Under Fragile Stone Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE HARVEST TIDE PROJECT

  (VOL. I The Archisan Tales)

  ‘Inventive comic fantasy in which Lorkrin and his sister Taya become involved in saving their tribe from the clutches of power-crazy neighbours … some wonderfully weird secondary characters.’

  The Irish Times

  ‘An immensely accomplished and completely original fast-paced action fantasy. This is a story you hope will never end.’

  Pat Boran & Siobhán Parkinson, on RTÉ website for the Children’s Book Festival 2004.

  ‘One of the things I love most about the book is that McGann has a wonderful eye for utterly weird, mad characters, whether we mean human ones or animals. Brilliant stuff!’

  Robert Dunbar, ‘Rattlebag’, RTÉ Radio 1 (Also listed in The Irish Times as one of his Top 30 Children’s Books of 2004).

  ‘An action-packed series of entrapments and escapes, successes and setbacks … populated by a seemingly endless cast of divertingly weird creatures.’

  Books for Keeps

  PRAISE FOR THE GODS AND THEIR MACHINES

  ‘A talented new voice … Spellbinding.’

  EOIN COLFER,

  author of the Artemis Fowl books and The Wish List.

  UNDER FRAGILE STONE

  THE ARCHISAN TALES

  OISÍN MCGANN

  For my little sister, Kunak; the big sister I never had.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  As ever, I’d like to thank my family for their insightful critiques of the first draft of this story, as well as all those who offered input and advice while I was working on the book, including everyone at the O’Brien Press for their hard work and enterprise. Particular gratitude goes to my editor, Susan Houlden, for her guiding hand during the painful trimming-down process; every wordaholic needs a counsellor. I’m grateful to Joe and Kunak, for their hospitality in giving me a base in Dublin whenever I needed it; it’s really meant a lot to me. And finally, a special thank you to my brother, Marek, for all his work on the website (www.oisinmcgann.com); his substantial brain remains an invaluable resource.

  Thanks to all of you.

  Oisín

  CONTENTS

  Reviews

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  PROLOGUE

  1: SOMETHING IN THE GROUND

  2: A RING OF SKACKS

  3: ELECTRICAL EXORCISM

  4: WEAKENED STONE

  5: THE HOLY MAN’S VISIONS

  6: THE UNDERGROUND WINDOW

  7: ANYTHING THAT DOESN’T BELONG

  8: THE CORPSE AND THE EARTHQUAKE

  9: THE MAN WITH NO NAME

  10: THE BLIND BATTALION

  11: ARE THE GODS HAVING A LAUGH?

  12: THE KRUNDENGROND

  13: DALEGIN CHASES THE LIGHT

  14: BLINDWATER, BREAD MOULD AND MAGGOTS

  15: THE HUNNUD’S BREATH

  16: PAPPY DIDN’T RAISE NO STINKIN’ SONGBIRDS

  17: GREAT AUNT ELDRITH

  18: RUG’S HANDS

  19: BONE STEW

  20: A VEIN OF IRON ORE

  EPILOGUE

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Other Books

  PROLOGUE

  The mountain, known as Absaleth, was haunted. The miners had laughed at the stories when they had first heard them months before. Most of the men tasked with extracting the iron ore from this rock were seasoned veterans, with years in the pits behind them. Haunted mines were the kinds of stories that they used to scare their children to bed.

  But two months after starting work on this mountain, they had three tunnels on the go; each had got no further than twenty or thirty paces in before it hit problems. Not your average problems either, not unstable ceilings or flooding, no; this dig had thrown up a whole new set of obstacles. Whenever they tried to bore into the rock, the drill bit would make a noise like a child screaming – a sound none of the miners could bear.

  There had been cases where workers swore that after managing to open a crack in the walls, the fissure would reseal itself, almost as if it were healing. Sometimes they would sense vibrations in the ore; a low tone would reach their ears, as if from some huge tuning fork, and they would stumble from the mine suffering headaches and toothaches.

