“Always be the one to bring a surprise,” Balor said to himself.

  “Sire?” Uala asked.

  Balor glowered at the emissary. He felt nothing but contempt for the incompetent human. Joining the undead would not change his inability. Balor, speaking his thoughts, had forgotten Uala was standing beside him in the wagon.

  He is like a worm in the sod, working away unnoticed. What harm in making the worm realise how imbecilic he is?

  “Never be predictable in battle,” he said, sneering.

  Uala said nothing, just stared at him, which made Balor shudder. The emissary’s eyes were more dead than undead, and he was beginning to regret stabbing the man in the heart. He opened his mouth to order Uala off the wagon—the worm and his pet wolf—when the rumble of three hundred horses at a canter announced the imminent arrival of the King’s Knights.

  “Perhaps next time,” he said.

  “Sire?”

  “Nothing. I was speaking my thoughts.”

  Turning to the road, Balor saw a yellow pennant dancing atop the heat waves shimmering the horizon. The rumble increased from distant to near thunder just before the rider carrying the pennant came into view, closely followed by two lines of riders. It was a sight as beautiful and frightening as Uala had promised it would be. Behind the pennant bearer, each rider was clad in iron from top to toe, burnished to a dull sheen. Balor marvelled at the strength of the horses carrying so much weight. The riders each had a long lance; coloured pennants adorned the leading pair’s lances, probably bearing Sharvan’s sigil, but difficult to discern at such a distance and through the heat haze.

  Will they come on?

  Abartach was convinced they would charge, but Balor was not sure. Falling into such an obvious trap would be a crass misjudgement.

  As though reading Balor’s mind, the two at the front appeared to notice him sitting on his throne, and the one to his left dipped their pennant twice. The signal caused the columns to split into two, one curving east and the other west. In an instant, the horse riders were one hundred abreast and three lines deep; three hundred heavily armed and armoured warriors. They rode on, kicking up so much dust that the sun became obscured by a cloud of yellow and grey.

  “Impressive,” Balor said, wondering if their year’s training had all been about tricky manoeuvres.

  Better to teach them to fight from horseback.

  Balor was surprised when they continued riding towards him. Abartach was right—three hundred horses to run down one lonely old man sitting in a wagon with a dunce and a wolf.

  They charge in the face of my power. How brave of them.

  They knew Balor had blasted a hole in the wall across the gorge. They were not to know that its range was limited. A bolt of draíocht against something like a stone wall was powerful but against a fast-moving enemy it would be less so. As far as these King’s Knights knew, Balor was a monster who could command earth power, making him extremely dangerous.

  Abartach had chosen the place for the ambush and told Balor he was to be the bait. Until the riders performed their manoeuvre, he’d believed the plan to be far too simple to work. It was true that the three on the wagon would appear alone. There was no sign of the horde or Abartach. There was no sign of anything. The animal kingdom had deserted the countryside near the Fomorii. However, any warrior with even a modicum of intelligence would suspect something.

  Turning, he saw Uala standing as if in a trance, the she-wolf sitting and leaning against his leg, watching the oncoming riders. The two of them seemed so far out of place that he wondered why he hadn’t ordered Abartach to kill them.

  “How far now?” he asked, once more speaking his thoughts.

  Uala missed the nature of the question and answered, “About five hundred paces... Sire.”

  Frowning, Balor wondered if the riders could feel their horses edging closer together. At five hundred paces, they were already in the narrowing funnel of undead warriors buried in trenches under a layer of dust. The riders would not see them, but their horses would feel them. He thought Abartach was correct that no amount of training would make the animals ignore their innate revulsion of the Fomorii. He hoped they would not be able to get beyond their horror, because so far, only the initial part of his First Warrior’s plan was working. Abartach had said that blinded by the sight of him sitting alone, they would not even consider it a trap.

  What if they ride on, undaunted by the Undead Horde? Abartach’s plan relies on them baulking.

  And the thought made Balor realise that if Abartach were wrong or decided it was his time to be King of the Undead Horde, this thunderous wall of horse flesh and iron would turn him and the wagon into so much wood mulch and gore before he could build the power to stop them. They wouldn’t damage the rock except for the odd chip, but what would that matter. Balor would be dead and his First Warrior could assume the crown without lifting a hand.

  Climbing onto the throne, Balor shielded his eyes and tried to see over the charge, vainly. Although he was blind to the cause, the animals were edging closer together and Balor knew Abartach’s one hundred had risen from their hiding places and were closing the noose on both sides. Soon, Balor would order the horde buried beneath in the dust in front of the wagon to stand, which would hopefully cause the horses to shy and throw their riders.

  “Not too soon,” Abartach had said, “or they will veer away and break the trap.”

  “How soon is too soon?” Balor now asked the air.

  “Not before one hundred paces,” Uala replied.

  “Yes. Yes.”

  If I get the chance, I’ll order Abartach to kill him.

