Bee was on her back in the guest roundhouse’s cot with her hands behind her head. She was contemplating the thatch above her as she listened to the squeak and rustlings of its inhabitants. They had nothing to occupy their minds except Whiteheads cats.

  Oh, to be a mouse.

  True to the bare existence of the Maidens, the roundhouse was sparse: a cot and a table with two chairs. An iron fire pit on a tripod was warming the space, but with the smoke Bee wasn’t sure it was worth it.

  She couldn’t sleep because she hated delays. Although it was keeping her awake, this one couldn’t be helped. The business of getting mounts down from the fortress and the preparation for a long ride into the unknown meant they would not be leaving until the following day. After much cajoling, Whitehead agreed to muster the Maidens and march on Breshlech. That said, it would take several days to set a siege. The warrior insisted Credne accompanied Bee, which was not only annoying, but confusing. If Danu’s Three were the enemy—something she strongly suspected—then Whitehead was in league with the enemy, contrary to her earlier feeling that the warrior was her only ally.

  Or maybe she just wants to be rid of the annoying bundún. Who would blame her?

  “How long will I have to stand him?” she asked the mice, thinking it wouldn’t be too long, as she told Whitehead if she had no joy with the rebel, she would join her in the siege of Breshlech. One thing she was sure of was she would quickly determine the rebel’s usefulness.

  However, she needed to find Bren. If the rebel proved to be a waste of time, she would return to where the demon had its base because it would be as good a place as any to start. Whatever Dorn and her brother managed, at some point, they would need to return to Archu because whatever was going on, the demon was heavily involved.

  Listening to the squeaks of her pink-tailed companions, Bee could not stop the maelstrom of swirling thoughts and emotions making her head spin. Two were more prominent: why did Dorn bring her to Sliabh Culinn, and why had Dagda not been more honest with her? Niggling right behind those battling thoughts were the dagger and the compass. Powerful tools indeed, and in the hands of some unknown thief. It seemed that the presence of one of the Four in Breshlech was only a minor concern. The demon might have an army of the dead, but Bee had seen how effective they would be. No, she was more concerned with the three brothers.

  “When they destroyed Dagda’s compass and the dagger why did they keep the others?” she asked the mice. “Were they already planning on taking the throne?”

  If they were, it meant they had been planning the coup for millennia. Bee had to admit that none of it was making much sense, so she decided to sleep on it. She closed her eyes, convinced that sleep would be hard to find…

  ***

  She was sitting cross-legged on a long rolling plain. The grasses were sun-browned and swishing like the seas on an autumn breeze. The skies above were a roiling mass of dark grey clouds that seemed to be hiding an intensity of searching, blood-red eyes. The orbs were deep behind shadows created by the roiling skies; shades of grey and black, with white and red streaks; a threatening sky in more than one way.

  “Tricks of sun and clouds,” Bee tried to reassure herself. But she wasn’t convinced. There was no wind, except the gentle breeze ruffling the fields, and yet the clouds were presaging massive storms. There was no sound except the gentle swish of the grasses as they waved.

  Everything is wrong, she thought, as she felt ice-cold fingers grip the base of her spine and fear take hold. Who did the eyes belong to, and who or what were they searching for? Thoughts that pressed forward from behind her forehead, causing a flash of pain. She wanted to dive into the grass and hide from the search but could not. The icy grip on her spine had her locked, motionless. She watched the clouds, and as she watched, the eyes became clearer, more real, redder, larger, and monstrous.

  “Mother help us,” she whispered as she awoke to the sound of an owl hooting. “Bheara again.”

  ***

  Bee did not return to sleep. Dawn’s grey light had begun to crawl through the roundhouse, and so she rose and dressed. Where usually her dreams receded on awakening, as she dressed, the clouds and red eyes remained at the forefront of her mind. There seemed to be a message in this dream, but what was it? That everyone in the Fae Realm and the Kingdoms was seeking Lia Fáil was not news, and she felt sure that was not it. Perhaps it was a pointer towards who possessed the eyes searching the plains and not what they were searching for. If that was the case, it wasn’t a strong clue. All of Dhuosnos’s inner circle had red eyes, as did the Lord of Darkness. But Bee didn’t think the demons or their liege were behind Danu’s Three. The immortal brothers seemed to be working towards their own ends.

  So, who was it meant to be? she asked, slapping the seat of her pants. Dhuosnos take me if I know.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Sighing, she left the roundhouse and went to the map room in search of Whitehead. When she entered, the warrior was deep in whispered conversation with the annoying God, which they broke off when they saw her.

  “Is everything ready?” she asked as she sat at the other end of the table.

  “Aye. Your horses are down in the forest. There’s a packhorse with supplies. I was not sure how long to supply you for, so have erred on the side of caution.” Bee raised her eyebrows. “You are provisioned for six moons.”

  Nodding, Bee had to fight hard to prevent a guffaw escaping. She knew Whitehead’s reputation for caution but considered six moons to be a little too cautious. At least, she hoped it was.

