The worm’s plan to defeat the three-hundred-heavy horse involved a curved ridge midway between Falias and the southern port of Corcaigh. The emissary told them that a half-moon ridge traversed the road south, forcing travellers through a narrow gorge that would be ideal for mounting an ambush on the unwary. The tips of the half-moon pointed northwards, and the arc pointed to the south. The southern slopes were steep and would be difficult to climb. In contrast, the northern slopes were more accessible, making the ridge a natural rampart. The terrain on either side of the road was rough and would be impassable to any horse or horse-drawn wagon. An army marching north or south would be forced to use the road. When the King’s Knights squeezed through the gap, the Fomorii could wipe them out from atop the ridge. Crush them with rocks, pierce them with arrows and spears. Utterly destroy them.

  If they were unwary.

  That was the worm’s imbecilic plan—a plan from the inexperienced to defeat the ignorant. Any commander worth the title would expect the ambush and send scouts. Upon discovering the waiting ambushers, the marching army would be likely to set up engines and pepper the ridge with boulders. Typically, those on the ridge would then send mounted sorties to destroy the engines, and a skirmish would ensue. However, Balor’s was not a regular army. Any foray would have to be on foot and, therefore, ineffective.

  On the other hand, they could stand on the ridge and accept the gift of boulders with open arms. The Fomorii were difficult to transition from undead to dead, but being crushed by huge boulders was one way to achieve it. To prevent that, the Undead Horde could hide on the northern slopes, out of sight of the missile throwers. However, that would be a standoff and gain nothing, notwithstanding the ignominy of hiding from battle.

  Despite the useless plan, the worm provided two critical pieces of information. Because they were massive, the horses were slow to build up pace and challenging to manoeuvre or stop once they were galloping, making them vulnerable. The other information was that Sharvan had recently formed the King’s Knights, and they were not yet fully trained. In some ways, they were as flawed as the worm’s plan.

  “They are possibly too heavy, Sire,” Abartach said, staring south. “An organised defence would expose their weakness.”

  “Is that towering height, weight and strength really a weakness?” Balor asked the warrior again.

  “Yes, Sire. But not only that, the King’s intention to crush our ranks is based on fantasy.”

  “Explain, Abartach.”

  Abartach told Balor that Sharvan’s plan relied on the sight of ironclad riders and massive beasts at the gallop, causing the Fomorranks to panic—to turn and flee, offering their backs to be run down by his knights. The King of West Kingdom had no idea what he was facing. The Undead would never run. Why would they? Being crushed under ironclad horses would be a release for them, and they would face it, not with courage but with hope.

  “If the emissary’s words are accurate, of course.”

  “When he returns to us, we can learn more,” Balor said, indicating the back of the wagon.

  “Yes, Sire.”

  Although the warrior was adept at keeping his emotions in check, Balor could sense Abartach’s disapproval. With his plan revealed, Balor—in a pique of anger at its naivety—stabbed the worm in the heart with his stone dagger. The soon-to-reanimate body was slumped in the wagon behind Lia Fáil, much to the chagrin of his First Warrior.

  Who does he think he is?

  Balor was finding Abartach’s moodiness irksome, to say the least. He understood the warrior had wanted to interrogate Uala more fully straight away, but stabbing the worm didn’t cause too much of a delay—a few hours at most. Besides, reanimated, the emissary would be much more pliant.

  Or would he?

  Balor had learnt over the hundreds of summers that those who submitted to his dagger voluntarily were much more likely to become willing minions. Those he forced tended towards unwilling compliance and had even been known to rebel against his authority, requiring Abartach to destroy them. That was why he hung the warriors seeking renown upon his walls and waited for them to agree to be stabbed. Natural transition was a much longer process, but they didn’t age under the Fiery Mountain, and most yielded quickly, preferring undeath to hanging behind his throne like ornamental tapestries. Most, but not all. A need for haste had forced Balor to leave some dissenters hanging in the hall. No matter. They would still be there when he returned, and he would stab them, willing or not.

  Abartach is becoming resentful of his position despite volunteering. Something is changing. Is he finally going to challenge me for the kingship?

  “What do you propose?” he asked, wondering when his First Warrior would openly rebel.

  “We should march for Corcaigh. We can use Halfmoon Ridge as a base. However, I would advise the vanguard warriors continuing south to ambush these King’s Knights somewhere between the ridge and the port. We can set traps for them.”

  “Will the knights not crush my best warriors in the open plains?”

  “No, Sire. Animals cannot abide the undead. We will dig trenches they cannot avoid and then hold them at bay with long lances. The horses will become skittish and throw their riders. On their backs, weighed down with iron, these knights will be so many rats in a barrel. We will transition them at our leisure.”

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

  “Good. Prepare to march south. We will stay together, though. I don’t like the idea of dividing my force.”

  Letting you off on your own with my best warriors.

  “I shall send out scouts to find how far they’ve gone.”

  “Good.”

  That decided, Balor gazed south and wondered about the southern port. He knew that in its early days, Corcaigh serviced the warrior training school at Dún Scáith on the Shadowy Isle and little else. Uala told them that after closing the gorge with the wall he called Balor’s Bane, King Ochall sent his ships across the Endless Sea in search of trading partners and new ways to feed his people. One of the ships returned with news of a vast continent to the south; a continent of untold wealth and strange rituals; a continent where the Horse Warriors—those he called knights—fought battles from the backs of massive horses while clad in iron. None of the previous kings had thought to buy the horses or armour. There’d been no need. Sensing the impending scourge, Sharvan decided it was time. He formed the King’s Knights in Corcaigh the previous summer and imported the horses and the iron armour to fit them. He had intended to create a strength capable of opposing a demon horde on the flat and arid plains of West Kingdom. On receiving news of the hole blasted in the wall, King Sharvan immediately decided to adapt the plan and marched his people south.