  The strangest thing, though, was the way the tools rusted. That was just the damnedest thing.

  The team of seven men stood before the dark mouth of the mine in solemn silence. It had become a ritual to pause before entering the tunnel, like a stand-off, warriors taking the measure of an opponent. A few of them gazed up at the rock face above the mine, their expressions bitter, but determined. Paternasse, the oldest of the group, regarded the shiny new head of his pickaxe. It was his fifteenth since starting the dig. The others had rusted into powder. In the thirty-six years he’d been digging metal and minerals from the ground, he’d never heard of anything like it.

  ‘Right, let’s get started,’ Paternasse grunted. ‘That pit won’t dig itself.’

  They marched inside, armed with brand new tools: pickaxes, spades, hammers and wedges and the other trappings of the mining trade. Along with their digging equipment, they each had a helmet with a headlamp, to bolster the glow of their lanterns. One man pushed the cart that carried their heavier gear and the timber supports and would later be hauled up the rails to the surface by a winch, carrying their spoils back out of the tunnel. That was if they managed to get any work done that day.

  Paternasse spat on his hands, rubbed the saliva into them to get his palms soft enough for a good grip, then studied the face of the rock for the chink in the mountain’s armour that his pick could get its point into.

  This cursed hill was still the richest source of iron ore he had ever seen, and he was damned if it was going to get the better of him. Soon they would break its spirit and then they’d really get to work …. He found a thin crack in the rock and swung his pickaxe back over his shoulder. Just as he did, two eyes appeared in the stone and the crack opened into a mouth and screamed. Paternasse gasped and stumbled back, tripping over a water bucket behind him and landing flat on his back. Further down the tunnel, someone else was shouting. A piece of the mine-face the size and shape of a child peeled itself from the rock, dropped to the floor and ran towards the tunnel entrance. Moments later, another one sprinted up from the back of the mine, jumped over him and followed the first. The sounds of giddy, high-pitched laughter reached his ears.

  Noogan, the youngest of the miners, ran up and knelt down by his side.

  ‘Jussek?’ he asked the older man, concern in his voice. ‘You all right?’

  Paternasse lay there for a while longer to let his heart calm down. It was beating like the hooves of a racehorse. He was short of breath too; the years of mining had taken their toll on his lungs.

  ‘Just got a fright, lad,’ he muttered, sitting up. ‘Those blasted Myunans have gone too far this time – too far by half. If they can’t keep a leash on their young ’uns, one of those little whelps is going to get hurt down here. I could’ve killed that one if I’d hit it. Little animal.’

  He coughed up some long-lost dust from his lungs, hawked and spat at the rock face.

  Noogan looked at the square of light at the end of the tunnel.

  ‘They’re not natural, those Myunans,’ he said, bitterly. ‘The way they can carve themselves into shapes like that.’

  ‘Oh, they’re natural all right,’ Paternasse sat up and clambered to his feet. ‘Natural-born scoundrels. Still, the Noranians’ll see to them. If there’s one thing Noranians are good for, it’s putting people in their place.’

  * * * *

  Taya Archisan stifled another giggle as she ran, dodging behind one of th
e dirt-encrusted wagons that served the mine and ducking underneath it, slipping behind one of its six steel-rimmed wheels to hide. From this vantage point, they could see a long stretch of the palisade fence and the gate that opened onto the road. Lorkrin skidded in behind her, a giddy grin on his face.

  ‘Did you see the look on that old lad’s face?’ he whispered. ‘He nearly jumped right out of his skin!’

  The misshapen, stony effect of his flesh receded as he crouched there, the colours of his skin returning to normal and his impish facial features reasserting themselves. Their disguises had been meticulous. Mimicking a mine wall well enough to fool a miner was no easy feat, but they had done it. Sculpting, or ‘amorphing’, the texture into their skins had taken all their skill and every tool they had, but the effect had been worth it.

