Blurb
Abe was devastated after the Battle of Mag Iotha when Upthóg seized Lia Fáil and handed it over to Partholón’s demon messenger. Leaving the battlefield, he stole the legendary twin maces of the Undead Warrior, Abartach.
Now, as the shadow of civil war looms, Abe taps into the extraordinary power of the weapons, only to discover that this newfound strength comes with consequences. His transformation into an unstoppable enemy on the battlefield leads him to unintentionally wreak havoc, endangering both allies and enemies alike. Disturbed by this dark change, Abe turns to his stepfather for wisdom. Fearghal sends him south on a treacherous quest to seek the elusive aid of the seeress, Cassandra. With the spectre of Upthóg looming nearby, Abe sets off, determined yet wary of the dangers ahead.
“Fantastic Irish fantasy that combines meticulous research and worldbuilding with incredibly creative storytelling.”
— John De Búrca, Historical Fantasy author
Excerpt
A gentle breeze blew a scream and the stench of death across Mag Iotha. The groans of the dead and dying offered percussion to the plaintive music of the aftermath of a bloody battle. Broken armour, discarded weapons, and flapping flags and banners meant no one would mistake the battlefield for something else. Even someone as blind as the seeress in Uaimh na gCat—the Cave of Cats—would know it by the groans and the stench.
Cassandra would know it, even through her milky orbs, Abe admitted to himself. He’d never believed in the faerie stories, the Tuatha, the seeress in the cave. All of it had been the stories his ma would tell him beside the fire on stormy nights.
If the witch is real, then why not the rest of it?
Thinking about the witch made the horse warrior stare at her with a look of disbelief. How could she do it? He’d never felt a betrayal as he felt this one. It was like she’d torn his heart out with her words—torn it out and eaten it before him. After all we’ve been through. They’d shared a bedroll, whispered to each other deep into the night, kissed deep into the night, and made the beast with two heads. More than once, for Tuatha’s sake.
“Get off me,” Abe hissed, shaking loose from the barrel-chested Cúip, her personal guard.
What have I done? he screamed inside his head.
Directly, he’d done nothing, but that didn’t make him less complicit. He’d aided in bringing about the destruction of humankind. Usually, when the Giant and his demons broke free of their prison, there was an army to oppose them. This time, the core strength of that army was mouldering on the vale, heaps of offal and limbless torsos—crushed by an army of the Undead.
What have I done? he repeated.
The witch held his gaze, saying nothing, showing nothing, giving nothing.
Suddenly keen to get away, Abe turned to see his mare cropping grass. She’s as heartless as the witch, he thought with a shake of the head. Jumping from the wagon, he walked over and lifted the mare’s reins.
“Horse warrior, look at me?” Upthóg called from where she stood before the onyx-like throne.
I can’t see you.
“Abe, listen?”
I can’t hear you.
“Listen to me,” she repeated as he vaulted into the saddle, turned the horse northwards and dug in his heels.
Seething and hurting, Abe steered his mare through dead horse warriors and foot soldiers, keeping his eyes averted. He didn’t want to be reminded of how easily Balor’s horde felled them. He couldn’t avoid the horror entirely. The dead and dying littered the vale. The few survivors were sitting where they’d been when the enemy abandoned the battle; some cried, others just stared, their eyes full of the horror they’d just witnessed. Helmets were off, heads down, sweaty, matted locks a testament to the effort they’d expended trying to stay alive. There was also relief. If the undead hadn’t abandoned the field, most, if not all, would have died. Sitting in a post-battle fugue, no one was thinking of their friends and comrades mangled and bloody beside them—there would be time for grief after the horror subsided in their minds.
“It’s time to go home,” Abe said to the mare, leaning forward and patting her neck.
Straightening in his saddle after a final caress, an orange glint on the plains caught his eye. Drawing rein, he gazed at Abartach’s discarded armour, catching rays from the sinking sun. The helmet sat proud where the monster dropped it when he made himself known by taking it off. A polished iron cuirass beside gauntlets and greaves indicated the path of the monster’s retreat, his march towards the Endless Sleep, the reason Abe was still breathing.
