Bee felt sorry for Cú, smiling up at her from where he was lying on the dais, his head propped up slightly by Sainreth’s balled-up cloak. The warrior’s face was falling into ruin before their eyes. At first, she thought the sudden ageing was a trick of the light but now knew it to be real. He said he was dying because Balor stole the mountain’s heart, Lia Fáil, and maybe his ageing quickly was part of that. Whatever the truth, his face was greying and wrinkling before them.

  “The horde went west,” he said with a sigh. “The King, sitting on his throne, wheeled away on a squeaking cart.”

  As Sainreth’s warriors took down the bodies of the other fame hunters, Bee ran a finger along the ridge of her scar as she always did when thinking. She faced one of two choices and was unsure which would be more likely to succeed.

  Follow him west and destroy him now, or get an army and destroy him in battle?

  Choosing either would have pitfalls. Following Balor and trying to destroy him had little chance of success. A horde of the Undead Fomorii surrounded him. Not alone that, she knew of the warrior Cú mentioned: Abartach. His quest had reached the ears of all of Danu’s people, gaining the status of a legend. Abartach had been a Tuatha champion who followed Balor under the mountain not long after the Fomorii were driven there by Ruirech’s Horse Warriors. Some of the legends had him fighting on behalf of the rebels, but Bee had to admit being sceptical. Why would any Tuatha warrior involve themselves in something so utterly human?

  “All that said, he went in search of Lia Fáil intending to create a magical lance or sword,” she mused. If he went under the mountain intending to create a weapon, he must have already done so after more than a thousand summers. Abartach was more than likely now an undead warrior armed with a magical weapon.

  Maybe more than one.

  “Who? What?” Volt asked.

  And this one is foretold to face him and his king.

  “Nothing, Horse Warrior.”

  Volt turned away, refusing to meet her eye.

  Bee studied him, wondering. According to legend, Abartach was a formidable fighter, standing a head taller than his peers; skilled with spear, axe, and sword, and all that before he created a weapon from Lia Fáil. The likelihood was that Volt would need to face the warrior in single combat as Cú said he’d done. She suspected Balor was steeped in the old traditions of the Kingdoms. The warrior lying on the dais hadn’t been explicit. Still, Bee knew Balor would have given him the chance to avoid a generation hanging in chains behind the dais. ‘Defeat Abartach and win your freedom.’ She could almost hear the King’s words echoing through the halls.

  Volt scuffed his feet, hands behind his back, staring into the darkness. Even the men lining the bodies of the dead warriors on the dais didn’t catch his attention.

  “He’s not ready,” she mused.

  “Not ready for what?”

  “Never mind. I was speaking my thoughts.” The Horse Warrior pouted but said nothing.

  So, I must go east.

  But going east also had its dangers. The biggest Bee could think of was Lia Fáil. From what little Cú Anoir had said, it seemed the stone caused humans who entered the mountain to become undead; what effect would it have on those who came near it on the surface? But Balor also had a blade, probably made from the same stone as the throne. Could the Undead King keep increasing the size of his horde as he conquered? Even if the stone didn’t create more undead, he had the blade. Besides, he would surely demand fealty from those he beat. Depending on losses, which would be few because his army was already dead—or undead—the horde would grow.

  It was as inevitable as sunrise.

  “The old man is dead,” Sainreth said, interrupting her.

  Putting her thoughts aside, Bee turned to the body and wondered what had driven the warrior to search for fame in such a Gods’ forsaken hole.

  “What now?” Volt asked.

  “Now, we’ll head back. Build these poor fools a cairn. It’s the least we can do.”

  “Aye,” Sainreth agreed. “Then what?”

  “Then we head for Sliabh Culinn and warn Whitehead she’s a war coming. And not just any war. I wonder how she’ll react to facing an army of undead.”

  Likely by saying it’s not her concern.

  ***

  Night had fallen by the time they’d finished building the cairn and given the warriors their last rites. They had agreed there would be little danger in lighting a fire. The Fomorii were heading away from them and were the only threat in Balor’s Canyon. If the demon returned, she would feel its presence.