  The two children were brother and sister, both clad in the garb of their tribe, tunics with cloth belts, Taya in leggings and Lorkrin in trousers. Their clothes and skin had swirling markings, Lorkrin’s more angular in blues, greens and greys, Taya’s in reds, oranges and browns, and it was difficult to see where their skin ended and their clothes began. Taya’s hair was light brown, long and tied back in a braided ponytail, while Lorkrin’s was blonde and cropped short. They were both in their early teens, but it would not have been clear to an observer which of them was older, although Taya was a little taller. She was also the one who liked to be in charge, and so was already working out their next move. They had to get out of the compound, and that meant crossing a wide stretch of open ground to the fence and the trees beyond.

  Taya saw the old man Lorkrin had scared walking across to the building that served as offices for the Noranians. He looked serious. She had almost been caught when she jumped out at the group of men who had passed her, but they had been too shocked to grab her. Seeing the expression on the old man’s face, she realised how lucky she had been.

  ‘I think we might have gone a bit too far,’ she said softly to her brother.

  ‘Nah,’ he replied. ‘They’re not supposed to be here anyway; you know what the elders are always saying. If this lot won’t leave by themselves, they have to be made to leave. We’re just doing our bit.’

  Taya nodded. This was all for good cause. Self-consciously brushing the mine-dust from her hair with her fingers, she cast her gaze around the compound. To their left were the newly constructed buildings, with four trucks lined up outside. Beyond the yellow-brick offices and living quarters, there was the gate, guarded by two Noranian soldiers standing in the wooden tower. More wandered around inside the fence and these were the main problem. The Noranians believed in security and they were good at it. The fence was a wooden palisade twice the height of a man and each pale was sharpened to an evil point at the top. Lorkrin had his tools out and was using a whittler to craft his fingers and toes into hooked claws that would give him a grip on the smooth wood.

  Taya was about to do the same when a pair of legs approached and clambered up onto the wagon. Another pair of legs strode up and around the front, a pair of hands fitted a crank handle into the engine’s crankshaft and turned it until the engine coughed and caught. The driver revved the motor while he waited for his passenger to get on board before settling it into a rumbling idle. There was the gnash of worn gears and the smell of burnt bule oil and greasy smoke wafted over them. The two Myunans exchanged glances. Their hiding place was about to drive away.

  ‘They’re opening the gates!’ Lorkrin hissed. ‘We can go with the truck!’

  They reached up and caught hold of the steel chassis, lifting themselves off the ground. The truck lurched and started to roll forward, bouncing across the rough surface of the compound and through the open gates to the road. The truck was old, and slow enough for Lorkrin and Taya to drop safely to the ground and scamper into the bushes once they were out of sight of the gates. High with the thrill of their escape, they ran weaving through the trees to the path that would take them back to their village.

  1 SOMETHING IN THE GROUND

  Marnelius Cotch-Baumen pinched the bridge of his nose and winced. He was getting a beastly headache. The climate of Sestina did not agree with him. It was not as cold as Noran, but it was definitely wetter, and the damp caused terrible clogging in his sinuses. The fact that he had to live in one of the hovels Sestinians called ‘manor houses’ did not help either. The sooner his new keep was built, the better. As Provinchus of this area, he was entitled to a decent standard of living and his poor health demanded it. He gazed dourly at the woman who stood before his desk. Dressed in unadorned travelling clothes, she was crude and unladylike, with the ever-present Myunan tool roll slung over her back and the unsightly coloured markings arcing across her otherwise attractive face – even running through her long, dark hair in pale streaks. He despised Myunans.

  ‘I’m sure you can understand the dangers of mixing mining and children,’ he said to her. ‘They are like white wine and red meat: incompatible, and hazardous to the constitution. Out of concern for your youngsters, I would ask that you exercise proper control over them.’

  ‘Our children were not in danger until you started mining in our territory,’ the woman replied. ‘I would ask that you exercise proper control over your forces … and leave.’