So, the prophecy was wrong, he realised, frowning as he cast his mind back over the last few days. He’d ridden towards the vale, sure his encounter with the Undead Captain would be his end—filling him with dread. As much as a fear of dying, it had been a fear of failing. The portents said he would face Abartach, and success or failure would determine the fate of humankind.
A high-pitched squealing caused Abe to turn back and see the Giant’s demon messenger pulling the wagon towards him. Axles could use some grease, he thought, walking his mare over to where the Neit’s Maidens had intended to make their final stand, well away from the demon as it passed. When he reached the helmet, he drew rein and swung down from his saddle, feeling an irresistible urge to get a closer look at the massive pot. As he dismounted, he saw two maces, which had been hidden in a slight defile.
“Abartach’s weapons,” he said, whistling between his teeth. He’d seen the captain crushing all opposition with seemingly nonchalant swings of these clubs. The whispers between roundhouses were that Abartach made them using shards from Lia Fáil—shards they created when chiselling the stone to make the onyx-like throne in the wagon bed. Glancing over his shoulder, Abe caught sight of the demon as it reached the vale’s edge.
It has its prize. No interest in weapons of power. But then, why would it have? The power of the maces would pale compared to the Earth Power in Lia Fáil. Not so a lowly horse warrior. Maybe Abe could use them. Bending, he gripped one of the intricately designed shafts, preparing to try and lift it, even though he was sure he would be unable.
An image of Abartach’s smoking head flashed in his mind.
The force of it made him stagger and drop the weapon. He thought he might fall. Grabbing the mare’s noseband, Abe shook his head, trying to clear it. The waking image was so clear, so lifelike. He wondered why the head had been smoking; there were no flames, and then he remembered the wispy hair when Abartach took off his helmet. The strands had been blowing in the breeze: so flimsy and light they appeared like smoke. The tunnels under the Fiery Mountain—Lia Fáil’s magic—had given the horde eternal life, not eternal youth.
He heard the wheels of the wagon squeaking in the distance and ignored it. All his attention was on the two weapons lying in the defile. Not just any weapons but weapons of immense power. Could he rectify his mistake using them? In the same way the Giant would use Lia Fáil to break out of his prison—an escape Upthóg guaranteed by giving the throne to the demon.
“Why did she do it?” he asked, turning towards where he’d left the witch and her guard. A crowd of warriors was gathering around a half-built contravallation but they were too far away to make out individuals. No doubt, she would be there in the middle of it all. The centre was where she felt most comfortable.
“They forgot the weapons,” he said to the mare. As he watched the milling warriors, he felt a sudden conviction that if Upthóg took the maces, she would send them to The Point of Death along with the black throne. Somehow, she was working for the enemy—had always been working for the enemy—and would deprive humankind of any advantage.
But not if she can’t find them.
Bracing himself for another shock, Abe bent down and grasped the weapons. This time, he felt nothing. He was surprised at how light the maces were. Despite the grey flesh hanging from his face, the Undead Captain was mighty beyond anyone or anything he’d encountered. Abe still had the bruises to prove it. Shaking his head, he tied the weapons to his saddle, one on either flank, remounted, and rode from the vale with a sense of something accomplished.
***
The shadows lengthened, but Abe kept riding, driven by a need to get as far from Upthóg as possible. Even after night had fallen, he kept riding. On the open plains with a clear sky above, he could see the road clearly. Besides, he thought the mare could find her way to Dún Dealgan—where he intended to take ship—without his guidance.
“On her own, if you fall and bash your brains out on a rock.”