  As the width of the charge narrowed, Balor guessed the unbroken line of undead warriors walked inwards, tightening the noose on the as-yet-unaware knights. If the knights only took the trouble to glance to one side or the other, they would be aware of the trap. Abartach said they would be too intent on the prize. In one way, the First Warrior had been right. However, as the knights neared, Balor noticed that their helmets had narrow slits for the eyes and other than turning their horses, they were effectively blinkered. The design favoured protection over vision—another foolishness.

  Not just rats in a barrel. Blind rats.

  And as they rode on into the trap, Balor realised the commander of this troop of King’s Knights knew what was waiting for him. Unaware of how his horses would react, he probably expected them to crash through any defenders and destroy Balor before he could summon his magic. Uala told them this King Sharvan expected his knights to destroy Dhuosnos’s demon horde, so an army of undead should be little threat. It was a bold move. Bold, but foolish.

  When the King’s Knights crossed the invisible line marking a hundred paces from the wagon, Balor screamed as loud as he could, “Arise, my warriors.”

  The earth before the wagon seemed to ripple as thousands of undead climbed from their trench and drew their weapons. The effect was immediate and startling in its simplicity. Aware of the warriors closing in from the sides, the horses dug in their hooves and stopped. Many of the riders were thrown from their saddles and landed in various positions in the dust: some with their arses in the air, others on their backs or sides. The weight of their armour immobilised those not killed by the throw. The respite for the knights the horses didn’t throw was short because the undead ran towards the corralled victims, waving their weapons and warbling their most fearsome war cries, causing the remaining animals to buck furiously until they unhorsed their riders, reducing their burden enough to be able to flee. In no time, only one of the King’s Knights remained in their saddle, somehow able to control their horse where the others couldn’t.

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  “Use the lassos,” Abartach ordered.

  With the horses corralled, the warriors began to catch them one by one and stab them in the heart with their stone-tipped spears. There was no scent of blood, so the living beasts didn’t understand what was to come. Neither were the King’s Knights aware of their destiny. Vainly flapping their arms and legs, they were like turtles overturned in the wash. Abartach’s vanguard moved from turtle to turtle, stabbing them in the heart between the front and back plates of their iron carapaces.

  It was all so easy, Balor thought, studying the still-upright knight.

  The Horse Warrior was carrying a pennant-adorned lance, and Balor wondered if the same rider had given the signal. He was reining his mount from side to side. The nervousness of the animal was apparent, even at fifty or more paces. Balor fancied he could see its sides quivering as it shook, and it kept stamping a foreleg in its eagerness to run. Finally understanding their plight, moving the horse by his strength of will, the knight walked the beast towards the wagon, forcing a path through the crowd of undead warriors.

  The Fomorii let the knight pass as if someone had instructed them.

  Someone like Abartach, perhaps.

  With the thought, Balor searched frantically until he saw his First Warrior jogging around the corral so as not to frighten the still-living horses any more than they already were, Gáe Bulg held in a loose grip. Abartach arrived at the wagon before the knight and stood to wait.

  Would he have ordered them to let this knight kill me? No. With draíocht this rider is no threat.

  Balor watched the rider walking his massive mount forward. The warrior had to constantly fight the animal’s hesitancy. Eventually, whoever hid behind the iron facade brought the horse to a stop twenty paces from where Balor sat and waited.

  “What are you doing to my knights?” a voice boomed from the helmet. The speaker kept the visor closed, and there was only a hint of eyes from within the shadows.

  “You are the captain?” Abartach asked.

  “I am King Sharvan. I repeat, what are you doing to my knights?”

  The voice didn’t hint at fear. Balor wondered if the rider was courageous or if the echo disguised their emotions.

  If they are not yet afraid, they soon will be.

  “My warriors are stabbing them in the heart, Sire?” Balor grinned at Abartach’s lack of inflexion, his words so matter of fact.

  “What… I’m not sure… what do you mean?” the king said, the helmet unable to disguise his confusion.

  “I mean, King, we are stabbing them with shards of Lia Fáil.”

  Balor laughed. Sharvan, however, found the statement less than amusing.

  “Where is your honour, killing helpless warriors?” he asked.

  “Honour? What use is honour?”

  Letting out a bellow that echoed in the helmet like a strange war drum, the King dug his heels into his mount’s flanks. It didn’t react immediately, torn between its fear and the pain of Sharvan’s spurs. Eventually, it chose and leapt towards the wagon. Abartach stepped aside and jammed Gáe Bulg into the horse’s flank just behind the foreleg. The animal collapsed under its rider, appearing to be dead before it came to rest on the road. Somehow, the King managed to loosen his feet from the stirrups and stay upright as the horse went down.

  Throwing his lance in the dust and drawing his sword, Sharvan turned slowly until he was facing Abartach. Balor’s First Warrior waited for the King, leaning on the shaft of Gáe Bulg, its head stuck in the ground.

  “Who are you?” the King’s voice boomed.

  “Does it matter, Sharvan?” Abartach asked. “You know who stands on the throne.”

  “I do, do I?”

  “Aye. King Balor, who you drove away when he needed you. The King and all his people.”

  “Are you moon blessed, man? That was more than a thousand summers ago.”

  “I’m neither bereft of my senses nor a man. Before swearing fealty, I was Tuatha.”