  ‘We have gone over this time and again,’ Cotch-Baumen sniffed, dabbing his nose with a handkerchief. ‘You hold no title to this land; you have no right to it under law. Indeed, you wouldn’t know what to do with land if you did own it. You Myunans wander like a herd of cattle, making no attempt to civilise yourselves. If you want land, apply in writing for a grant of land, like any civilised person.’

  ‘We didn’t need titles until you concocted them and all the laws are yours! Our people have always lived here …’

  ‘Yes, as I have said, we have gone over this time and again. Your protests have been duly noted. But on the matter at hand, I have asked politely. Now I must insist. Keep your children away from our operations at the mountain or your tribe will be held accountable. You may go now.’

  Nayalla Archisan stared down at the Provinchus, struggling to maintain her composure. This thin string of a man had insulted her and dismissed her as if she were a lowly servant rather than an elder of the powerful Hessingale tribe. He was already reading from a report on his desk, paying no more attention to her. She closed her eyes and willed the colours of her face to change. Her flesh paled to whiteness, shadows deepened and in moments, her face bore an uncanny likeness to a human skull. She leaned in close to the Provinchus and her eyes flicked open in their sunken sockets. Cotch-Baumen looked up and gave a start, taken aback by the sight.

  ‘Do you think that planting your flag in our territories will make this land yours?’ she hissed. ‘Listen to what we are saying. This land delivers dire retribution upon those who abuse it. Do not make enemies of the Myunans.’

  Cotch-Baumen sat bolt upright.

  ‘Such theatrics,’ he said, flustered. ‘Really!’

  Nayalla turned and walked out, the skull vanishing from her face. She was done with the Noranian. Now it was time to have a few words with her children.

  * * * *

  The episode with the Myunan children had served to release some of the tension the miners were feeling and the rest of the morning had passed without any further mishap. The mines were still so shallow that the miners could come out for lunch to soak up some sunlight and spare their spirits the gloomy darkness while they ate. Noogan decided to stay and work on for a while, encouraged by the progress he had made that morning and eager to chip away more of the slab of hard, grey stone he had uncovered. He was only seventeen, with dark hair, and a face that bore a perpetual gormless expression. He was tall, but still had a boy’s build and he was struggling to earn the respect of his workmates. A farmer’s son, he had turned to mining when his brothers took over the family plot. Like any young lad, he had made the usual cock-ups as he learnt the ropes and the older men weren’t letting him forget them. Working under this mountain mad
e him nervous, and that was causing him to make even more mistakes. Mistakes were not easily forgiven by men who worked in fear of cave-ins and gas poisoning.

  A sound made him stop and turn around. He could see nothing in the light of his headlamp, so he picked up the bule-oil lantern and held it out in front of him. The noise was grainy, like sand being poured from a bucket. He ground his teeth together. He knew the rest of the team were up at the mouth of the mine. But there was definitely someone down here with him. The Myunans again. Bloody whelps, he thought as he cast the light of the lantern around. He’d spank them black and blue if he caught them.

  A movement on the floor of the tunnel caught his eye and he knelt down. Some of the dust from the ore they had dug out was cascading down the pile of rock and shifting along the floor. Noogan frowned. He hadn’t noticed any draught. He wet his finger in his mouth and held it down near the floor, expecting the side facing the draught to turn cold. It didn’t. He put his cheek down near the shifting dust. Definitely no breeze. He stood up and shone the lantern on the ground further down the tunnel. The dust and some of the smaller lumps were moving along the ground, like a column of ants. He laughed nervously and thought of going up to fetch some of the others, but his curiosity got the better of him and he followed the trail of iron ore to see where it was going.

  It led him to a pit that Balkrelt, one of the other miners, had been working in that morning. It was waist deep and twice as wide. Balkrelt had found a rich deposit there and had been crowing about how he had cleaned it out as he walked up the slope for his lunch. There was another sound coming from the bottom of the pit. Noogan peered in, but the light was still poor and he could not see the bottom properly. The trail of ore fragments was pouring into the hole as if it were trying to refill it. He climbed down into the pit and was astounded at what he found.