Balor tickled the wolf pup’s ears. The ring ding ding of hammer on stone was calming him somewhat. He sat on his throne, listening to the mesmerising sound of the stonemasons levelling the ground before the hole in the wall so the wagon could pass through the gap. The breach was at the top of a slight rise he supposed was meant to deflect catapult missiles up and over the wall. The fortification’s designers were clever but had not expected his missile, which entered the wall and tore out a hole from within.

  The pale, sickle moon hanging in the morning sky seemed strange to Balor. He wondered if daytime moons were something new. He couldn’t remember one. But then, it had been so long ago it might be his memory playing tricks with his mind. He’d always thought Rhiannon to be a nighttime deity. Still, her proclivities would not affect his campaign—day or night made no difference to the undead, despite what the masses chose to believe.

  Ring ding ding. Ring ding ding.

  It sounds like the skirmish with Ruirech, only missing the screams.

  Ring ding ding. Iron on stone could have been iron on iron. In some ways, he missed the screams of the dying. Some would find it morbid for him to relish those sounds, but not anyone who had been undead for a thousand summers. Only those people could truly appreciate what the echoes of death represented.

  Freedom.

  Many died here today.

  The battle had been ferocious and bloody, at least for the defenders. They had no way to combat the undead. Or, put more precisely, they were unsure how to destroy them. It didn’t take long to realise flights of arrows loosed from what remained of the fortifications did nothing to halt the invading warriors, so the defenders formed a shield wall behind the breach. They tried valiantly to stop Abartach and his vanguard of one hundred grey skins. The defence, although valiant, was futile. Stabbing the undead warriors through the gaps between their shields did nothing except infuriate the Fomorii, who tore the soldiers into shreds of meat and offal. In truth, Balor would have preferred less barbarity because it would mean more warriors to swell his ranks. He wanted his army to grow as he conquered, filling the tribes with fear as they swelled.

  The larger the horde when I meet the Maidens, the better. Even they shall know fear.

  Balor knew that a battle with Neit’s Maidens was inevitable. The demon said they would conquer Sliabh Culinn if united, which he didn’t believe. For Balor, the best way to defeat the Tuatha army would be to draw them out of their fastness on the edge of the Great Forest. Initially, Balor found the ringing of hammers helped him to think about that final battle but now he was growing impatient.

  Ring ding ding.

  “How much longer?” he called, startling the pup and causing it to cower in the pit of his arm. “How long, I said.”

  After being patient for a thousand summers, Balor could no longer stand the waiting. It was just foolish emotion, but he could do nothing about it. As soon as the demon shimmered and vanished and he made up his mind, the delays began to grate on his undead nerves. He remembered being the same as a child. He would wait through the seasons for the next Samhain festival, but when Queen Saoirse—his mother—told him the festivities would soon begin, he became impatient and moody, and those around him suffered.

  Ring ding ding.

  “How... long?” he repeated.

  “Not long, Sire,” Abartach called.

  Balor rubbed his hands together as the First Warrior led some prisoners down from the breach. The dirty, defeated and deflated human warriors were on a rope string that Abartach held loosely in his left hand; in his right, he carried Gáe Bulg, his lance. Several of his vanguard walked beside the defeated humans; their Lia Fáil-tipped weapons held by their sides. They appeared to be invincible. The shield wall lasted only moments before they tore it apart.

  The Maidens will stand no chance.

  “There are some large stones that will snag the wheels. The masons are reducing them, and we should be able to move them shortly,” Abartach said, arriving before him.

  “Arracht,” Balor hissed, dragging the wolf pup out from under his arm by the scruff of its neck.

  “What happened, Sire?”

  “Little monster bit me,” he said, twisting the pup’s neck until he heard a snap.

  Creator forsake the creature. Why did it do that? It wasn’t yet twelve moon cycles old. As well as the question, he felt a surge of grief at the loss.

  “Already. And so young,” Abartach said.

