The horde started as one when a howl rent the afternoon air. The wave of movement appeared like they were all controlled by a single, inexpert, puppeteer. Balor scowled at the shuffling nervousness of his warriors.

  Children, despite all their summers.

  They had been marching since the middle of the day and would continue to march until they reached the seat of the current king’s house: Falias, King, whatever his name might be. Soon after the executions of the wall’s defenders, Balor realised they had forgotten to ask the name. Still, it didn’t really matter. Whoever they were, they would die screaming and begging for mercy, made to pay for all that suffering—all that dreaming.

  Another wolf howled, this time from in front. Whether in the rear or fore, the pack seemed to be following them. They remained out of sight, which Balor thought tricky in this barren land with nothing but the occasional scrub or rock to hide behind. Still, what he knew of wolves, he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. The pelts of the animals would hide them in all the dust surrounding them. What confused him more was why.

  Why are you hiding, little wolves? You are the kings of this barren landscape.

  Balor had been studying the countryside from the elevation of his throne. The dust and the shrubbery, all shades of brown, made him wonder why he’d been so keen to come to the land of his forebears. The country appeared to be an arid wasteland. Oh, not as dry as the desert further to the west, but not far from it if the reports were accurate. Despite being the outer rim of the Western Wastes, West Kingdom was somehow different from what he had been expecting, perhaps less colourful. When they built a doorless wall and shut out the rest of the world, maybe they unwittingly encouraged the desert to encroach from behind.

  Was the land this barren back then?

  Balor tilted his head, listening for more from Rhiannon’s children. He didn’t think it was an accident that the moon Goddess and wolves were linked. He couldn’t think of a better match. Those touched by Rhiannon were not of sound mind, and it was no happenstance that wolves were her children, with their cold cunning and emotionless killing, traits often found in moon-touched warriors.

  When I take the throne, the wolf will be my sigil.

  Balor had been growing more fascinated by the wolves as the march continued. It was almost as though there were words in the howls; at the very least, some more profound meaning than, “I am here; where are you?”

  He was alone in his thinking. Where Balor found fascination in the talk and the presence of the animals, his warriors found a reason to fret—an omen. He didn’t understand their superstition: the wolves offered no threat to the army. They did have a mystical quality that, in Balor’s experience, superstitious warriors were prone to misread. However, he didn’t think it excused this cowardly behaviour.

  The Fomorii tried to hide their feelings, but Balor caught an occasional glance between them—glances that illustrated a growing nervousness, which questioned his leadership as much as anything. They were starting to think his breaking the pup’s neck was against some geis, and the pack now following them were the harbingers of a coming doom, which they cried in their howls. What did they think he did with the other pups? Return them to their pack? No, he always broke their necks, albeit when no one was there to witness him do it—no one except Abartach, who sometimes would do it in his stead. Despite a growing resentment, Balor recognised the danger. Warriors who fretted about omens, realistic or otherwise, were prone to mutiny.

  Balor started to realise that killing the whelp was a mistake. He needed to find a way to get their minds back on their revenge and off Rhiannon’s children.

  “Abartach,” he called.

  “Sire?”

  “How long is it until we reach Falias?” Balor made sure that all in the near vicinity would hear him. “I am thirsting after revenge and grow impatient.”

  “At our current pace, Sire, we should be there soon after sunrise.”

  “What will we do when we arrive?”

  “Raze the settlement, Sire.”

  Balor agreed, hoping their speed and imminent arrival would start to excite his warriors. Unlike a regular army, the Fomoriididn’t need to sleep or eat, to rest and take stock. They required no provisions except weapons and those they carried in abundance. Where a regular army would take several days to get from the gorge to the castle his forebears once called their seat, his would be there after only one march.

  Balor hoped their excitement would match his. He couldn’t wait to be on the rise with the sun behind him, surveying the bane of his life. He would witness them razing the castle and Abartach stab all its people with Gáe Bulg, transitioning them to wait out eternity as part of Balor’s horde—his minions.

  “Should I send scouts, Sire?” Abartach asked.

  Balor smiled. His First Warrior knew the answer but believed in making his king feel part of the command structure. Or perhaps he believed in showing the others that the king was part of the command structure. Balor didn’t care if the warrior involved him or did it himself as long as he got it done.

  “It won’t matter either way. The captain would have sent a messenger as soon as I broke his wall. They know we are coming.”

  “They might attempt an ambush, Sire.”

  “In this barren waste? I think not. They will wait behind Falias’s walls and hope I cannot breach them so easily as that waste of stone which spanned the gorge.”

  Abartach said nothing more as he strode along beside the wagon. Balor watched him from the corner of his eye. The First Warrior was tall and broad and, Balor imagined, before becoming a grey skin, was probably handsome. His hair was silvery-blond when he arrived under the Fiery Mountain. The wispy straggles that remained were so thin that when in a breeze, they were like steam rising from his scalp. Balor tried to remember when Abartach arrived to offer fealty in exchange for weapons made from shards of Lia Fáil. It had been after they discovered the draíocht of the throne because he had already possessed his dagger, which he used to transform the new arrivals in his halls. He’d wondered at the time why anyone would choose to join the undead. He’d wondered as he pushed the blade—made from the Mountain’s Heart—between the Tuatha’s ribs.