  Bee sat playing with her scar and thinking about where they were going. She knew Whitehead wouldn’t be welcoming. The leader of Neit’s Maidens had a ten-summer old grudge chipping away at her helmet. Not alone that, she’d condemned Bee to death during her brother’s earlier attempt to usurp power from someone. Bee didn’t think explaining to her that Sainreth didn’t find her attractive would resolve the issue—her pride would be bound to intervene. Still, she had to try something to create a truce because she needed the Tuatha. And her warriors. Without Neit’s Maidens, they could not defeat the Fomorii horde.

  There’s little chance, even with the Maidens.

  Thinking of Whitehead’s warriors reminded Upthog that she had a question for Volt.

  “Tell me, Horse Warrior, how could yer mother be a Horse Maiden and yet have ye?”

  “I don’t understand your meaning,” Volt said.

  “Well, she can’t have been a maiden and have a son. Least not where I come from.”

  “Oh, I understand. They call the girls maidens because they are very young when they begin training on the Shadowy Isle. They don’t stay maidens as they grow.”

  “Ah. That explains it, then.”

  “But what of your Whitehead. She’s a Battle Maiden. Surely, she’s not still—”

  “I think she might be, Horse Warrior. I think she might.”

  “Aye, definitely,” Sainreth agreed. “Acts like she has a spear shaft up her hole, but I doubt she’s ever had anything else up there.”

  The uncouth soldier was picking his teeth with a slither of wood, making Bee wonder what she saw in him. Her dalliance with the slob created Whitehead’s current hatred of her. Her task would be much easier if she weren’t facing Bairrfind’s animosity—and possibly her battle axe.

  I was lonely, I think, and he was the best of a middling bunch—and attractive.

  “Since we’re in the mood for questions,” Volt said. “Here’s one.”

  “Go ahead,” Bee said and smiled across the flames at him. She wasn’t really in the mood to answer questions, but like the Neit’s Maidens, she needed the Horse Warrior, at least according to Dagda’s seeress.

  “Why is Balor going west? Surely his revenge should be directed at Gorias, or the Great Forest. Wasn’t it Ruirech who forced him under the mountain?”

  Bee turned away at mention of the rebel king. Despite the many summers that had elapsed, she still felt his betrayal as though it happened on the previous day. Perhaps those memories played a part in her falling into Sainreth’s cot.

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  “Well?” Volt gave her a nudge.

  Frowning, she said, “Do ye know anything about Balor and his Fomorii?”

  The horse warrior shook his head, and said, “Not really. Nothing about the King other than those stories meant to scare leanaí into behaving at bedtime.”

  “Have ye never heard of—”

  “I know, I know,” he said, holding up his hands. “Have I not heard of learning from history. I’ve heard some things about the Fomorii being an older race. A race before we came, more bestial than human-like.”

  “They’re not bestial. Some might have considered them lesser beings, but they were just less developed, living in smaller houses, and such. Bronze weaponry rather than iron. The kings of West Kingdom used them for working the diamond mines and manning their armies, treating them as slaves.”

  “What did I tell you? No point in learning from history. Mostly, it’s just lies and exaggeration.”

  Aye, maybe ye’ve a point.

  Bee grinned at him, composing herself before she started her tale. “Anyway, no one can really know what Balor’s thinking—not after he stewed in a hole for so long. He’s probably as mad as a bag of starving rats.

  “That said, I could hazard a few guesses.”

  “Please,” Volt said.

  “Eterscel died without an heir. The Kingdoms were in turmoil, searching for a successor, with in-house fighting, blood feuds, claims and counterclaims. Ochall of West Kingdom sent his most trusted general, Indech Mór, and a host of Fomorii vassals to exploit their weakness and take Gorias.

  “The fortress fell with ease. The chieftains and warriors of Middle Kingdom had been squabbling too much to see them coming.

  “Once entrenched in the formidable settlement, Indech, instead of offering the spoils to his rightful liege, declared himself King of Middle Kingdom, giving his Fomorii their freedom. Making them citizens—equals to the other humans in his army.

