By the time the sailors had fixed the gangplank in position, Volt was desperate to get off the ship. Taking his mare’s reins, he led her towards the gap in the gunnels, stroking her neck and whispering in her ear. She had a cloth sack over her head and could not see the precarious width of the wooden bridge they were crossing.

  I can see it, though, Volt thought, smiling ruefully.

  He couldn’t have been more relieved when he felt the stones of the pier under his feet. The mare’s prance reflected a similar relief, even though she had been unaware of the danger.

  I really should learn to swim.

  The horse warriors followed behind, each excited to get mounted and out onto the plains of East Kingdom. Nine warriors all told, and not one of them would make a good sailor, Volt least of all. Watching them from the dock, he could see they longed for the feel of a horse beneath them and the wind in their hair. Although the wind had billowed the sails from Lúr Cinn Trá to Beal Feirste, in the ship’s belly, there had been nothing but stale air and the stink of horse and warrior sweat. Man and beast living together in a confined space was not somewhere for the faint-hearted to dwell.

  Maga came last, knowing her mount to be skittish and wanting the others to be on the dock before she tried the bridge. Volt watched her stepping carefully onto the gangplank, wondering who was more afraid of falling in, the stallion or its rider?

  “You all right, Ma?” Fachta called from beside Volt. There was a tone of laughter in the words and Volt looked askance at the youth.

  What’s funny?

  “Aye, I’ll live, so I will. Never enjoyed this part of travel,” she said, reaching the dock.

  She pulled the cloth covering off her stallion’s head with a flourish. The horse whinnied and stamped as if testing the ground beneath its hooves. Finally satisfied, the stallion tossed its mane and whinnied again, giving Maga its approval. She patted its neck and fed it an apple from her saddlebags.

  “Enough, Maga,” Volt said, a tautness in the air, which he hadn’t sensed on his previous visits, was putting him on edge. There was a humming sound from outside the port walls that did nothing to allay his sudden suspicions.

  “Let’s get out of the settlement,” he said, swinging into his saddle, keen to leave the port in the Leathdhosaen’s dust.

  “Aye. Ports are never a good place to tarry,” Maga agreed.

  Approaching the open gate, Volt saw the guards were away from the opening, tension evident in the grip on their spear shafts. Once again standing in his stirrups, he frowned at the streets between the settlement blockhouses to the south and east, which were awash with people, dirty, obviously hungry, and begging for alms or food from those leaving. They were not out of place in the dirty streets of one-storey stone buildings with patchy thatched roofs as though the people were moulded from the place where they lived, a reflection of those who decided the dwellings would be drab and shabby.

  Most don’t live here, he realised. These are country folk.

  When they were through the gate, Volt reined in and whistled between his teeth. Unless they forced their way through, probably causing injury, there was no way out of the settlement except to the west.

  Maga halted by his side and said, “How many people live here?”

  “These people are not from Beal Feirste,” Volt said.

  “What’s this, now?” Fachta asked from behind.

  “Hundreds of beggars blocking the way,” Maga replied over her shoulder.

  “They are running from something,” Volt said. “There has been a battle, I think.”

  “Aye, or worse.”

  Volt nodded. He knew what Maga meant. Rumours of famine and pestilence had crossed the Narrow Sea–King Eochaid was said to have brought the mainland to its knees by confiscating the last harvest and locking it in guarded granaries. Pestilence was often fast on the heels of famine because bodies weakened by hunger were ill-equipped to fight disease.

  Standing in his stirrups, he gazed over the crowds, jostling to gain access to the dock. They were concentrated south and east, most likely entering the settlement by the gates on those sides of the ramparts. Whatever they were running from probably happened somewhere in the southeast.

  Are Middle and East Kingdoms at war?

  He knew Maga suspected pestilence to be the cause, but it could easily be folk running from reaving warriors. Whenever war broke out, the kingdoms’ fighters lost all sense of kinship, rampaging through settlements as if they were there for sport alone. No one was safe. Young or old, male or female, adult or child—all were potential victims. Unsurprisingly, these folk were scared; setting them aflame would not take much of a spark.

  “We should head west,” he said. “We keep to the coast, and soon enough, we’ll come across Etercel’s Dyke.”