  Balor knew his First Warrior was humouring him but decided not to react. Shaking his head, he threw the carcass into the debris beside the wagon, catching sight of the sickle moon as he did so. It was annoying because he would now have to wait until the following late spring or early summer to replace it. Typically, the beasts could abide him for at least twelve of Rhiannon’s cycles. Maybe something in Balor’s excitement had turned it earlier. Abartach glanced at the dead pup but said nothing.

  “What have we got here?” Balor asked, nodding at the thirty or so human warriors, who stared at him, frightened but defiant. Some of them also glanced at the carcass nervously.

  Sentimentality is not a good trait for warriors.

  “Who speaks for you?” Balor asked.

  Abartach separated the man in front and forced him onto his knees. “This was their captain, Sire.”

  “What is your name, soldier?” The man spat into the dust and held his peace. Balor smiled and shook his head. “You defended with valour, but it was a hopeless endeavour. Speak, man; you are not my enemy.”

  “If we’re not enemies, why are so many of my warriors lying in mutilated mounds? What your… I don’t even know what they are… what they did to my fighters was bestial. Monstrous and inhuman. And there was no honour in it.”

  What fool notion is this?

  He understood the man’s frustration but not the need for battle to be honourable. Only an amadán would seek honour in battle. The thought brought him back to the last time he heard the ringing of metal and screams of the dying in this gorge: his rearguard fighting Ruirech’s riders. There had been no honour in that fight either. Battle was a question of winning or losing, living or dying, and, as it transpired, not being allowed to die. Back then, some sacrificed themselves so that others could enter the caves. The rearguard were the lucky ones because they moved on from the terrestrial to whatever the Otherworld might be, but certainly, the Endless Sleep that some of the warriors in his horde now craved. How do you explain that to humans who are incapable of seeing beyond their pride? However, it wasn’t just the release of death. There was so much more to it. How do you explain to this captain the beauty of tasting food on the tongue and the love of a partner? How do you explain to him the freedom to walk and feel the earth beneath his feet?

  How do I explain the curse of being undead and chained to Lia Fáil?

  “What is your name?” Balor tried again. The man spat again and turned his head away.

  The arrogance of humans is astounding.

  “Denounce your king, and I will treat you fairly.” Rather than speak, the warrior stared up at him defiantly, straining at his bonds.

  Balor was glad the man had his hands tied behind his back and that Abartach was standing between them because the malice in the man’s eyes spoke of a desire to lunge at him. Any attack would be futile because, short of cutting off Balor’s head or crushing it, the human could not harm him. However, despite being undead, he still felt pain and preferred avoiding it if possible.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  When he finally spoke, the man’s words caused Balor to shiver with rage. “We would rather die than denounce our king.”

  “Die? Die? Did I say you would die, you vile man? Denounce your king, or you will never die.”

  The captain took a few moments to understand the words, at which point he began to search frantically for some way to escape. Balor laughed at the man’s panic. There was nowhere for him to run. The Undead Horde surrounded him. With his arms tied behind him, he would even find it difficult to get to his feet. In time, the warrior realised the depth of his plight. His choices were limited, and he accepted them, hanging his head.

  Eventually, they all realise their plight.

  “And what happens if I denounce the King? What form does your fairness take?”

  “Abartach will stab you through the heart, and it will be over before you know it.”

  The man turned back to his warriors, men and women of valour, who were pleading with their eyes. None of them wanted to join the undead. Who would blame them? Who would choose such a life? None of Balor’s people chose to be undead; it was forced upon them by this captain’s ancestors. There was only one in his retinue who chose this life.

  The captain nodded once; such a simple gesture decided his future and the future of those waiting behind.

  “Abartach,” Balor said, rubbing his hands together. The intended victim stared at the King in confusion, shaking his head, failing to understand the reason for the evident glee.

  “Remove his cuirass and hold him,” Abartach commanded.

  Two of the vanguard moved to comply. The captain didn’t resist and was soon bare-chested on his knees before Abartach, who placed the point of his spear in the groove between the man’s left clavicle and shoulder blade. Satisfied with the positioning, he stabbed the spear down with one thrust. After he pulled it free, the captain fell forward into the dust without a sound.