  It must have been love. Only love could drive a man to such despair. Love or betrayal, perhaps.

  “I intend to ride up to the gates and offer an ultimatum,” Balor said, deciding to humiliate the castle’s leaders as much as possible. “And when they refuse to open the gates, I will blow them out.”

  Balor was pleased when the words made the warriors closest to the wagon walk with their heads a little higher and shoulders a little straighter.

  “Very good, Sire,” Abartach said, showing no emotion.

  When he notices the panic on the settlement walls, he will react.

  However, when the horde arrived on the rise above the castle, the frantic activity on the walls Balor had expected wasn’t happening. No warriors were running around in fear and confusion. From their elevated position overlooking the settlement, no activity was visible, never mind frantic. Even the streets around the castle’s exterior were apparently devoid of life.

  “The settlement appears deserted, Sire.”

  Balor stared at the dust swirling in the streets between the buildings. Frowning, he asked, “How can it be?”

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  “I think you were right. The captain sent a messenger from the wall. They knew your power to be too great and ran rather than face the horde.”

  “Where would they run to, Abartach? There is nowhere to go.”

  “South. And then across the Endless Ocean. Or maybe west and into the Wastes.”

  “But they would surely die if… Ah, of course. What do you propose?”

  “We should go and see if there is any sign of which direction they took and then give chase. They cannot move as quickly as we can, so maybe we will have time to raze the settlement before we leave.”

  “To what end, Abartach?”

  “Are you not seeking vengeance, Sire?”

  Are you not seeking vengeance? Does he not mean we?

  “Yes. We are. But what are you seeking? You are not one of us forced to live in despair.”

  The warrior turned away without speaking. Balor sighed, realising he could not force the erstwhile Tuatha to divulge what drove him under the Western Wall. He’d asked many times before, which the warrior met with the same response. Nothing. Not even anger.

  “Come. Let us go down and knock on this gate,” Balor said. “Maybe these people are at home and asleep. The sun has only just arisen, after all.”

  Even as he spoke the words, he didn’t believe them. Humans couldn’t exist without some evidence: a light flickering; the one who couldn’t sleep wandering aimlessly; guards on the walls waiting for an undead king and his horde.

  As the warriors pulled him down the hill, wagon wheels squeaking annoyingly, Balor felt his tension building. The nearer they got, the more pronounced the desertion became. There was no sign of life—not even a dog barking—and he wasn’t sure how his people would react to the disappointment of an empty revenge.

  When the horde came to stand before the closed gates, Balor ordered his herald to blow the horn and announce him.

  “Open to your rightful King,” the herald called after a long, mournful note, which seemed to bounce off the walls and surrounding hills.

  Nothing.

  Balor was about to use draíocht to knock down the gates when a voice called from atop the gatehouse, “Hail, King Balor.”

  He looked up at a frightened face peering over the parapet.

  “Where are your people?” Abartach asked.

  “Gone. All gone.”

  “And why are you still here?” Balor asked, not trusting the man to answer truthfully. He could sense when something was about to surprise him, and this was one of those times.

  “I was left as an emissary, Sire, to offer you peace terms.”

  “Your king wishes to surrender?”

  “No, Sire, you mistake me. King Sharvan, the Scourge of the West, offers his terms for accepting your surrender.”

  Balor stared up at the man for several moments before losing control and laughing so hard the wagon rocked. Eventually, he managed to control himself sufficiently to say, “So, this King Sharvan thinks he is the court jester. After I defeat him, I will give him some motley and a bauble and keep him to entertain us.”

  “Who are you?” Abartach called.

  “My name is Uala, and I am at your service.”

  “Open the gates, Uala, and we will discuss King Sharvan’s offer in comfort,” Balor said, shaking his head.

  ***

  Whitehead’s long hall was impressive. Built of the biggest and strongest oaks in the forest, it sat in the middle of the central massif of her stronghold. The captain’s table stood on a dais at the opposite end of the hall from the entrance. Bee and Bairrfind studied the relief map of the Five Kingdoms, which Bee knew to have been made by magic. The detail was too delicate and, well, detailed to have been made in any other fashion.

  They were alone.

  “I am still undecided on your fate, Bechuille. That incident on the road was a small lapse on my part,” Bairrfind said, eyes fixed on the map. “You shouldn’t read anything into it.”

  Bee caught a shy glance from under lowered brows. Seeing she’d been caught, Bairrfind blushed and returned to analysing the rise and fall of Balor’s Canyon in miniature.

  “I’d forgotten how good this map is,” Bee said.

  “Stop changing the subject.”

  “Ye wanna tell me what that was about, Bairr? I’m a good listener, no.”

  Whitehead raised her eyes, cheeks aglow. Bee was glad some colour had returned to her face. Even so, despite cheeks flushed with embarrassment, her eyes glinted with the hardness Bee remembered.