  “Maybe you of the Tuatha live for a thousand summers, Warrior, but I do not.”

  “Your lack of longevity does not excuse you,” Abartach replied. “Ochall’s blood flows in your veins.”

  “My knights are honourable. They deserve to be treated with respect and not just killed like fish in a barrel.”

  “That is a topic for debate, Sharvan. Besides, I did not say I was killing them…”

  Balor appreciated Abartach pausing to let the words break through Sharvan’s unconscious barrier. When they did, a moan echoed from the helmet.

  “But why?” The question was so low, Balor suspected the King was talking to himself.

  If Abartach understood the question to be rhetorical, he didn’t let it stop him. “I intend to ride across the plains of Talamh Thorthúil, driving all humans before me.”

  “Did you not just witness how ineffective my knights were?”

  “It is true, your knights were ineffective on this occasion. However, they were badly led and riding living horses. Mine will be well led and riding undead mounts.”

  “I will not lead the knights, even if you make a monster of me.”

  “I would have expected no less,” Abartach said, leaping forward and stabbing Gáe Bulg through the eye slit of Sharvan’s visor. As the armour toppled, pushed over by the leap’s momentum, Balor wondered whether it would have stayed standing if the thrust had been less forceful.

  The thought made him laugh.

  “So, Abartach, do you still think the wolf was a bad omen?” he asked, grinning from ear to ear, clapping and dancing a jig.

  However, Balor was surprised when the Tuatha didn’t share his excitement. Instead of agreeing enthusiastically, the First Warrior gazed southwards, his brows creased.

  ***

  Using her spyglass, Bee nearly ducked before realising the undead warrior couldn’t see her. Feeling foolish, she returned to panning the area where the horde had sprung their trap.

  “You ever seen the like?” Volt asked.

  Bee shook her head. They were on a ridge several hundred strides from the road where the undead warrior had slain the last rider. Through the spyglass, she watched enthralled as the Undead King clapped and danced, sang and shouted. It was too far to hear the words, but she didn’t need to hear them to know he was as touched by Rhiannon as any moon-blessed could be.

  Not so much moon blessed as moon swamped.

  Magnified many times, his grey and sagging face appeared slack-jawed and would be drooling if not so dry; his celebration at the warrior’s death seemed at the least callous as if he didn’t value life. She supposed it should not be a shock. A thousand summers under a rock with no prospect of dying, would be enough to dampen any value in life.

  Aside from Balor, something else enthralled her.

  Bee was fascinated by the throne. Lia Fáil gleamed blackly in the arid landscape like a malevolent demon that had escaped from the pits of Tech Duinn. In many ways, she supposed it was true; the Mountain’s Heart had escaped the pit. Balor seemed stuck to the stone. Since she’d been spying on the King and his Horde, he hadn’t once left it, not even to go and have a shite behind a handy shrub.

  They don’t eat, so no wonder they don’t shite.

  The small group found the horde at Halfmoon Ridge three nights before. The horde began to move at sunrise the day following and continued south until reaching these flats where the dusty plains were accessible. The undead warriors then hid themselves in the dust leaving Balor and his wagon in plain sight, obviously setting a trap.

  She’d thought briefly about skirting the horde and heading south to warn whoever was coming what was waiting for them five leagues south of the ridge. The thought was fleeting. There were too many intangibles that could result in her failing her mission. Besides, West Kingdom had cut themselves off from potential allies and should live with the consequences.

  “Who’s that in the wagon beside the King?” Sainreth asked.

  “No idea. Does it matter?”

  “You reckon that was Abartach killed the Horse Warrior?” he asked.

  Again, Bee said she had no idea. Whoever it was, he was kneeling beside the body, pulling at straps—probably working out how to remove the armour—and talking to Balor over his shoulder.

  “What is it all about?” Volt asked.

  “Guessing, I’d say the way they did that, they’re recruiting a band of heavily armoured Horse Warriors.”

  “Why d’you think that, then?” Sainreth asked.

  “They corralled the horses and are now moving from warrior to warrior, stabbing them all in the same way: through the gaps in their cuirass plates. Heart’s the target, for sure.”

  “I don’t get it,” Sainreth continued. “Them beasts are useless. They shied at a few warriors in their path. And did you see just how effective that armour is. The bodaláin are dying like chickens in a coop with a hole in the fence.”

  “They shied away from the undead. They won’t shy away from the living,” Volt said.

  Bee rubbed her scar. “Aye. It was fear killed them warriors. Undead horses won’t have that fear, no.”

  “Gods, can you imagine standing against three hundred heavily armoured undead with levelled lances?” Volt said.

  “Someone has to warn Whitehead,” Bee said, glaring at Sainreth, daring him to refuse.

  “Me? Why me?”

  Because yer constant inane questions are getting on me nerves.

  “Ye and the rest of yer Leathdhosaen. Bairrfind must be warned, and there’s safety with more than one messenger.”

  “I suppose that makes sense, so it does. What’re you going to do.”

  “Me and the Horse Warrior will stick to the horde. We need to know what they’re at.”