  “Indech and his line ruled for three hundred summers until Ruirech raised the clans of the Great Forest and threw them out. Balor was king at the time. After the siege, Ruirech’s horse warriors harried Balor and his survivors up the East to West Highway until a barricade built across the road at the entrance to West Kingdom stopped them dead. The wall is now known as Balor’s Bane.

  “Balor begged to be allowed through, but the King’s emissary refused him. His only recourse was to go under the mountain. Rather than blame Indech, who started it, or Ruirech’s lack of mercy for his plight—I’m guessing mind—Balor blames Ochall and West Kingdom. Don’t misunderstand me. He’ll come east as sure as hens lay eggs, but first, he’ll retake what he must consider his homeland. And because his ancestor treated them as human instead of the monsters of legend, the Fomorii would follow him into Tech Duinn if he deemed it necessary.”

  Volt started to rub his bristles, frowning. “Horse Warrior.”

  “What? Oh, sorry.”

  “My go,” Sainreth said.

  “What, ye think it’s a game? I’m going to sleep. Even though we’re safe, make sure to post a picket, Sainreth.”

  ***

  Sitting on his throne elevated by the tall wheels of the wagon, Balor stared down into the shadows smothering the Western Path in a shroud. He could see nothing because the sun had yet to climb above the mountains behind him. On second thought, he realised it wasn’t accurate to say he couldn’t see anything. In his mind, Balor saw an army in need camped before a tall barricade begging for succour from their people. He could hear a rearguard of the long dead holding Ruirech’s vicious horse warriors at bay, keeping the road where he now sat clear so he would have a retreat if the worst came to pass.

  And the worst came to pass. The retreat wasn’t the worst. What came after was far worse.

  Stroking the pup between the ears, he listened to the clash of iron on iron; the screams of the dead and the dying; the words of the King’s Envoy: ‘Go from here. You are no longer of West Kingdom. You gave up that privilege when you spat in King Ochall’s eye.’

  Gods rot the lot of you.

  The message had been unjust and inaccurate. Balor never spat in Ochall’s eye. He wasn’t Indech Mór, nor would he have turned on his liege. Loyalty was crucial to his continued survival. He would be the first to recognise its importance in himself and others.

  “The sun will soon breach,” Abartach said, pulling him back into the present.

  Saying nothing, Balor rubbed the pup’s ears distractedly. He was watching entranced as file after file of Fomorii ghosts marched past, heads down, silent, newly defeated a thousand summers before but not forgotten. Never forgotten. When the occasional ghost warrior raised its head, it showed grim determination. The noise of the rearguard holding off the killers was still there, more distant, but there.

  “Do you feel it, Abartach?”

  “Feel what, Sire?”

  “The desperation of a defeated army as they marched up this road to a fate far worse than death at the hands of Ruirech’s horse warriors.”

  “I was not here, Sire. I arrived after you discovered Lia Fáil.”

  “Ah, of course. I’d forgotten.”

  But he hadn’t forgotten. How could he forget the arrival under the mountain of the warrior who offered fealty for some of the shards chiselled off the Mountain’s Heart? The infamous Tuatha who helped drive him from his home and into the caves. He had come for whatever reason and begged leave to make weapons from the stone chips.

  I will not forget the part you played, Abartach.

  Balor might not forget, but he had little choice when it came to forgiveness. The lance Abartach had fashioned was sitting in a holster on the wagon’s side. The quiver of arrows was hanging on the other side beside his bow. The sword edged with the onyx was in its scabbard beside the lance. By far the most formidable weapons were hanging from Abartach’s belt, one on each hip: the maces he would use to crush their enemies even more lethal than those he used to crush Balor’s Fomorii.

  It’s time for your first test, my faithful right hand.

  Balor told his people they would march behind Lia Fáil, using the stone as their shield and their sword, but really, it was Abartach who would be the vanguard of the horde. The warrior standing beside the wagon would cut swathes through their enemies, ensuring none could stand against them: Abartach and his magic weapons.