  “Not until reaching Ceathru Rúa. That’s a long way round, ain’t it?” Maga asked, frowning. “Southwest across the plains is much faster.”

  “It is, Maga. But judging by the people thronging Beal Feirste, I think it might prove quicker along the coast. If not quicker, at least safer. These people are on edge. I’ve seen riots, and this has the makings of one brewing.”

  “You that worried, Volt?”

  “There are thousands of starving people here. Aye, I’m worried.”

  “Come then, west it is.”

  They soon made it through the western gate. As Volt had suspected, there was no traffic on the coast road. Riding at a canter, they would make good time and reach Ceathru Rúa soon after nightfall. They could stay in the woods of Doilbhe near the Middle Kingdom port and be on the road for Dún Ailinne the following morning.

  Riding, Volt’s mood improved. Judging by the horseplay, they all felt a momentary relief of stress. He might even say the warriors were content for the first time since he met them in Lúr Cinn Trá.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  I might even say my mood is good.

  Good mood or not, coming into sight of a black cloud—rising and falling over the plains about a league ahead the other side of a slight hill— dampened it. Reining in his horse, he crossed his arms over the saddle pommel and sighed.

  “I didn’t expect that,” he said.

  “Crows,” Maga said. “Seems the battle was west of Beal Feirste.”

  Volt nodded. He had miscalculated. The beggars must have gone south to avoid the opposing armies and then around the palisade when the southern gate became overrun with people trying to enter the settlement. They would have felt the wooden walls to be protection against marauders, wrongly, he knew. A determined army would cross Beal Feirste’s palisade with ease. A ravening army would easily cross the walls and then kill all they met until their madness subsided, which might not be until no one was left to murder.

  “Come, Volt. Sitting here won’t change the facts.”

  “No. You’re right. Did you hear anything in Murias about war on the mainland?”

  “Nothing. But it don’t take long for war to break out.”

  Volt didn’t reply but goaded his mare into motion with a light kick of his heels. Maga’s observation was so accurate that there was nothing he might add to it.

  As they neared the battlefield, a buzz was discernible. It grew louder with each passing moment. Volt didn’t need to be closer to understand its source and was not surprised when they crested the rise and discovered the field was full of bodies swarming with flies. He often wondered which arrived first, the crows or the bluebottles?

  “Would you look at that,” Fachta said as if he’d never seen a battle.

  Is he truly as good as she claims?

  The dead were left where they had fallen, hundreds of corpses frozen in their last moment of life: kneelers, those on their backs, fronts or sides, faces showing pain or despair, or both; corpses with missing limbs; heads with missing torsos; arms and legs discarded around the field as if something had delighted in ripping them free and tossing them away.

  Were there demons here?

  The question sent a shiver of disquiet up his spine and caused a knot of fear to form in his gut, but he dismissed it almost at once. If demons had been at the battle, then the scourge they were trying to prevent had already begun. No, this was the work of warriors, probably so far beyond control they could be described as rabid. They’d ripped each other into shreds before the survivors abandoned the field without a thought to the remains of those who gave their lives for whatever banal reason their Kings provided.

  This abandonment begins at the top.

  Where fear had been moments before, Volt felt a seething anger grip the base of his gut. It was an anger he’d felt building over many moon cycles. When he first heard that Eochaid was withholding grain again and that Connavar—as was his wont—warned him if he didn’t resume the supplies, there would be another war.

  “What d’ye want to do?” Maga asked.

  “Nothing. There are too many for us to bury or burn. We ride on for the dyke.”

  ***

  Volt could see the warriors sitting around the fire. They had been talking in whispers, their moods suppressed by the gruesome field between Beal Feirste and Ceathru Rúa. They’d spoken little and quietly since they arrived in the woods of Doilbhe, outside Middle Kingdom’s port. Despite being hardened to battle, none of them had thought the scene normal or acceptable. He remembered that after the battle of Caer Usk, the first thing the survivors did—winners and losers—was band together and build a cairn for the deceased. They recited the rites and said ‘fare you well on the path.’ to those they’d known, wishing them a speedy journey to Tír nóg, the Land of Perpetual Youth.

  Maga was deep in thought, staring into the flames of the fire. Fachta was snoring beside her, sitting upright, back against a tree.