  All but one of them.

  Uala being left as an emissary had been a delaying tactic. The emissary was meant to act as if the King was still within the settlement and delay the horde at the gate. The worm—upset at being thrown away so blithely—decided to profit even before Falias’s refugees had passed from his sight. No doubt, Uala didn’t mean his intended betrayal to include joining the ranks of the Undead, but every plan had to have contingencies.

  “Shall we raze the settlement, Sire?”

  “No. We can raze it on our return. Let us get after this Sharvan.”

  “Move out,” Abartach called, waving Gáe Bulg in the air.

  ***

  Although slow, their march from Falias to Halfmoon Ridge was non-stop. They neither delayed nor turned aside. It was inexorable. Constant. Abartach changed the warriors pulling the wagon from time to time because the Fomorii did tire when subjected to continuous exertion, even though they didn’t sleep or eat—a few hours of pulling tended to be the limit for each of them.

  Balor watched the arid country on either side as the squeaking wagon trundled down the road. The heat bouncing from the dusty plains caused the sky to shimmer like the air above a boiling cauldron. The thought made him shake his head and try to remember how a stew used to taste on his tongue. He tried to recall when food began to taste like ash, and his skin became grey, signalling his transition. It didn’t matter how hard he tried; Balor could not remember the taste of the stew or when he became a colourless monster. In some ways, he hated that lack of memory as much as he hated everything this king represented.

  Dusk was gathering when they came in sight of the ridge, which was a dark and moody presence on the horizon, easily as formidable as Uala had said. From his throne, Balor saw the sun’s last rays blink and go out.

  A wolf howled, causing him to sit up straighter and wonder if the howl erupting with the arrival of twilight had been a coincidence. Or perhaps it was not the darkening sky, but where they had arrived, that caused the sudden call. Another howl came from behind the horde.

  Are they messages?

  Shielding his eyes with a hand, Balor scanned his immediate surrounds. The ridge was still visible as a smudge of deeper brown against the quickly darkening horizon. Once again, the howls were both before and behind them. Although there was no sign of them, he supposed the creatures were also on both sides, as though the pack wanted to ensure no escape. Balor frowned as the Fomorii started giving each other surreptitious glances.

  “I suggest we make camp on this side of the ridge,” Abartach said as they approached the gorge.

  “As you will. First, though, I would lay eyes on the southern plains before the light is completely gone.”

  Abartach ordered the warriors to pull the wagon through the gorge, thinking it would be too hard to pull it up onto the ridge without the aid of pulleys. They were about halfway through when a scrabbling sound from the top of the hill to the left preceded a slight fall of stones and dust. Balor looked up into the golden eyes of the largest wolf he had ever seen. It was alone, and all the howling had stopped. He couldn’t help but notice the sleek lines of the animal, its powerful grace and uncompromising eyes. Its pelt was the dusty grey of a plains wolf, so it was probably different from the wolves who had started calling to them in the mountains. The creature gazed at him, its golden eyes without emotion, tongue lolling as if it were savouring the flavour of his undead skin. It showed no wariness of him. The wolf was a beast used to being feared and obeyed.

  A beast worthy of my sigil.

  With the thought, the animal growled, a rumbling sound from deep within, and leapt at him. The wolf bared its fangs and Balor wondered if he would die with his throat torn out. In some ways, he hoped he would. In some ways, he hoped this animal would usher him into the Endless Sleep.

  But as the wolf leapt, so Abartach leapt.

  Showing the same lack of emotion, the warrior caught the wolf on Gáe Bulg’s head and cast it down into the wagon bed. Instead of the squeal of anguish that Balor expected, the wolf collapsed without so much as a whimper. Its death throes were brief. There was no blood. The spear must have pierced its heart.

  “Gods, Abartach, what did it hope to achieve?” Balor asked, shaking his head. “It could not have harmed me.”

  Or could it? Did it know more than I do?

  “No, Sire. I fear there is some deeper meaning to these events. Something we are missing.” Not you, too. “It’s a she-wolf, recently whelped.”

  Balor couldn’t prevent a bark of surprised laughter. The warrior’s implication was too moon-touched to be given more than a moment’s thought.

  Perhaps it is apt she is Rhiannon’s creature.

  “You think this wolf whelped the pup I throttled?” he asked, shaking his head.

  Abartach shrugged but said nothing, staring at the sky as though trying to read the truth in the stars above. Balor turned his eyes skyward, surprised that the moon was hanging just above the horizon, reflecting the sun’s light as a bright orange orb.

  Rhiannon has become ever present. Are we all blessed by the Moon Goddess?

  Smiling and shaking his head, Balor said, “It is mere coincidence, Abartach. Nothing more. Even Rhiannon wouldn’t countenance such thoughts.”

  “Shall I dispose of the carcass, Sire?”

  “No. Leave her for a while. I want to contemplate her actions. Maybe think of what to do with her pelt.”

  Make the pelt my sigil and hang it as a pennant from the wagon as a reminder to the doubters.