Balor caught the emissary watching him for the third time in as many moments. The man stood beside the wagon, the she-wolf fixed to his flank like a monstrous appendage. No doubt he thought his glances were going unnoticed. They weren’t. Indeed, Balor was wondering what he should do about the annoying lickspittle. He’d thought better of ordering his First Warrior to kill them because it was now too late. He should have done it the moment Uala walked out from behind Lia Fáil with the she-wolf stuck to him.

  The way the wolf took to the man, Balor suspected his people would openly revolt if he did something to ruffle their superstitions regarding the animal. They were sure that the wolf’s attack had been an omen; a message from the Fáithe connected to his throttling the pup after the little monster bit him. Balor had always scoffed at the arrant nonsense warriors were apt to lap up like kittens in a cowshed at the milk trough. If anything, his Fomorii were worse. Much worse. When Uala and the wolf transitioned together, suspicions typical of the warrior caste took on what he would call fantastical proportions, offering the emissary far better protection than a simple iron neck brace.

  To make the situation worse, since the wolf’s awakening, the howling had been the horde’s constant companion. Surprisingly, the death of the bitch at Halfmoon Ridge hadn’t deterred them. Even though the pack—or packs, maybe—hadn’t shown themselves, they continued calling to each other. And when they howled, the bitch listened with her head cocked and her tongue lolling.

  My warriors think Rhiannon sent them both. Children.

  Balor had taken to calling the wolf Turncoat and for more than one reason. There was the fur changing from sandy to white, but also the animal’s desertion to the emissary’s side. Those who transitioned always became his minions. Always. Some were more subservient than others, but they always became his to command. In truth, he hadn’t known animals would transition. Turncoat was the first he encountered in a thousand summers, so he had no rampart on which to build his theories. Still, now it had happened, he could think of no reason why animals should be different from humans. They had a heart, which—when given serious thought—most humans appeared to lack.

  Shaking his head, Balor frowned at the lines of horses lying in neat rows waiting to rise again. His warriors—under instruction from Abartach—had placed each of Sharvan’s riders beside their horse so they would feel less confusion when they awoke. It was easy to tell which knight owned which horse because they wore matching livery—a pompous affectation that served some purpose for once. Balor found the variety of colours and patterns nonsensical and decided Sharvan had been too affected to be a strong leader. The King showed some magairlí when he charged Balor, but that was nothing if not naivety. Or perhaps he knew where it would lead and preferred that outcome to the other on offer.

  Balor glanced at the naked corpse of the defunct Sharvan lying abandoned on the other side of the road from the horses and their riders.

  “Abartach, hide that body,” he called, pointing at the King. “We don’t want the knights to feel any cause of grievance at the sight of it when they awaken.”

  “Yes, Sire,” Abartach said and directed some warriors to remove the corpse from sight.

  Balor didn’t want anything to hinder his plans for the King’s Knights. The demon, Bábdíbir, told him that the Tuatha were as strong as ever, but now he had the means to defeat them. Three hundred heavily armoured horses and riders—undead armoured horses and riders that were meant to defeat Dhuosnos’s demon horde. They might have proved ineffective against the undead, but he thought that an accident of circumstance. Sharvan’s error had been thinking the undead horde was the same as any other army.

  We are well on the road to our revenge.

  But not everything was as it should be.

  Not all his people believed the delivery of the King’s Knights was a portent for good.

  Balor had to admit he was worried. Abartach’s expression when the emissary reawakened and walked from behind Lia Fáil with the wolf, convinced Balor his First Warrior was also concerned. Or maybe it hadn’t been worry in that look but something else. Deciphering the warrior’s facial messages was not something Balor was practised at. For a thousand summers, Abartach kept his emotions under strict control—so strict, in fact that he appeared dead most of the time. Taking the armour from Sharvan, he’d shown delight in the idea of leading the King’s Knights. He’d even told Sharvan he intended to drive humanity across the plains of Talamh Thorthúil, which was the clearest signal of his intent yet. Abartach’s loyalty had been firm until now, but there was a change in the air, and Balor wasn’t sure he liked the stench it was causing. He looked at the First Warrior walking among the horses, checking each knight and mount.

