought something even better.” He put his flashlight away, reached into his pack, and withdrew two hefty-looking foot-long metal stakes. “Meet Jack and Jill, who are made of cold iron and silver with an iron core, respectively. Handy against all manner of hellish ghouls that often inhabit relic sights.”
“You’ve named your metal stakes?Seriously?”
“A good workman always respects the tools that might save his life. Naming is part of that respect.” He motioned with his chin to my still-sheathed knives. “You should give them a name—it will help the bonding process.”
“They’re knives. Magic knives, granted, but still just knives.”