  No doubt that’s why we’re meeting alone: she wants to talk about it. Why does she want to confide in me?

  They had known each other for hundreds of summers, and their relationship had never been one of mutual liking. Ten summers before, it all came to a head when Bee was forced to flee or fight, and not for the first time in their long and tainted history. She’d had access to Darkness’s draíocht at the time, so she probably would have prevailed if it came to a fight, but with a Neit’s Maiden, nothing was guaranteed.

  “This goes no farther,” the captain said. “You must give me your oath.”

  “I swear it’ll stay with me. Now, spit it out.”

  “My first love went to the mountain searching for the Heart.”

  “I thought ye Maidens swore an oath. Married to Neit or some such, no?”

  “Aye, well, that’s why he went. Because I refused to break my oath. More fool me.” She said the last so quietly that Bee only just heard her.

  So, what in all the Gods was that episode with Sainreth about?

  It appeared to have been for nothing if Bairr were unwilling to break her oath and give away her maidenhead. The warrior’s blushes were contradicted by her eyes, and Bee wasn’t sure she would ever get to the uncover the captain’s reasoning but felt she had to try.

  “Which raises a question, Bairr. What happened ten summers ago? Ye threatened to kill me.”

  Whitehead raised a hand at her and shook her head, showing that the conflict was still simmering under the surface. Something about her liaison with Sainreth didn’t sit well with this woman.

  “I have no real answer, Beechuille, except to say something about Sainreth reminded me of Cú Anoir—”

  “Wait. Are ye telling me I buried yer first love under a cairn in Baylor’s Canyon?”

  Bairr shrugged and nodded at the same time, continuing to blush furiously. “When you mentioned him on the road, I thought I would vomit... or faint. Or both.”

  Bee studied the woman across the table. The warrior continued staring at the canyon as if thinking she might be able to see the cairn.

  If Cú had been her first love, which Bee had no reason to doubt, she left it very late. Cú had been under the mountain for about twenty summers, not a thousand. Bairrfind fought against the demon army in the last scourge and then chose some point in the previous twenty summers or so to fall in love—against her oath and all Neit’s laws. Wasn’t that the behaviour of the young and innocent? Besides, Sainreth was human and must have seen little more than forty summers now, meaning he was around twenty then. He’d been a dalliance for Bee, soon over and forgotten. For Bairr, it seemed more significant, so the difference in their ages had meaning. She remembered his chin covered by wispy hair, as if he were little more than a boy.

  “What did he look like?” Bairr asked, suddenly eager and coy at the same time. Bee didn’t want to say he looked like someone who’d been hanging in chains for the average warrior’s lifetime.

  “It was too dark to see, Bairr. When we took the bodies out for burial, we wrapped them in blankets.” Because they were decomposing before our eyes, and when we tried carrying them, they fell apart: some faster than others, but all rotting. “We gave them the correct rites,” she said lamely she thought.

  “Good.”

  “I can’t tell ye anything else. Shall we get the others in? We need to talk strategy.”

  The warrior was obviously distracted and would not be much use in the discussions. However, there was no time to waste over inappropriate sentimentality because there was no telling where Balor and his Fomorian horde were.

  ***

  The man, Uala, stood before the wagon, fidgeting. Balor gazed around at the courtyard before studying the nervous emissary, who was wringing his hands. The man’s obvious fear would make him laugh some more, but he was suddenly no longer in the mood.

  “Tell me, Emissary, why does your king think I need to surrender?”

  “Sharvan believes a scourge is imminent. He bought warhorses and armour from across the Endless Sea to face the demons. The beasts are massive and carry men clad in iron. They are invincible. At least so Sharvan believes. He has named them the King’s Knights. He abandoned the settlement and went south to meet them. The King intends to crush you under their hooves when he returns.”

  “You are telling me this because?”

  “I hate injustice, Sire, and would like past wrongs to be corrected.”

  What nonsense is this Uala spouting at me? He is a traitor—and not a competent one.

  The thought didn’t inspire any confidence in Balor. Anyone who betrayed his king would betray the next one. That aside, there was something snake-like and slimy in his sycophancy. Besides, there was no such thing as selflessness. This man was betraying his king for profit; only Balor was unsure what form the profit would take.

  “What is in it for you?” he asked.

  “Nothing, Sire. I only want to serve a loyal master.”

  He wants to serve his greed. Gáe Bulg stabbed into his heart will cure him of that trait.

  “Abartach.”

  The warrior did not need detailed instructions to realise what was required. He walked over to the worm, took him by the scruff of his neck, and forced him onto his knees.

  “What are you doing?” the emissary asked with a squeal.

  “I have no use for traitors and liars.”

  “Wait. I can help you defeat the King’s Knights. I know their weakness.”

  “I repeat, what is in it for you?”

  “I am sure any master would show gratitude to a servant who has performed well. Perhaps a kingdom to rule after the war is won.”

  “Let him up, Abartach. Let us discover what the worm’s plan entails.”