  Have I created a cavalry to defeat the Tuatha or usurp my kingship?

  The idea sent a chill up his spine.

  “The beasts are stirring, Sire,” the First Warrior said as he came to stand before him.

  The warrior wore Sharvan’s armour, which made an almighty clangour as he walked. He would not be able to approach an enemy with stealth. Not that he would need to; as he was undead and wearing iron for protection, there would not be many who could stand against him, if any.

  Maybe one of Dhuosnos’s demons. Maybe Bábdíbir. Would that axe cut through plate iron? Maybe not.

  “How much longer until we can march?”

  “I don’t think we need time for the knights to orientate. I think we can march immediately.”

  “Good. Uala, I want you to head south and act as an emissary. It is, after all, your purpose.”

  “Emissary, Sire? To what end?”

  “To tell the people of West Kingdom their king is dead and they should surrender or face my wrath. Tell them if they do not surrender, I will raze every settlement in the kingdom.”

  Balor’s words caused the emissary to think for several moments before he said, “Now that I am undead, they will destroy me. I was not liked when alive.”

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  “They would not dare attack an emissary.”

  “Why would they not? You did.”

  Balor felt a shiver run up his spine. It wasn’t the words but the malice in the undead eyes. Despite being devoid of emotion in any human sense, they carried such a threat of violence that Balor couldn’t prevent the shiver.

  “Do you refuse?” he asked. In answer, the emissary took a firm grip of the wolf’s pelt and led the animal away without saying another word.

  Balor was about to order Abartach to follow and lop off the man’s head as soon as he was out of sight when a neighing broke into any words he might have said, and Abartach walked away to investigate the state of his new King’s Knights. After a while, he returned, riding the horse that matched the livery he’d won by right of combat.

  “You think I made the wrong decision,” Balor said when Abartach reined in beside the wagon.

  The First Warrior said nothing for several moments. Balor suspected he didn’t shrug because the weight of his newly acquired armour wouldn’t allow it.

  Eventually, he said, “I do not trust the emissary, Sire.”

  “Neither do I, Abartach. That is why I sent him where he cannot be a danger to us.” If anything, the words made the First Warrior’s frown deepen. “You disagree, I think?”

  “I would have preferred the emissary here where I can control what he is doing.”

  “We will soon be so far away that it won’t matter what he’s doing.”

  “Are we not going to follow him, Sire?”

  “No,” Balor said with a smile. “We’re going back to Middle Kingdom. The others must also pay.”

  “Whatever you say, Sire.” Although his words agreed with Balor, Abartach’s refusal to meet his eyes belied them.

  Why are you here, Abartach? What drove you into my arms?

  ***

  “Tell me, Horse Warrior, why are ye here?” Bee asked, spyglass pointing at the Undead King sitting on his black throne on a tall, two-wheeled wagon. She’d been meaning to ask since they found the empty armour in Balor’s Bane.

  Not empty but full of bone dust.

  She’d seen his expression, a mixture of fascination and trepidation. Bee hadn’t forgotten his suggestion that they run for North Kingdom to face the demon horde from across the sea.

  He’s here, though, spying on a different horde than expected; different but no less demonic for all that.

  “Spying on this Undead Army, you mean?”

  “No. With me. What’s keeping ye with me? And none of yer nonsense about prophecies, either.”

  “You’re the one full of nonsense about prophecies, Witch.”

  “Aye. I suppose that’s true,” she allowed.

  They were still on the rise. The undead were still doing nothing except wait on the arid plains. Anyone who arrived where they were and gazed over the horde would be confused by what was happening; or, more accurately, not happening. Bee intermittently cast her spyglass over Balor, who seemed to be in a foul mood since his jubilation at the earlier ambush’s success. Dancing a jig on top of his throne had become staring moodily at a field full of dead horses.

  They won’t be dead for long.