  The massive Tuatha warrior.

  With that thought, the sun finally breached the peaks behind and stabbed a light down into the pass where the barricade had stood, preventing his army from reaching safety. Balor was not surprised that the barricade was no more. What did surprise him was that in its place a stone wall spanned the gorge with no visible sign of entry. Etercel’s once majestic Western Highway was overgrown, long gone back to nature but with a narrow path running along the middle of the dyke. The road appeared to be still used, but infrequently. It ended at the wall, under a gatehouse without a gate.

  “Why was I unaware of this wall?” he asked Abartach.

  The warrior shrugged. “We never came this way, Sire. The wood we require is on the mountain’s eastern slopes. The stonemasons only needed to widen the road near the mountain’s exit. Your people have not been this way since fleeing Ruirech’s horse warriors.”

  My people? Not our people?

  But that was not all. Balor glared at the warrior, upset not only by his words but also by the nonchalance with which he delivered them. Those few days had foreshadowed Balor’s destiny, and he could not abide this warrior belittling them. His not having been there did not excuse it…

  Suddenly realising it no longer held any import, Balor waved his hands in dismissal. “No matter. Take your best one hundred warriors down into the valley. Stay at least a hundred paces from the wall and await my signal.”

  “What will the signal be?”

  “You will know it. Go now.”

  As Abartach led his force down to the valley’s base and along the ancient, overgrown road, Balor noticed the sunlight glinting off the helmets and spearheads of the sentries atop the wall. He was momentarily surprised at their vigilance before remembering the demon saying there was war in the Kingdoms.

  Why is there no gate?

  It didn’t matter. Not really. Vigilance and a lack of a gate would not help West Kingdom. However strong those walls might be, they were unprepared for what was about to happen. Unprepared for the arrival of the Undead Horde.

  Balor was too far away to see the reaction of the soldiers when Abartach ordered his force to fan out on the scrubland on either side of the dyke with their weapons at the ready. Again, it didn’t matter because there was no way for them to avoid their imminent destiny.

  As I paid for the mistakes of my ancestor, so they will pay.

  Putting his hands on the arms of Lia Fáil, Balor hoisted himself into a crouch and then stood on the throne. With his arms raised above his head, he urged the stone to give him the power he needed. Balor kept his hands apart, shaped as though holding an invisible ball, and concentrated, chanting under his breath. The incantations weren’t necessary; they were just something that Balor found helped him reach the required concentration. And as he chanted, a ball of energy appeared between his hands. It was small and bright, like a miniature sun. It shone as brightly as a star but gave off no heat.

  The ball was pulsing between his fingers. With each throb, it grew slightly. When it was almost too big for him to hold, Balor lifted his hands behind his head and hurled it at the wall.

  As the ball flew, it grew.

  By the time it reached the barrier, it was bigger than Balor and his wagon combined. The man-made barrier absorbed the ball like a pond receives a stone, including the ripples. The wall seemed to wobble like so much oil in the bottom of a shaken cauldron.

  The ripples stilled.

  Nothing happened for several moments. Balor could imagine Abartach and his Fomorii and the guards atop the barrier waiting for something; casting questioning glances at each other; shrugging their lack of understanding.

  And then the final throb arrived.

  Initially, Balor couldn’t hear anything, but he saw the stones of the wall fly in all directions, followed by a mighty whump. As they fell back to earth, a massive dust cloud formed, covering the valley in a sandy-grey gloom. Even Abartach and the hundred Fomorii warriors were shrouded in the cloud.

  When the dust finally settled, Balor grinned in satisfaction. Where once there had been an unbroken wall spanning the gorge, there was now a gap, like the mouth of a warrior with some front teeth knocked out during a fistfight. Not far from the breach, Abartach and his best warriors were racing forwards, waving their weapons. He couldn’t hear anything but knew they would scream war cries as they ran, happy for the first time in a millennium.

  “So, let it begin, this ice-cold revenge,” he said to the pup.