A thin line of red trickled from Taigdh’s neck as the steel touched his skin. His eyes rolled back in pain, but she pressed further.

“Like ants to children, you are to me.”

Taigdh’s knees buckled, and he collapsed to the ground, twitching. Morrígan pushed on the blade until the tip emerged from the back of his neck.

“I do these things,” she whispered, “because I can.”

She pulled the dagger free and set it flying at a woman trying to escape across the road. She never had a good throwing arm, but guided by the Geomancy of twelve dead mages, it quickly found its way deep between the woman’s shoulder blades.

All those who died had risen again to serve her, growing to far greater numbers than before. Looking around, she saw the body of a lad lying close to the burning butcher’s shop. She strode over and reached for his shoulder, rolling him over to face her.

Darragh’s bloodied face stared back, the whites of his eyes all that she could see under his mop of bloodied red hair. Staring up at Morrígan, he raised his hand slowly.

“Maybe I should have told you instead,” she said. The boy reached for something dangling from her neck. “You wouldn’t have told anyone. You would have been too scared.”

Darragh coughed, sputtering blood across her cloak. In his eyes, she saw a final flash of defiance as he pulled her necklace, snapping his mother’s pendant from the silver chain. He held it tightly to his own chest and went still.

Morrígan stood to admire the butchery. The wights under her command now stood in attention again.

What next? The fire crackled and swayed lazily in the wind.

She touched upon the power flowing through her body.

This is from just one battalion, but there are more, stationed in every settlement across the Clifflands…. She smiled as she tried to imagine becoming even stronger.

Why stop there? She crouched down beside Darragh’s corpse. There are garrisons all over Alabach, in each of the Seachtú. Then there’s the Academy in Dromán, where there’ll be a thousand mages in training….

She knelt and pulled the pendant from Darragh’s fingers. Morrígan rubbed her thumb across the three rings.

And in the capital city of Cruachan, King Diarmuid Móráin, a living God, sits upon the Throne of Man.

She gazed to the south. She knew Cruachan was down near the Sea of Storms, but she had no idea how far away that was.

In a flash, the sun broke over the Glenn, casting morning light over the burning village. She looked up and smiled.

“It’s my birthday,” she whispered. “This was supposed to be the day I become a mage.”

She turned back towards her army of corpses. In the sunlight, she saw every detail of the twisted, broken skeletons and bodies that stood to her attention. The dead villagers still clutched their improvised tool and weapons. Women and children, soldiers and mages, all waiting for her next command.

We’ll build our numbers. We’ll take the Seven Seachtú. We’ll claim the power of the Academy. Then we’ll march on the capital, and I’ll take the king’s power for myself.

Morrígan smiled. They called my father Yarlaith the Black, but soon I shall be known as Morrígan the Godslayer.

Chapter 15:

Morning

Sleep didn’t come easily to Farris that night. Every bone in his body was weary, every muscle fatigued beyond measure, but he would not let them rest. Not now. Not here. Not out on the Scalp of the Glenn, where anything that walked was a predator, and anything still awake was hungry.

But aside from the pain, Farris’s thoughts lingered on Sláine’s words. Whether he liked it or not, fate was guiding him. To freedom? To death? Only the Lady Meadhbh knew. Whatever was in store for Farris, he was heading for it, whether he liked it or not.

No, thought Farris, turning where he lay. I will not let destiny enslave me. I won’t go down without a fight.

Sláine and Sir Bearach returned to the camp, marking the end of their shift. Farris watched with a half-opened eye as Sláine crouched down next to the other sleeping Simian and gently informed him that it was his turn to take watch. From the way he woke, Farris supposed the Simian was having trouble sleeping too.

How much longer must we wait? He rolled over to face the eastern horizon, with dark mountains glowing in the full moon’s light.

His eyelids grew heavy, but he fought back against their weight. He sat up and shook himself of his exhaustion. Across the camp, the trees shuffled softly as they swayed in the wind, surrounding the Scalp like a great wall of wood. In the shadows of their trunks, dark shapes shifted through the clearing.

There was no noise. No screeches or cries for mercy like before. All Farris saw were the two black figures converging where the red Simian stood guard.

“Run!” Farris yelled, squinting through the darkness. It was fortunate that the moon was out; otherwise they would have truly been lost. The silver outline of two beadhbhs feasted on their kill, their plumed tails pointing upwards, swaying like black wraiths in the night. More came charging through the trees, shrieking with that familiar, vicious cacophony.

Sir Bearach rose quickly, already fully armoured.

“This way!” he bellowed as the others scrambled awake. The knight held his great claymore tight in two gauntleted fists and dashed past Farris into the trees. Without thought, Farris followed, away from the reach of the moon and into the dark of the undergrowth.

The forest was denser than before, but Farris welcomed the branches and thorns that swept past his face. Can the beasts navigate through here? Without a thought for who else had made it from the Scalp, he kept running, ignoring the lingering pain building in his knee. No words were spoken; only the rustling of trees and the cracking of twigs whispered as they pushed further into the forest.

The forest around them grew thinner. The mountains of the Glenn stood above, like stone giants watching over the night. The path curved towards the river; the ground slowly rose upwards below Farris’s feet. As the last trees fell away, he skidded to a halt. Before him, a huge wall of rock and stone stood in the way, towering twenty feet overhead.

“We need to climb!” roared Sir Bearach. The others appeared from the woods, too, but Farris didn’t stop to count how many had made it. Each threw themselves against the wall, searching for a foothold. Farris took a spot right under where Bearach had started climbing. He couldn’t help but admire how the knight scaled the rocks so swiftly, despite the weight and restrictions of his armour. Sir Bearach still carried the beadhbh feathers in his cloak, fastened around his neck to keep his arms free.

The things we do for gold. Farris pulled himself off the ground, fingers pressed against the cold rock. He heard quick, soft footsteps below as he reached upwards for another grappling point.

“Chester!” cried Sláine from above. “Hurry!”

He didn’t need to be told, for a quick glance was enough to inform him that the beadhbhs were right below, clawing and biting at the corpse of one of the crewmen. Two beadhbhs stood with their beaks covered in blood while three more hopped in circles, flapping their useless wings in a feeble attempt to gain height.

When Farris reached the top, only four others had made it: Sláine, Fionn, Sir Bearach, and the bearded mechanic dressed in blue.

What a strange company we make. The bards should surely write a song about this adventure! He rolled onto his back to catch his breath.

After a moment’s peace, the beadhbhs still shrieking below, Sir Bearach stood to speak.

“We can’t linger here any longer. They can’t reach us, but as long as they keep up that racket, more will join them.” He pointed into the darkness, northwards towards the other side of the valley. “We’ll keep the river over our right shoulder and make our way west. I don’t care if we have to fall, roll, or plummet down the other side of the mountain, we’ll be safer than we are now.”

There was certainly no arguing with that, and the others pulled themselves to their feet. Sláine the White gasped when she saw Sir Bearach fixing his improvised sack onto his shoulder.

“You’re still carrying that?”

She marched over and pulled the cloak from his back, spilling the beadhbh feathers onto the ground.

“You fool!” she said, jabbing a finger into the knight’s armoured chest. “You’ve brought them upon us! The beasts have come all this way, hunting us, stalking us, all because they were following the scent of the cursed feathers you stole from them!”

At this, the others chimed in with their own words of contempt, but Sir Bearach barely flinched. Farris smiled.