“You say this hostel is in the keep?” Maga asked.

  “Yes,” Volt replied, looking over his shoulder at her. “The captains of the Fianna all gather in the keep’s hostel. It’s the only way any patrons could find them. There are far too many drinkeries in Gorias to search them all.”

  “And you’re sure we need one?”

  “More than one.”

  Volt could see the high stone walls of the tiered city over Upthog’s shoulder. The myriad towers always gave him a moment’s shock and a feeling of insignificance—the feeling he’d been born in the wrong era.

  The city had four walls, one inside another, which were really four castles. Each had stone towers sprouting out of them every hundred paces or so, except for the keep, which had four towers, one on each corner. Built on a hill—from the outside in—each tier’s walls seemed taller than those before, so the innermost keep could only be described as majestic. From atop the dyke, riding towards the North Gate, the city appeared like an elaborate, four-tiered oblong crown made of some muddy-brown metal, the red clay tiles roofing the towers, its jewels, the whole ruined by the thin smudge of greasy-black smoke rising from the keep.

  Is that a pyre?

  Behind the tiered crown, he saw the darkness of The Great Forest, a sprawling mass of trees of all kinds. Home to the worst type of criminal and vagabond, Eterscel The Builder had the fortress of Gorias built as a bastion against them. Many of the witches hid in the forest during the hunts, so Volt had been forced to enter its forbidding shadows.

  Turning his attention back to the city, he remembered the gate into each tier was at a different compass point, and the space between each wall was packed with dwellings. Now, with war imminent—or even begun if the battlefield near Beal Feirste was an indication—the city’s streets must be teeming with life.

  If it can be called life.

  “It’s always a sight that amazes,” Upthog said over her shoulder. He felt her wriggling her arse, trying to get comfortable perched between him and his mare’s neck.

  “So much so it makes you squirm?”

  “It’s yer saddle pommel making me squirm, Horse Warrior. Leastways, I hope it’s yer pommel.”

  “Hmm,” Volt mused. “You should be grateful, witch. It’s better than running behind my mare’s arse with a rope around your neck.”

  “Ye think? I know which I’d prefer.”

  “Stop gabbing and tell me about this place,” Maga said from behind.

  “Have you never been here?” Volt asked.

  “I was here just after Eterscel died, so I expect much has changed. The walls seem the same, but a city is made of more than walls.”

  That’s more than a thousand summers. How long do these Tuatha live?

  “I don’t know what to say. Four tiers; a gate in each but staggered. The gate to the second tier is on the east side, the third tier on the south, and the gate to the keep on the west. As a fortress, it has never been taken—”

  “Not true, Horse Warrior,” Maga interrupted. “The Fomorii took it soon after Eterscel’s death. It took you humans three hundred summers to get them out.”

  “The legends say Balor and his people were driven underground by the Tua—”

  “Again, not true. We played no part. You humans did that to them. They’ve been brooding ever since, waiting for a chance at revenge.”

  “They’re still in Balor’s Canyon?”

  “Where else, Horse Warrior? Where else but in the caves of the Fiery Mountain?”

  Volt wondered how much of what Maga said he could believe before deciding she had no reason to lie. It gave him pause because if the legends about the Fomorii were wrong, how much else of what he had been starting to think as history was wrong? When she came to him in the hostel, Maga said they knew little because it was all bedtime stories coming to life, which had been a lie. She was herself a bedtime story coming to life. She must know most of what happened, if not all; the Tuatha’s reticence at giving him the information he needed grated almost as much as the woman Upthog’s talking to him like a child.

  “Anyway, the space between the walls is crammed with dwellings,” Volt continued. “It’s hard enough to get from one gate to another on a normal day. Now, I think it will be impossible.”

  “How so, Horse Warrior?”

  “I expect the city is playing host to thousands seeking refuge. They will be sleeping in the streets blocking any passage.”

  Probably begging for food. Just like they were in Beal Feirste.

  “Are the streets not kept clear by the city guards?”

  “When I was here, if there was any such thing as city guards, they didn’t show themselves. No. I think we’ll find it hard to reach the keep. I think I should go in alone to hire a Fianna.”

  “You would like that,” Maga said with a chuckle.

  “You or one of your guards can’t go. You don’t know where the hostel is.”