  How does he do that?

  And then he saw himself on the other side of Maga, wrapped in a blanket, asleep. He gasped before realising it was only a dream. They had arrived in the woods, formed a camp in a dingle away from the road, eaten, and then he’d bid the troop a good night and wrapped himself in his stinking horse blanket.

  I am dreaming. But it seems so real.

  “Always a disconcerting sight,” a voice said from behind. “Seeing yourself asleep.”

  Volt turned to see a man standing on the edge of the dingle. The deep shadows made it difficult to see much except the glow of red eyes reflecting the firelight from under a hood and arms folded across his chest.

  “What’s happening?”

  “As you rightly surmised, you’re asleep and dreaming,” the man said, nodding at the bundle of blankets beside the fire.

  “But it seems so real.”

  “Ah. Just because you’re dreaming doesn’t make it any less real.”

  Volt felt his heartbeat quicken as he drew in a hissed breath. “Who are you?”

  He suspected he knew what the answer would be. It could only be one of two, but he still had to ask. He knew the shadowy, red-eyed figure was one of the Four. If the legends were accurate, Marbh was a woman, and Archu’s face would be in flames, which left Concaire or Plasgorta. The man might have his arms folded, but Volt could see his hands. Plasgorta was supposed to be skeletal, with long, bone-like fingers, but these appeared meaty even in the shadows.

  Concaire.

  “You represent conquest. You are Concaire.”

  “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it? You’re beginning to believe, Volt of the Horse Warriors.”

  “Perhaps. If this is more than a dream, what do you want from me?”

  “Who says I want anything of you? Maybe I have come to offer you something.”

  Volt shook his head and glared into the shadows. The Four were not known for generosity of spirit or any other kind of generosity. Concaire wanted something as sure as chickens laid eggs. Saying nothing, he folded his arms and waited. And standing there, arms folded, he turned to see Maga staring at him as if she was also visiting his dream. His heartbeat picked up pace, and he had to force himself to relax.

  This is not real, regardless of what Concaire says.

  “Why are you in Middle Kingdom?” the demon asked.

  “Do you not already know? As one of Dhuosnos’s servants, do you not know everything?”

  Concaire barked a laugh and threw back his hood. Despite the dark, a ruby shone bright from the centre of his forehead, held in place with a black leather strap.

  “You truly are beginning to see the truth, Horse Warrior.” Opening his arms wide, he continued, “I know it is a long time since the last scourge, but have you forgotten everything, human?”

  Volt shrugged and turned back to the fire. Maga was still staring at him, her face hard. Fachta had ceased snoring, and he, too, was staring straight at Volt.

  “What did those two tell you?” Concaire asked, nodding at Maga and Fachta. “You’re on some errand of mercy, I would wager.”

  Why is he picking out Maga and Fachta? Is my inner mind trying to warn me?

  Volt could see no reason to keep anything from this demon. It was, after all, just a dream. “We are searching for King Connavar.”

  “And what is Connavar doing in Middle Kingdom, aside from waging war?”

  “Someone took our King. Eochaid is the main suspect.”

  “Eochaid is dead, recently assassinated by killers hired by Queen Medb. I think your search will bring you much further afield than Dún Ailinne. Marbh sent me to tell you that you shouldn’t despair. When you arrive in the deep south, all will be resolved.”

  “So, East and Middle Kingdoms are at war?”

  “They are. You passed the battlefield where Eochaid’s army intercepted Queen Medb’s. They are now marching on átha Cliáth.”

  “The deep south. Why would I go there?”

  “That’s where the Tuatha want you to go.”

  “Despite your protestations, I don’t believe you are real, never mind the Tuatha,” Volt said.

  What does he mean by the Tuatha?

  “No matter. You will know when you reach Dún Ailinne and find Eochaid on a pyre.”

  Volt came awake with a start. Sitting up, he saw Maga was still staring at him and wondered if he was still dreaming. Her face showed concern—and a little anger—as if she had discovered him keeping secrets from her.

  “Are you well, Volt?” she asked. “Thrashing about and groaning, so you were.”

  “I was? Must have been a bad dream.”

  “Must have been. You look like you’ve seen a demon.”

  “Or Dhuosnos,” Fachta added with a nod.