  Moving from warrior to warrior, Abartach performed the same actions for them all. The executions were soon over, and the First Warrior walked and stood in front of Balor, waiting for further instructions.

  “Have one of your lieutenants wait for them to awaken. Make sure the lieutenant is competent,” Balor said. “We go on to Falias. We go on to our destiny.”

  “Ailbhinn is a strong leader.”

  Balor could see the warrior standing in the breach in his ceremonial armour with crossed arms. He was a tower of strength, his bronze cuirass glinting in the sunlight.

  “Let it be so,” he said.

  “Should they follow us after they rise, Sire?” Abartach asked.

  “No. They can wait for us here. We shall be returning this way soon enough.”

  Immediately after Balor uttered the words a wolf howled in the distance, followed by another closer by. The howls surrounded them and sounded sorrowful, as though the beasts were mourning some death. The Fomorii warriors began muttering, pointing at the pup’s carcass, appearing confused.

  “It is nothing,” Balor called. “This pass was always the domain of the wolf. Come, we march.”

  ***

  Bee couldn’t tear her eyes away from the flat-topped mountain. It looked like a pile of dung shat out by some massive stallion before a monster cut the top off with a Giant scythe. From a distance, the moss and lichen gave the mountain the green hue of freshly passed dung, and the morning mists made it appear as if it were steaming.

  A steaming pile of shite for Whitehead to sit on.

  Like massive boulders piled one atop the other, the cliffs were smooth and rounded, and she knew them to house intricate paths and stairways Whitehead ordered carved in the mountain’s rocks. The central massif was only accessible by rope ladders lowered from the top or by the winch used to haul stores up, which remained on the plateau except when needed. It was a mountain fastness that would take a vast army to conquer.

  Huge or nearly indestructible like a Fomorii horde.

  Riding up the dusty highway, which Whitehead ordered built as a poor imitation of Etercel’s, because the dyke was low and overhung by trees, Bee felt a knot in her gut. Sainreth rode behind and was quite vociferous in his silence. Even the Horse Warrior seemed to be affected by the tension, which was a surprise.

  I must convince her.

  Bee knew the Undead Horde was coming. At least eventually. She was not sure Balor would rush to confront Neit’s Maidens but knew he would return to the east after he tasted success. The undead warriors were formidable, but the determined could destroy them. Dropping stones on their heads from atop a mountain stronghold would be one way to do it. To avoid that possibility, the King of the Undead would surely increase his army until he could surround Sliabh Culinn and starve them out. Even if Balor wasn’t versed in martial arts, the warrior Abartach was. If Cú Anoir’s words could be believed, the Horde would be a formidable opponent.

  Abartach will trap Bairrfind like a rat in a barrel.

  “What’s that place,” Abe asked.

  “That, Horse Warrior, is Sliabh Culinn. The great pile of horse shite that Bairrfind calls home.”

  “I would rather call that home than the hovel you live in, tóin.”

  The words caused the riders to rein in their mounts and were followed by a tall woman stepping out from the trees at the side of the path. She was carrying a battle axe, and her eyes were blacked. A round wooden shield was strapped to her back.

  Expecting a fight, Whitehead?

  Bee frowned at the captain, unchanged in the ten summers since she last saw the Tuatha commander.

  “Whitehead,” she said, her tone cautious. Harbouring the same old jealousy, she stopped herself from saying. She had to warn this warrior and convince her that leaving the rock she lived on was the only choice.

  “Are ye well?”

  Instead of answering, Bairrfind planted her legs slightly apart and stared at her. She was taller than Bee by a head and shoulders. She was taller than the Horse Warrior and Sainreth. Apart from the tails hanging over her shoulders, her hair, silvery-white—the reason for her epithet—flowed down her back like a waterfall in moonlight. She was wearing a copper cuirass, covered slightly by a cowhide. A weighted leather skirt hung to mid-thigh, and copper greaves protected below her knees. Her helmet hung from her belt on the opposite side from her short sword. She seemed to be a formidable warrior. Bee knew appearances could be deceiving, but in Whitehead’s case, they were not.