  And I doubt any Fianna would deal with you. Mercenaries are usually excellent character judges.

  “No. We stay together.”

  As it happened, Volt could not have been more wrong. When they neared, they could see the gates were thrown wide, and there were no guards. Once inside the city, aside from the occasional scuttling behind closed shutters or the sounds of boots running from the intruders, there was no life, never mind teeming life. It was as if the entire city was hiding from them.

  They fear seven intruders.

  The thought seemed incongruous to Volt. How could a city of thousands fear a handful of mounted warriors?

  “Seems you were wrong, Horse Warrior.”

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  He nodded, feeling his nerves jangle. By the tenseness of Upthog, he could tell she wasn’t happy either. They clopped their way up the empty streets from tier to tier until they reached the keep, only to discover the gate barred. One of Maga’s guards swung out of their saddle and banged on it with the hilt of their sword.

  “Who are you, and what do you want?” a bodiless voice called from behind the gatehouse parapet.

  “Where is everyone?” Maga called back.

  “The pestilence decimated the lower tiers. We’ve barred the keep to all. Who are you and what do you want?” the voice repeated.

  Volt felt his heart’s pace pick up. Staying in a city struck by pestilence was asking for a quick death.

  What about water?

  “I am Maga, Captain of Connavar’s King’s Guard. The King sent me as an emissary to King Eochaid. I’m to present peace terms.”

  The words created a void behind the parapet and in the surrounding walls. The city became truly silent, which Volt would not have thought possible without the buzz of silence’s pressure between his ears. It was as if the walls had stopped to listen to this discussion between old foes and were keeping the people still, like a mother fearing her child’s cries would alert the demon.

  A whooping cough from one of Maga’s guards broke the spell.

  The noise echoed through the streets like a horn, waking an army before battle, and woke the man on the parapet, who said, “Eochaid’s dead. Assassinated. He’s on his pyre even as we speak.”

  Find Eochaid on a pyre, the words Concaire had used. They crashed into Volt’s mind with the other words the dream demon had said to him.

  Maga spoke but Volt didn’t hear her, only hearing his dream’s words. “When you arrive in the deep south all will be resolved.” He wasn’t aware that anything required resolution; neither at the time of his dream nor now, peering over Upthog’s shoulder at the barred gates. Dhuosnos’s demon also implied the Tuatha would have convinced him to come south on some mission of mercy, which had been true. He now knew they wanted him in the deep south because of some prophecy of the Fáithe, but not what it was.

  All will be resolved but what is all?

  It seemed he had progressed from being Kathvar’s tool to being a tool of the Tuatha. But why? Something told him he needed to know why before he reached the Bull’s Head because whatever it was would be fundamental to humankind’s continued existence.

  Upthog heaved a sharp elbow to Volt’s ribs, breaking into his thoughts. “What?”

  “Are you listening to me, Horse Warrior?” Maga asked.

  “Sorry, I was distracted.”

  “What did you discover about The Great Forest when hunting witches?”

  “It’s the domain of bandits and rebels. We only went in under the protection of several Fianna.”

  “How many is several?”

  “Five. One hundred and fifty mercenaries.”

  “Judging by the city’s state, I doubt there’s one Fianna available, never mind five. We must go directly south. Diverting to Balor’s Canyon would be far too slow. What are our chances of getting through the forest undetected?”

  “None.”

  “Do you see any choice, other than skirting the forest?”

  “No,” Volt said. And it was true; he couldn’t think of an alternative.

  “Where can we water the horses?” she demanded of the barred gate.

  “Wells were sunk on each tier. Ride around this tier, and you’ll find a well on the east side.”

  “Is the water clean?” Volt demanded.

  “It’s clean.”

  “Good. When Fachta returns, we ride south.”

  ***

  After finding a well and watering the horses, they rode out of the city and made camp beside the dyke to wait for Fachta. Volt was happy to wait because Maga insisting they rode through The Great Forest with so few made no sense to him. He could tell by her surliness that Upthog agreed with him. When Fachta and Gul returned, they would be ten, one of those a witch without power. The forest was home to thousands of rebels and outlaws. Volt had encountered them while hunting for witches. He couldn’t deny they were ill-armed, poorly led, and badly organised, but their sheer numbers made them formidable. They stayed away from Kathvar and Volt because one hundred and fifty mercenaries would make an attack costly.

