They were lying on a rock staring at Balor’s fortress when Bee felt Bábdíbir passing overhead, its signature as clear as a summer’s sky. She knew their earlier connection had forged a bond, and immediately recognised the link was a blessing as well a curse because the demon would sense her as surely as she felt it.

  What will it do when it knows I’m here?

  Shading her eyes, Bee gazed at the sky but there was no sign of the beast.

  Of course, it is cloaked.

  Not that sight of it was necessary. The tingle of the demon’s presence was becoming distant, indicating Bábdíbir was returning to the Arena under Bull’s Head rock, showing no interest in her presence or motives. The message to the Lord of Darkness was more important than who or what might be lying on a rock near the chasm, breathing in the stink of rotten eggs and wondering what further twists of Cassandra’s story awaited. She sighed when she felt the demon pass out of her range.

  Good. At least one thing in our favour. Fly demon and report.

  Bee thought she knew what Balor’s reply was. There was no reason for the King of the Undead to refuse Dhuosnos. He had a bitter grudge to satisfy, and joining with the demon horde would make it easier. Much easier.

  Being aware gives time to prepare, flashed through her mind. It had been one of Bren’s adages. One that she would not hear again, at least not from her twin.

  Chiding herself, Bee knew she had more pressing matters than her brother’s fate—not the least of them being what the Undead King would choose to do. The Fomorii had been hiding in their labyrinth since Ruirech retook Dún Ailinne. Bren fought in that siege, she remembered. He’d been a thorn in her toe before he took up a cause and offered himself as a mercenary in Ruirech’s army; he had been a brother to admire. Almost. Nothing he had done would have made amends for what he did with Credne. The truth was, he had joined Ruirech’s army to escape Dagda’s wrath, so not even that action was as altruistic as it appeared on the surface.

  Now he’s just… Could I have helped him?

  Bee frowned, knowing she couldn’t allow guilt to sway her from her course. She had to succeed and had more important issues to worry about. Some would argue that nothing is more important than blood kin, but being Dagda’s High Priestess—his right hand, some would say—meant she did not have the luxury to believe it. Her most pressing worry was what form Balor’s help would take. No one knew what the power was under the rocks of the Western Wall. Legend said that the labyrinth pulsed with draíocht but no one knew. Not really. When she travelled the labyrinth with Goibniu, Bee had sensed nothing more untoward than a looming atmosphere, which she’d concluded was an imbalance of sulphur. Over the millennium, there had been a constant flow of human warriors who wanted to prove themselves to be heroes and so entered Balor’s Domain never to return and tell their tale.

  All we have is this tower and bridge with no parapet.

  “The Kingdoms’ heroes, gone to join the horde. Warriors all.” It was a daunting thought. “How many have there been?”

  “How many what?” the Horse Warrior asked, frowning.

  “Nothing. I was speaking my thoughts.”

  “Why are we lying here staring at a scary fortress?”

  It’ll get worse than this, Horse Warrior.

  She glanced at him and wondered how best to tell him what was likely to happen? What was already happening? She’d been thinking about how to break the news while they rode through the unnamed pass and was still thinking about it. Sidelong glances at him were not helping her. She could not decide his worth. Cassandra could spin whichever unbelievable tales she liked, but it didn’t mean they would come to pass. She would have scoffed at the notion, except Cassandra’s curse predicted exactly that.

  But what of this man? He knows he’s part of some prophecy, just not what.

  Maga hadn’t told him because she didn’t know. All she knew was that a foretelling said Volt would be present when the boy arrived at the Bull’s Head and dragged him south by his magairlí; at least if Bee could believe Volt. In many ways, it became a self-fulfilling prophecy. Only Bee and Dagda knew the foretelling that he would lead the humans against their bane.

  Is the bane Balor or Dhuosnos? Or both? What can I tell him?

  “This is Balor’s fortress,” she eventually said.

  The Horse Warrior said nothing, doubtless thinking she was being purposefully obtuse. He started to rub his bristles, creating the annoying rasp she loathed. He’d been doing it since they first met, but it wasn’t getting any easier to listen to.

  “Will ye stop that,” she hissed. The Horse Warrior frowned and shrugged. He had no inkling what she meant. “Rubbing yer bristles. Yer like that eejit scraping the bottom of his bowl with a spoon, trying for a morsel that ain’t there.”

