“Aye, leave him be,” chided Skyre. Though a wariness grew within.
The men fanned out between the standing stones. Skyre was hopeful for more carvings, but what they found, instead, was more bones and bodies, long left to decay.
Torin’s voice wafted over. “These bones are old, but… They arenae old enough.”
Skyre watched the sky. It would be getting dark soon.
“Aye,” he said quietly, “Let us not linger. It is a deep unwelcoming I feel in my teeth.”
“Sire! Come quick!” Cían called. The men rushed to meet him.
They met in the middle, and Skyre said, “Better not be another of your tricks.”
But the words died on his tongue.
For there, stuck within a cracked stone, was an iron axe, bound with leather and trimmed in gold.
He was breathless as his eyes drank it in. Even now, after years of weathering, its edge glistened sharp.
“By the flame,” said Torin.
“My god…” said Eirn.
“Itisreal!” cried Cían.
“It can’t be.” Skyre had only known beauty like that but once in his life. He could not pull his eyes away.
Cían beamed widely up at him. “Take it, sire! It should be yours! Become Cárthsíarna!”
The men were silent. No one had any taunting left.
Could it all be true? The story of Cathal, the hero who had gone up the mountain to protect the village, who had slain legions with a single swing…
And only one was strong enough to claim it.
“Cían,” said Skyre quietly, “take it up.”
“Me?” asked the younger, puzzled.
“See if you can.”
Cían looked hesitant and a bit uneasy. He glanced back for confirmation.
Skyre nodded.
Carefully, Cían reached for the axe, his youthful hands gripping the haft. He pulled.
The blade did not loose.
“Try again,” Skyre encouraged.
Again, the youth pulled, his feet digging against the earth, his knuckles white upon the grip. But the blade remained.
“Again.”
Once more, Cían pulled till his teeth ground and his breath puffed out of him.
“I cannae do it, sire.”