  Not so ten, or so it would appear. Eight Tuatha would no doubt take a heavy toll on the untrained but how were they to know that?

  After making camp they settled down to wait. Maga didn’t think Fachta would be long, but they had no real idea how long it would take to track the boy and his demon. Volt sat beside Upthog, again tied to a stake by her ankle.

  “What do you know about Balor’s Fomorii taking the city?” he asked her, rubbing his newly scraped pate, which caused a satisfying rasp.

  “Ye need to answer a question from me, first.”

  Volt hesitated, watching her intently. He couldn’t think of anything he might tell her that would be of a danger to anyone, so he nodded.

  “What happened to Kathvar after I got Scamp away?”

  Volt began to tell her, starting with the gruesome murder at the granary. He could see no point in leaving anything out. As he spoke, Upthog watched him intently, occasionally asking for points of clarification.

  After he finished the tale, they sat in silence for several moments. Finally, he repeated his earlier question.

  “How much history do ye know?” Upthog asked.

  “Not much. It never struck me as a worthwhile pastime learning about old Kings.”

  “Really. Never heard of learning from past mistakes, no?” Volt shrugged. Upthog shook her head and sighed.

  “Do you know, or not?”

  “Aye, I know, Horse Warrior. Before the sundering, after Etercel’s death, there was only one Kingdom, éireann. Eterscel was the king with four chiefs, one for each of the provinces, North, South—”

  “That I can work out,” Volt interrupted, annoyed at her treating him like a child.

  “Don’t get yer triús bunched, Champ. Ye want the story or not?”

  “Sorry. I do.”

  “The chiefs’ relationships were always fractious, and it took Eterscel’s guile and leadership to hold it together. As soon as he died, war broke out between the provinces, and each chief declared himself King. Ochall, of West Kingdom, sent Balor’s forebear, Indech Mór, with a Fomorian host to besiege Gorias. Even then, they might have stopped Indech, except the other leaders refused to send aid.”

  “So, the Fomorii held the city for three hundred years?”

  “Aye. Give or take.”

  “How was it retaken?”

  “Eterscel’s descendant, Ruirech, united the clans of The Great Forest and drove Balor out.”

  “Oh.” It hadn’t occurred to Volt that the inhabitants of The Great Forest were anything but rogues and outlaws. That there were clans in the forest came as a shock. “Are there still clans there?”

  “Aye, Champ. Clans with good fighters, too. It’s what makes me nervous about riding through, no.”

  “Good fighters? They were like a rag tag crowd of raipleacháin to me.”

  “Aye. That’s an image they like to create.”

  Volt opened his mouth to ask her what else she knew about them when a shout from one of the guards alerted him to a pair of horsemen galloping south towards them. If he hadn’t known who it was likely to be, Volt thought he would recognise the wild cavorting of Fachta even at such a distance. He still acted like a child, however many millennia the Tuatha might have lived. It was not long before they were riding off the dyke and Fachta leapt from his saddle, even before his horse came to a standstill. Walking to the fire, the Tuatha held his hands out to warm despite the balminess of a spring morning.

  “Well, did you find him?” Maga asked, unable to contain her impatience.

  “Yes. The boy and his demon are travelling in the company of the New King’s Guard captain, Mac Da Tho, and his lieutenant, Mesroeda. They have it arse ways, though.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s the lieutenant who leads.”

  “What of the demon?”

  “I didn’t see it, but I listened to it mind talking with the dailtín. Oh, and with Mesroeda, too. Secretly. Seems the Guard is a witch and keen on delaying their arrival at the Bull’s Head.”

  “Why do you say that?” Maga asked.

  “He’s insisting the demon leads them to Balor’s Chasm, and the demon is doing as it’s told.”

  “What does that mean?” Volt asked.

  “There are two passes through the mountains—Balor’s Canyon, which leads to a chasm with a bridge and a fortress guarding it and a lesser-known pass, unnamed, but the demon would know of it. If Mesroeda insists they travel through the Canyon, he is slowing them down significantly. For what reason, I can’t guess.”

  “It’s not Mesroeda but the witch, Kathvar, and he intends to challenge Dhuosnos,” Upthog said.