  “Sorry,” he said, putting his palms on the rock. “You said Dhuosnos might ask Balor for help.”

  “And I was right.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Gods-forsake ye, Horse Warrior. Will ye never take me at me word?” He shrugged again, and Bee sighed. Why him? Why me?“What d’ye think made ye shiver just now?”

  “Other than the mountain cold, you mean?”

  “It ain’t that cold on the Fiery Mountain. Even in the depths of a harsh winter. Earth fire tends to warm everything around it.”

  Bee grinned as he wrinkled his nose and stared into the chasm, frowning at the perpetual steam rising from the pit and the river of fire reflected in it. He glanced at the bridge with no parapet and the portcullis under the fortress, its towers darting muddy-brown fingers into the early morning sky. His fear was obvious, his trepidation equally so. Everything in Balor’s Canyon would be utterly alien to a tracker from North Kingdom, a captain of Horse Warriors, Magón’s Champion.

  Bee had to concentrate to stop herself from snorting. The man had no idea what he was facing, his destiny. In her world, it took more than a title to make a champion.

  He must learn.

  Finally, he said, “I don’t know. It felt like someone was pissing on my pyre.”

  “Aye, ye could put it that way. Bábdíbir flew over us. Ye were feeling its passing.”

  “The boy’s demon?”

  “Aye. What else?”

  “How could you tell?”

  “Because I created… I won’t say a bond… I created a connection with the creature through mind talk. Because of that, when it’s near enough, I can sense it.”

  “What was it doing here? I thought the boy banished it?”

  “He did. And there’s only one way it could’ve returned—”

  “Which is?” Volt interrupted.

  “Ye’ll have to stop that, Horse Warrior.”

  “What?”

  “What d’ye mean, what? Interrupting—”

  “Is this gathering private?”

  “No, Sainreth,” Bee said over her shoulder. “Ye took yer time.”

  “Meaning?” Sainreth asked as he crawled up the sloping rock face to peer over the lip.

  “I heard ye coming.”

  “Heard us coming. How?”

  “Ye’re not as skilled as ye once were. I heard youse from before ye left the unnamed pass. Why are ye following us?”

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  “Got to thinking about what you said. Reckon you might use a little help.”

  “And what of Bairrfind’s orders? Who’s guarding the headland from the demon horde?”

  “Like I said, my troop’s there—best part of two hundred riders. Reckon they can do without a Leathdhosaen for a spell. So, what are we at, then?”

  Bee rubbed her chin while she considered the question, feeling the ridge of her scar. Before Sainreth asked the question, Bee hadn’t known what she would do. Glancing at the bridge, the castle, and then at the Horse Warrior, she made a decision and Gods rot the consequences.

  “Me? I’m going into that castle to tell Balor joining the Lord of Darkness would be a bad idea. Youse lot can do what ye want. Excepting the Horse Warrior, who’s coming with me.”

  “I am?”

  Putting her spyglass in the satchel at her hip, Bee shimmied down the rock and brushed off the arse of her pants with both hands, daring any of them to contradict her. The warriors kept darting glances at her and Sainreth. They knew the rumours of what awaited them in the tunnels of the Undead King. Being warriors, they all knew of someone who’d entered the domain, never to be heard of again.

  Bee put her hands on her hips and stared across the bridge at the portcullis guarding the black tunnel entrance. Aside from lights flickering from the castle’s arrow slots, there was no sign of life—or death.

  “So, Sainreth, what’s yer word?”

  “You just going to ride up? Demand an audience?”

  “Aye. Ye coming, or no?”

  Loosening his sword in its scabbard as if intending to fight his way in, Sainreth said he was and ordered his men to mount.

  “Wait a minute, here,” the Horse Warrior said. “I get no say in this?”

  “No, Volt. Yer destiny is inextricably tied to mine, and mine is tied to Balor and his people. Ye ever heard the saying, ‘Leave the undead sleeping,’ no?” The Horse Warrior nodded. “Well, Dhuosnos’s ignored the advice. It has changed the cycle, and it’s my fate to change it back.”

  “What has that got to do with me?”