  Glancing behind, Bee confirmed that more Neit’s Maidens were blocking any retreat. It wouldn’t take a mage’s genius to surmise others were in the trees on either side.

  If she has a mind, she could destroy us.

  “What are you doing here, Sainreth?” Whitehead asked. “You’re supposed to be in Breslech awaiting an army of demons—you and the tóin both.”

  “My troop are there.”

  “I ordered you there.”

  “And I ordered Sainreth to come with me, Whitehead, as is my right.” Head as hard as the rock she calls home. Dagda, give me a chisel.

  “Hold your tongue, tóin. I will speak to you when this one has explained his insubordination. Or is it treason, lover boy? Did you run after this tóin with your manhood in your hand?”

  Bee had to fight to keep her temper. She felt a need to run a finger along her scar but refrained because it could be read as a sign of nervousness, especially by the warrior standing before her with her head tilted.

  “I will ignore yer insult for now. That said, there are many issues with yer stance, Whitehead. Ignoring all but one, I answer to Dagda and not ye.”

  “Dagda’s in his Sídhe, Bechuille. I am here with two thousand Neit’s Maidens behind me. You answer to who I say, tóin. And I say—”

  Bee interrupted, unable to listen to any more shite from the jealous warrior. “And while yer virginal jealousy controls ye, the Undead Horde is marching. All those battle-hardened heroes who went seeking fame and battle glory are coming for ye.”

  “How dare you call me virginal. I—”

  “Did ye not hear me, Whitehead? The. Grey. Skins. Are. Coming.”

  Stressing each word individually seemed to work because the captain stared at her open-mouthed, eyes frantic as if she were fighting some internal conflict.

  “Why, after a thousand summers?” she asked, the question only just audible.

  “We were in the caverns under the Fiery Mountain. They were deserted, except for a handful of heroes dead or dying, hanging from the wall behind the dais in chains. One of them, Cú Anoir, said a messenger from the Lord of Darkness told Balor the Kingdoms are weak, the news the King waited a millennium to hear. The news all the undead warriors were waiting to hear. The news drove them out from under the mountain.”

  Whitehead dropped her axe into the path’s dust, held up a hand, and shook her head. Bee frowned at the warrior as her skin became the same colour as her hair. It seemed something had scared the woman half to death.

  Nothing scares Whitehead. She fought Dhuosnos’s demon army. And won! More than once.

  “I… I… I can’t,” she said, knees starting to buckle.

  “Are ye well, Bairrfind?”

  “Sorry, I…” The captain squatted, rested her hands on her knees, and began pulling in laboured breaths.

  “Hurr. Hurr. Hurr.”

  Bee swung out of her saddle and ran towards the warrior, intending to place a hand on Whitehead’s shoulder and console her. Before she was halfway there, two spear points were stabbing at her chest. Glaring at the warriors standing at the other ends of the long shafts, she said, “Bairrfind, call your hounds to heel before I turn them into toads.”

  Whitehead pulled herself back to her feet and fought for control. Eventually, her breath returned to near normal, and she was able to speak. “Stand easy. She’s no threat to me.”

  “Thank ye, Whitehead.”

  “Where are the undead now?” she asked, blue eyes seeming to gleam from the paleness of her skin.

  “West. I think the King intends to exact his revenge in the order of gravity, no. Ochall’s betrayal was the most severe.”

  “You think the Fomorii still bear a grudge after so long?”

  Bee gazed back west, thinking about Whitehead’s words and wondering why she failed to understand the import of the news. Balor’s revenge, his people’s revenge, was born of much more than time.

  “Aye.”

  “Balor’s Bane should hold him for a while. That gives us time.”

  “Ye think. He has draíocht, Bairrfind. I would wager my bow that he’s already through the wall and marching on Falias.”