There was no lack of rocks on the plains, if not on the road itself, thankfully. After the noise of the battle, the rhythmic clopping of the mare’s hooves in the grooves left by wagons was mesmeric, lulling him like his ma used to when he was a bairn. Feeling a heaviness in his eyelids, he shook his head to clear it and saw a flash of something grey to his left. If not for the sensation when he first grabbed a mace, he would have said a white owl was hunting a little too close to the road, but the image of Abartach’s smoking head convinced him he was wrong. Besides, no owl would come that close. He opened his mouth to challenge whatever was out there, but a spasmodic jerk brought Abe to his senses.
“You were dreaming, bundún,” he hissed before drawing rein.
The mare came to a stop, neighed, and tossed her head. He patted her neck and swung out of the saddle, deciding that continuing on his feet would be less dangerous. However, instead of walking along the road, he felt an urge to go to the top of the shallow rise and look for the owl. He would feel better if he could see it in a tree, blinking at him. Better yet, if it gave him a hoot.
“Not that there are any trees here.”
After riding through the gap between the Great Forest and the Forest of Iotha, there was nothing but the wider expanse of open plains. League upon league of rolling hills, grasslands, and rocks. Staring at the hilltop, he saw nothing more and was convinced he would see nothing more. That said, something was pulling at him to walk to the top of the rise. Nagging him to make sure it had been a dream.
“It’s just tiredness,” he told the mare, stroking her nose. She whinnied and tossed her head, as if disagreeing with him.
Shaking his head, he loosened his sword in its scabbard and walked tentatively up the slope. When he arrived at the top, he could see a massive boulder, which had been invisible from the road. A dark gash in the grass showed Abe where a path curved around the great monolith. He guessed it was an animal track because it was not connected to the road and, therefore, unlikely to have been created by humans.
“Come, horse,” he said, leading her to the path. Her nonchalance convinced Abe that there was no threat of bears or wolves. Her senses would be fine-tuned to predators. If any were close enough for her to smell them, she would have warned him.
When he reached the front of the monolith and saw the cave worn into it, he grinned. “We’ll both fit in there, girl,” he said, leading her down the incline and into the shelter. Despite the seeming lack of human involvement in creating the path, Abe was surprised to find a pile of firewood stacked in a recess.
“Tracker’s code,” he said, grinning. “Thank the Tuatha for trackers.” His mind had been too occupied, and so he’d not thought to gather firewood before leaving the grip of the forests. Heat might not be necessary so long after the harvest moon, but hot food was always welcome.
It wasn’t long before Abe was scraping the bottom of his bowl with a wooden spoon and sucking the last of the oats from it. He had a fire blazing in the mouth of the cave, his cooking cauldron swinging over it, and the mare hobbled in the rear. Notwithstanding what he’d been through over recent days, he felt almost content sitting beside the fire with a full belly. Dragging himself to the cave wall, he crossed his legs at the ankles and put his hand on his gut, intent on a bit of sleep. He’d just closed his eyes when a sickly stench caused him to gag.
“That’s a smell I know,” he hissed, opening his eyes and gazing across the flames.
At first, he could see nothing. Eventually, though, a greyness just beyond the flame’s reach spoke of that same owl-like apparition that he’d seen from the road. Only, this time, it was close enough for him to smell. There was no doubt. Like a battlefield, the stench of old death was unmistakable. Putrid and dry at the same time—almost as if tiny dust mites were breaking away from the corpse, creating a scratchy throat in any so unfortunate as to be close enough to breathe it in.
“No need to be shy, Abartach. Come join me at the fire.”
And I’ll see if you undead burn as brightly as the rest of us.
The grey smudge stood still. It seemed to be staring at him, although he couldn’t be sure. Lifting a burning branch from the fire, he stood and walked out of the cave. The ghoul didn’t move. It neither came forward nor fled.
Abe held the branch out like a sword and said, “Defend yourself, demon. Let’s see if you can burn.”
He was about to take another step forward when an enormous crack sounded. He opened his eyes. He was sitting with his back to the cave wall. A column of sparks rose above the fire, explaining the crack. A log had exploded. He looked towards the edge of the light. There was no grey smudge, no demon, no Abartach returned from the dead.
“You were dreaming again, bundún,” he hissed.
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