  Bee stared at him for several moments, trying to decide if he was ready for the news. Ultimately, she realised there was no good time to tell him. He was unlikely ever to take it at face value. Maybe—at least in some ways—he would be right not to.

  “The prophecy Maga spoke of has ye as the one to combat humankind’s bane. Actually, more accurately, it has ye as humankind’s saviour.”

  “What in the Tuatha does that mean? What’s humankind’s bane?”

  “Not completely sure, but on current showing, I’d say Balor and his Undead Horde.”

  ***

  The demon shimmered and disappeared while Balor sat thinking about its words—the promises of Dhuosnos. On the surface or to those more gullible, the words appeared to offer him and his people what they had dreamed of for a long time. But Balor was not gullible. He recognised the empty promises for what they were. There could be only one ruler during an age of darkness.

  Once again, he considered his options. The more he thought about it, the more he realised they were limited. He could wait with his people under the mountain for the demon to return and either accept or refuse Dhuosnos’s offer, or he could march out from the labyrinth and grasp their destiny in his grey and elongated fingers.

  Why do you hesitate? Too long you’ve sat here and dreamt.

  “Ready the people,” Balor called.

  “Your will, Sire,” his First Warrior Abartach, said from beside him.

  “And ready the wagon. I shall arrive before our enemies sitting on the throne, a symbol of impending victory. Our time has come, my people.”

  A cheer echoed through the hall. It was not as heartfelt as he’d hoped—nearly drowned by the sound of shuffling feet. But then, he wasn’t surprised. There’d been too much disappointment. Gazing over the grey, not quite lifeless, faces staring up at him, he sighed. His was a thankless seat, or it had been until the demon told him what was happening in the Kingdoms.

  Conquest. War. Famine and Pestilence. Death. But above all, our enemies are finally weak.

  “Regardless of the claims, we will vanquish our enemies,” he called, trying to lift the shuffling horde. Waving his ancient broadsword, he shouted, “We don’t need an army of demons. Nor do we need the Lord of Darkness or his ignorant monster.”

  Very ignorant beast.

  That was something he hated, ignorance of etiquette. Rather than just back out of his presence like it was supposed to do, Bábdíbir shimmered and vanished. Despite his abhorrence of rudeness, he was willing to forgive it this time because Dhuosnos’s vassal had given Balor the news he had waited a thousand summers to hear. His enemies… their enemies… were weak and vulnerable.

  Conquest. War. Famine. Pestilence. Death.

  The words were like music to his ears. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard music, except that it was before Ruirech drove them out of their home.

  I would like to hear music again.

  “We don’t need an army of demons,” he repeated, stroking his pup’s ears.

  “Sire?” Abartach asked as he arrived back on the dais.

  “You understood what the demon wanted?” he asked. Abartach inclined his head. “Do you think I am wrong to ignore the offer? An offer of unity and strength.”

  “No, Sire. Those are false promises. The Lord of Darkness would seek our vassalage in time. Wither will we be going?”

  The complete lack of emotion in his First Warrior surprised Balor. He thought even the stone-faced Tuatha would show some reaction to the question—some sense of outrage at the apparent attempt at deception.

  Looking Abartach in the eye, he wanted to wince at this most trusted lieutenant’s cracked and dried skin. He wouldn’t, though. He knew his skin—almost translucent in its broken and pitted greyness—would be as bad, if not worse. He’d not seen his face since entering the labyrinth, but he didn’t need to. They were all the same—well, nearly the same. As the conduit of Lia Fáil’s power, Balor glowed, whereas the rest of his people were merely grey.

  “Westwards, Abartach. We leave through the same entrance we first entered. We go by the western door.” Balor raised his voice as he spoke the final words, and this time, there was a heartfelt cheer from those crowding the cavern.

  Without hesitating, the warrior started issuing instructions to the milling grey skins. The crowd shuffled out to follow the Tuatha’s orders, leaving the throne room as a cavernous vacuum. Balor could hear Abartach continuing to shout as he moved through the tunnels. The wormholes were not good for much, but they were excellent sound carriers. He listened to the activity as his horde prepared to go to battle.

  It was the sound of hope.

  “Whitehead is east, and the clans are weak from pestilence and war,” he said to no one. “Weak from their own failings. At last.”