  When Volt started to rasp his bristles, Bee nearly snapped at him but stopped when she saw the horse warrior chewing his lip and frowning towards the horde. She’d thought the question simple, but it seemed he disagreed.

  “Other than you forcing me to be here, you mean?”

  Bee stared at him aghast. “Seriously, bundún, ye think I forced ye?”

  The audacity of the statement made her want to lash out and strike him. She was about to give him the sharp side of her tongue when he turned and regarded her with an expression that spoke of his disdain more clearly than any words could. She thought they had been on the cusp of a truce.

  Finally, he said, “You never asked. It was always me and the horse warrior this or me and the horse warrior that. Not even if it’s all right by you, Volt.”

  “Ye could have said no, no?”

  Volt said nothing for a long time. He stared across the plains as if Balor had caught his eyeline in some way and was loth to let it go. He was obviously feigning concentration, either trying to avoid the talk or thinking about how to respond. She wanted to punch his ear when he asked, “Do you think Sainreth will complete his mission?”

  Changing the subject, Horse Warrior?

  She decided not to press the point and asked, “Ye really wanna know?”

  “If not, why would I have asked?”

  Because yer a pain in me polltóna. Just got rid of one, and now I have ye.

  “I’m not sure he will. Sainreth is not the most reliable of bodaláin, to be honest. He also has a healthy fear of Whitehead. My guess, he’ll head towards Sliabh Culinn until he realises there’s nothing stopping him and then head north. He’ll ride to one of the ports and catch a ship across the Narrow Sea.”

  “You think he’s a coward?”

  “No. I think he’s pragmatic. He won’t die for a useless cause.”

  “So, why did you send him?”

  “Honestly, his constant questions were getting on my teats. It wasn’t much of a risk, either. We can ride and warn Whitehead when the Undead King decides to head back to Middle Kingdom. For now, as soon as his new horse warriors are ready, he’ll head south and attack Corcaigh.”

  “Let’s hope you’re right.”

  “I’m right.”

  “You know him that well?”

  Bee lowered the spyglass, willing to humour his questions, if only a little. He was still chewing his lip but had stopped rubbing his bristles, thankfully. The demands forming behind his eyes were apparent because of the movement in his cheek. One thing she admired about the man was that he made sure he’d got the wording right before he asked anything. She’d not met many men who did.

  “One day, Horse Warrior, I’ll tell ye about me and Sainreth. That’s an oath.”

  “I’d rather know what happened with you and the boy,” Volt said, still staring across the plains at the static army.

  And why you left your brother to die, Bee read in his eyes.

  “That’s a long story, so it is.”

  “Aye, I gathered that much already. How did you know the boy was the summoner of the legends?”

  “Kathvar’s actions told me as much.”

  “Kathvar, your brother?”

  “We were born of the same mother, Horse Warrior. That’s about as far as it went. We don’t do the happy families ye humans favour. Besides, without magic and against the Four, I could do nothing. Now, let’s change the subject.”

  “What’s going on there, do you think?”

  Bee lifted her spyglass and focused on Balor’s wagon. As the glass came into focus, she saw the man with the pet wolf walk south. She had no idea what the Undead King had said, but something in the way the man with the wolf moved told her he wasn’t happy about it. Judging by the stance of the warrior wearing the stolen armour, he was not pleased about it either.

  There is trouble in the camp of the undead.

  Panning back to Balor, she watched as he stood up on his throne and shouted something at the waiting army. The seated grey skins rose. The dead knights and horses came to life. It seemed the Undead Horde was finally on the move.

  Good. Now we can move. I’m getting tired of this perch.

  The warriors around Balor pulled the wagon on the spot, and the King pointed straight at her where she was lying on the rise.

  “Oh, shite,” she said when the horde began to march north.

  “Now what?” Volt asked.

  “Now, Horse Warrior, we’ll have to hope we’re in time to warn Whitehead that the Undead King is coming for her.”

  “Oh, why?”

  “Time to move,” she said, handing him the spyglass.