Excerpt

A gentle breeze blew a scream and the stench of death across the plains. 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. 

Why Cassandra? Of all times, why now? Abe had 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, or before telling him that boys late to bed were apt to be snatched by The Four.

If The Four are real, then why not the rest?

Abe knew The Four were real. He’d met them in the arena under the Point of Death, and hoped never to meet them again.

And the Tuatha were real. A Tuatha witch was standing there beside the onyx-like throne, staring at him defiantly. The reality of her existence didn’t make believing in her easy. Knowing her was far from easy. 

How could she do it? The horse warrior had been betrayed countless times, but never felt them 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, ripping it with her perfect teeth. 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 new shadow, and another Tuatha.

What have you done? he silently screamed at himself. 

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, Neit’s Maidens, 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 asked himself again. Or, more to the point, what has she done?

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.

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. “It is our destiny, Horse Warrior. Mine and yours, both.”

Seething and hurting, Abe steered his mare through the dead, keeping his eyes averted. He didn’t want the gore to remind him of how easily Balor’s horde felled them like saplings before the woodsman’s axe. 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 own 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. Some way from the helmet, 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. The reason they were all still breathing.

So, the prophecy was wrong, he suddenly realised, frowning as he cast his mind back over the last few days. With the witch’s tale of foretelling ringing behind his eyes, 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 foretold that he would battle Abartach, and the outcome 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 as he walked his mare over to where the Neit’s Maidens had intended to make their final stand. Atop the slight rise, he’d be well away from the demon when 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 a slight defile had previously hidden.

“Abartach’s clubs,” he said, whistling between his teeth. He’d seen the captain crushing all opposition with seemingly nonchalant swings of the massive weapons. The whispers between roundhouses were that Abartach made them using shards from Lia Fáil—shards the undead 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, not even considering the clubs at Abe’s feet.

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. The horse warrior could not ignore them. He might be able to make amends with 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. Green, mottled flesh, sunken pits for eyes, smoking scalp. 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. Cruel to the end: you’ll live forever, but you’ll rot while doing it.

Abe heard the wheels of the wagon squeaking in the distance and ignored the scream-like noise. 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 that the Giant would use Lia Fáil to break out of his prison, which was an escape Upthóg guaranteed by giving the throne to the demon to wheel away in the squeaky wagon, could Abe use the maces to defeat him?

“Why did she do it?” he asked, turning towards where he’d left the witch and her shadow. A crowd of warriors had gathered around a half-built contravallation. They were too far away to make out individuals, but he didn’t 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 vestige of hope.

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-green flesh hanging from his face, the Undead Captain was stronger than 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.

Even if it is only a petty theft.

***

The shadows lengthened, but Abe kept riding, driven by a need to get as far from Upthóg as possible. When the moon rose in the deep blue of night, he kept riding. On the open plains with a clear sky above, he could see the road as if it were still daytime. 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. Abe opened his mouth to challenge whatever was out there, but a spasmodic jerk almost made him lose his seat and crash to the ground.

“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. Standing in the road, Abe 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, or 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 broader 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 snorted, flicking her mane 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 anyone unfortunate 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 Abe, 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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