  “They will be waiting for you,” a dry voice croaked behind him.

  Balor leant over the arm of his throne and stared into the gloom, where four men were hanging in chains. Prisoners. Those who’d come under the mountain seeking riches or fame or both.

  “Be silent.”

  “Or what, Balor?” the one called Cú Anoir asked and then laughed.

  “Or I will have Abartach tickle you with his dagger.” The words caused the man to close his mouth with a snap and hang his head. “Good. I thought after so long you would know your station.”

  Only my original horde knows their station.

  Staring into the vacuum of his empty hall, Balor remembered reaching the barricades across the gorge, where his own people refused him entry. He remembered the Fomorii seeking shelter through the western door after the retreat when Ruirech’s Horse Warriors harried them down the Western Road, killing without mercy, with hatred and impunity. West Kingdom legends said they cheered his ancestors when they marched to take Etercel’s fabled fortress, only for them to throw a barrier up against his return. He remembered pleading with them to let him pass, but they refused. Then, Ruirech’s chase forced them into the caves on the western side of the Fiery Mountain. The caves with untold and unwelcome power.

  Never again.

  This time, being weak, they could not prevent him from returning to his homeland. This time, he would crush their pitiful barricades and kill their starving warriors. The Lord of Darkness didn’t know the meaning of the word scourge. Not yet. He would flash through West Kingdom like the Creator’s flood and wash away his enemies. Like a monstrous wave, he would tear down their walls and their roundhouses, killing all as he went.

  This time, I have the power.

  All he needed was time. Without access to draíocht, Dhuosnos was trapped in his prison. The demon said Darkness had other places he could go to, but Balor didn’t think he did, convinced it was a bluff.

  Putting the pup on the floor between his feet, he patted the arm of the onyx throne. It wasn’t a loving pat but a respectful one. He remembered them finding the massive onyx slab in the labyrinth’s depths when he ordered his workers to carve a throne from it. He remembered the first time he sat on it and felt the surge of… surge of what? Power, most certainly. But something else as well. Something inexplicable and uncontrollable. Some force of nature that would not allow his rejection and bound him to the throne as if by unbreakable iron manacles. Balor hadn’t moved from Lia Fáil in almost a thousand summers.

  He couldn’t remember when or how he came to realise the stone was the fabled Heart of the Mountain. Everyone had suspected its existence but had no idea where it was.

  If only I hadn’t banned the rock workers from sitting on it, he thought.

  A thought that came and went as time wore on. It was only ever fleeting because he knew whoever sat on the throne would have been locked to the rock as inextricably as him—bound but with access to the draíocht it provided. That access would have given the sitter power over the domain. His domain.

  What matter? Pure foolishness. Your kingdom is the domain of the never resting.

  But soon, his domain would be the Kingdoms.

  When Balor heard a loud squeaking and felt the wolf shaking, he picked it up and tickled its ears. It purred like a cat and nuzzled into him while trying to hide from the high-pitched noise as it drew closer. He wished he’d ordered Abartach to oil the wheels. A desire he had always had when they were going to move Lia Fáil, which the moment always forced from his mind.

  “Just another thing to blame on old age,” he said to the pup and then laughed despite himself.

  Soon, the wagon would be before him, and his people would lift him and the throne onto it using beams fashioned out of pinewood from the side of the mountain. He would be mobile, and this time, he would go much further than ever.

  I will go beyond the bounds of my prison.

  Balor watched fifty warriors pull the wagon into the cavern. Twenty-five on each side of the handled yoke, each straining at the bar before them. Balor hated to treat his people as beasts of burden but had no option if he were to move away from the dais. The undead didn’t have the luxury of beasts of burden because, like the wolves, horses and cattle could not abide being near them. They’d tried raising them from calf and foal, but they became unmanageable as soon as they reached maturity.

  “Is the road passable for the wagon?” he asked Abartach when the warrior arrived before the dais.

  “I ordered the stone masons to widen it, Sire. Their work has already begun.”

  “Good. Then let us be gone.”

  “What of the prisoners, Sire?”

  Balor looked back at Cú Anoir and thought the fame-seeker should be made to pay for his insolence. “Leave them hanging. They can complete their transformation when we return.”