  “Are ye ready?” she asked Fis.

  “I am always ready,” he replied.

  “I will not come down to wave you off,” Whitehead said, smirking.

  ***

  By midmorning, they were well into the forest. Conversation was strained, and only when necessary. Bee preferred it that way, in truth. She doubted they had much to talk about, unless it was the situation they were in, and she didn’t want to talk to him about that, because she was sure he was in it up to and beyond the arse hairs on his chin. She had been unsure about most things during her time since her Master sent her. She didn’t doubt that Fis was part of the conspiracy, whatever it might be. The implication that Whitehead was also involved was not as sure in her mind. She thought there could be an explanation. The most probable being that Credne had somehow duped her. Bee thought he was undoubtedly gifted with the gab for which Fae males were noted. They could talk their way out of Tech Duinn according to reputation.

  “Do you mind if I call you Bee?” he asked, breaking into her thoughts.

  “Aye. If ye must,” she said, while thinking, Just keep yer eineach shut. Better all round, if ye ask me.

  “I have something of a confession…” he started, before hesitating and tilting his head to listen. At the same time, Bee heard a thunder of many hooves. Whoever was coming, they were coming at speed, and in her experience, charging riders seldom morphed into friends.

  Who knows we’re here?

  “Ride,” she called, digging her heels into her mount’s flanks.

  As her horse leaped into the gallop, it seemed Whitehead’s caution stretched to providing them with the best horses. It was only a matter of moments before they were at full gallop. Moments, though, were not fast enough, as a full troop of horse warriors rounded a bend in the road and came on screaming their war cries.

  “Fomorii,” Fis called, before lowering his head in a vain attempt to lessen wind resistance and increase their chances of escape.

  Bee dropped the reins of the packhorse because, although a willing beast, it was no match for the big warhorses they were on, nor the beasts the Fomorii were riding. It was a shame to lose the supplies, but it would be a far worse shame if killer monsters caught them. Recalling the lumpen, misshapen forms of the creatures in Breshlech, she felt a shiver run up her spine. The Fomorii of legend, although walking on two feet, were fearsome monsters. The skeletons Bee had encountered did nothing to disprove the legends. Glances over her shoulders also seemed to confirm the horror of them. Giant alien warriors only the biggest horses could carry.

  “Mother help us,” she whispered so that Fis would not hear and think her weak.

  Whether he heard proved immaterial, because before long, despite its strength, Bee’s horse began to labour; it was far too long a gallop, even for the best warhorse. Foaming sweat was streaming from its flanks, and its breathing was fraught.

  “You go on,” she called, as she drew rein and turned to face the pursuers.

  If the chasers were surprised by her actions, they didn’t show it. The front runners rode past and those in the rear stopped before her. Glancing to her left, Bee was happy to see Fis sitting on his horse beside her. Sacrificing himself so he could stand with her in the final moments did not seem to be the actions of an enemy, even if he were a God.

  “Ye didn’t need to stay,” she said.

  “Ah, but I did. My horse is no better off than yours,” he replied, the habitual smirk on his face.

  “What are ye grinning at?”

  “Life, Bee. I’m grinning at life.”

  “Well, Fis, let’s make a song to remember,” she said, drawing the knife she’d taken from the guardhouse.

  “My thoughts precisely,” Fis said, as he pulled the most beautiful sword Bee had ever seen. “I know what you’re thinking, could have been made by The Smith.”

  With those final words, he spurred his horse on, guiding it towards the nearest enemy. Laughing for the sheer joy of battle, he swung the sword in a mighty arc, and Bee stared on in amazement as the Fomor’s helmet flew to land under the horse behind. She could see the eyes of the Fomor staring from the helmet, as if the warrior could not believe the ease with which it had died.

  “I need to talk to that boy,” she said, as a horn blared, and she saw the black streaks of arrows cutting into the Fomoriiwarriors all around the road. It wasn’t long before the survivors were riding their horses hard back the way they had come.

  When the last of them was lost to sight, Bee gazed down at the man who’d just stepped from the underbrush not ten paces from where she sat.

  “Do you always interrupt ambushes?”

  The man standing before her with crossed arms was ruggedly handsome. Dressed as a warrior, he wore a mail shirt covering his arms to the elbows, sturdy leather forearm straps, and a boiled leather cuirass. The warrior had a wound from his forehead to below his left eye, which someone who should have stopped needlework as a child had stitched. The stitching was so woeful, Bee doubted he would ever be as pretty as he once was.

  Maybe Whitehead stitched him, she thought with a grin.

  Despite the scarring and the hardness in him, she saw a youth trying to break through a harried exterior. Notwithstanding the superficial ugliness, his eyes were the most striking blue and were holding her attention.

  “I suppose we’ve ye to thank for saving us,” she said. “Ye’re Ruirech?”

  Watching his eyes dancing with mirth, she was not surprised when the youth answered with a question. “Who wants to know? And, this being more important than the who, what’s a Tuatha witch doing in my forest?”