Prologue

Padraig Tuathil, Captain of the City Guard, stood before the door to the royal quarters. Iron-bound oak towered twelve feet overhead, flanked by torches with flames struggling in their sconces.

The Pyromancers never stood a chance. He wiped sweat from his brow as the image of the dying men burned through his mind. What hope is there now?

He sighed deeply. Usually, the thought of having to confront King Diarmuid terrified Padraig, but tonight he reckoned he’d rather take his chances with the king than face the undead horde scaling the castle walls.

Móráin Hall lay behind him, leading up to the royal quarters via stairs carpeted red. Once the central social hub of the inner keep, now it sheltered hundreds of frightened women and children from the violence outside. Mothers tried to hush their crying babies, while others prayed for the Gods to save them. The sounds of weeping and frail lament filled the air, but it did nothing to drown out the cries of battle from across the moat. Amongst the crowd, two young boys played dice beneath a portrait of St. Lorcan.

They’re faring far better than those in the Cathedral. The thought struck his heart and weakened his knees. Aideen… I should have stayed with you.

Padraig looked up at the two Simian sentinels who stood on either side of the studded oak door. They had not moved, not when he arrived, not as he stood before them in indecision.

“I… I need to see the king,” Padraig said.

One of the Simian guards looked down. He was a full head and shoulders taller than Padraig. Plated mail made up most of the guard’s mass: slab upon slab of blue-tinted steel. Beneath a spherical half helm, a stern face of black fur glared down. The guard’s heavy lower lip was quivering.

Gods above and below. Even the Simians are frightened.

“There’s nothing wrong with being afraid,” said Padraig, trying to sound braver than he was.

“We are not here tonight to be afraid,” replied the Simian, his voice booming, yet clear and articulated. “We will guard the people of Cruachan with our lives, and we will fight back this enemy to our last breath. All this, we will do without fear.”

Padraig swallowed a smile. This one isn’t half as good a liar as Farris was. The damn turncloak had that much to be proud of.

The cries of battle outside amplified as the door swung open. The king had every window of his chambers spread wide. Amidst the odour of smoke and burning bodies from the city, the stench of alcohol hit Padraig like a wine-soaked blanket.

Thainol. Another gift from Farris?

Across the room, King Diarmuid Móráin, Third of His Name, Nineteenth Incarnate, lay slouched and drunk against a windowsill.

“The North Wall is on fire,” he whispered, as if to himself.

“Yes, sire,” said Padraig, not sure what else to say. The North Wall wasn’t the only thing on fire; the city’s entire commercial district was ablaze. “I had my Pyromancers stationed upon the wall when the horde first approached but….”

He struggled to find the words. Witnessing it firsthand had been bad enough, but recounting the atrocity made it seem even more real.

“Their own flames were turned against them,” Padraig continued. “And after they died, a foul power raised their charred bodies to turn on their own brothers-in-arms.”

Diarmuid shook his head. “Truly a power greater than the Gods. And why did you leave the battle?”

Padraig fell to one knee. “The city is almost lost, Your Grace. I have come to escort you from the castle as we make our final stand. We raised the drawbridge, but the undead are crossing the moat. Arrows do not slow them. Spears and swords do not slay them. I fear it is only a matter of time before they are inside the keep.”

King Diarmuid’s eyes remained closed. “Do not fear, Padraig. I have already accepted my own fate. You must do so too.”

Padraig was well used to slurred insults and verbal attacks from the drunkard that ruled the kingdom, but this was far more unsettling. He slowly stood.

“The women and children have gathered in Móráin Hall, Your Grace. They pray and sing for our victory. I don’t plan on dying tonight, but if I must, I will be on my feet. None of my men fled when the horde approached, and none begged for mercy when we were overwhelmed. They died bravely because they fought for your honour—for the honour of the kingdom.”

The king remained silent.

“They came in riding on horses and bears,” Padraig continued, gesturing to the window. “On mountain lions and beadhbhs from the Glenn: wild animals, untameable in life. Their army grows larger as our men die. They marched on the Academy of Dromán and took a thousand battlemages into their ranks. If they take this city, they will truly be unstoppable. Although we don’t know where this enemy came from, all we can do now is fight.”

Deep in concentration, the king still did not respond. Padraig studied his face, looking for any hint that the king had not yet given up, but only frightened eyes stared back. The king’s golden locks hung loosely on either side of his face; beads of sweat ran down his brow.

“Power,” he said. “Power forged by mortals, buried deep in knowledge they are forbidden to understand.”

He took a seat by the table and poured himself a drink.

“Your Grace?” said Padraig, moving towards the king. Such a strange thing to say…. Was that some sort of poem? A lyric from a song? Most of what the king had said tonight didn’t sound like his own words. Padraig sat down beside him.

“Do… do you know who brought this upon us?”

“I once believed I did.” The king drank deeply, staring blankly out to the west through another window by the mantel. “I cannot see the cathedral from here, Padraig. What of the smallfolk?”

“They were gathered there once the horns sounded,” said Padraig, trying his best to cast away the mental image that descended upon him. “But we were not able to protect them from the horde. I put my best men there, but….”

I should have protected her myself.

“… but they have joined those storming the moat.”

The king bowed his head. “You were not the only one with family there, Padraig. Many more will be forced to fight their loved ones tonight.” He poured himself a glass of thainol. “Here, drink with me.”

The clear liquid acquired a fiery glow as it filled the glass, reflecting the inferno outside. Diarmuid handed the drink to Padraig, holding it between two extravagantly ringed fingers and a chubby thumb. The captain knew better than to refuse anything offered by the king, especially alcohol.

One drink for courage, and I’ll join my brothers at the gate.

“Long live the Triad,” said Diarmuid, raising a glass.

“And blessed be the Trinity,” whispered Padraig.

King Diarmuid didn’t flinch as the alcohol trickled down his freshly shaved chin. He lowered the glass and looked expectantly at Padraig with those brilliant blue eyes said to have been inherited from Lord Seletoth Himself.

Padraig forgot his manners, and promptly drained his own glass. The inside of his throat shrieked as the thainol passed, bringing water to his eyes and searing his chest. Once the burning subsided, his body fitfully exhaled the pungent fumes, forcing a second taste upon him.

And to think the Simians prefer this over our fine wines. He immediately felt quite drunk. At least it works.

“Ha!” laughed the king, leaving Padraig unsettled by the sudden change in mood. “Farris swears it’s distilled from potatoes and grains, but all this time I’m sure he’s been bottling his own piss!”

Diarmuid picked up the bottle. “He gave me this one a year ago, right before he left. He said it’s from one of Penance’s finest reserves, worth a small fortune, apparently. I was going to keep it for a special occasion, but it seems the fall of my realm will occur long before any royal wedding.”

The king chuckled softly as he took another drink.

He’s back to his old self, at least. Padraig dried his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Has there been any word of Farris since he left?”

It seemed like the right question to ask, although the city would likely fall within the hour.