Inside Sin, the Sons of Seletoth were boarding Tradewind, Golden Heart, and The Kingsmill. Many of them wore Simian firearms slung over their shoulders—seemingly harmless tubes of steel and wood to those who had never witnessed their power. They were joined by the Churchguard, their scarlet robes and immaculate armour a stark contrast to the Sons. True to his word, Arch-Canon Cathbad had ensured their numbers rivalled those of the Triad’s Army, who were boarding the The Javelin, Red Sentinel, Horizon, Cumulous and The Majestic. Many of these were trade vessels, emissary ships, and scouting crafts that once were fitted with their own specific instruments and equipment, now stripped bare to serve the same purpose: to bring this newly assembled army south. To aid them, another ship, Ambassador, was being loaded with crates and barrels of provisions to feed this army, along with timber and tools for building fortifications around the Dromán outpost. Only three ships remained docked and untouched, the gargantuan ships Sinfall, The Dreadnought and Thunder, just as Cathbad had demanded.

The gathering was truly a wonderous sight: Humans marching with Simians, great knights clad in the finest of armour alongside men armed only with their faith.

Fionn reckoned it would have been worthy of a bard’s song if not for the terrible hangover pounding through his skull.

How much did I even drink last night? he thought, struggling to keep balance as he walked up the gangway of The Majestic.

He could have sworn it was no more than three glasses, but it felt like he had drunken as many flagons instead.

It was three for sure, said Sir Bearach. I was keeping count. Ruairí drank the same, so he must be in a similar shape too.

Fionn rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t slept much the previous night; most of it was spent contorted over a chamber pot, purging the contents of both his stomach and bowels.

How old was that wine bottle?

Why does it matter? said Sir Bearach. I thought it was supposed to get better as it aged!

Fortunately, Fionn had woken up just in time for the ships to depart, but he felt as if he was ready to sleep for a full night. Whatever alcohol that had been present in his body was gone now, leaving only a gasping, systemic dehydration in its wake.

He walked alongside other foot-soldiers of the Triad into the open maw of the ship. Many were Simians; citizens of Penance who had taken up arms for the Triad before, but others were Humans who had fled to Penance when the horde came, serving for the city’s army in exchange for the refuge it had granted them.

Among those Fionn boarded with, many threw glances at his red cloak, and the adornments that marked him as Firemaster. As he passed a young soldier, Fionn heard his named whispered, as if in reverence.

I’m not worthy of this, he thought, flexing the fingers on his severed hand. When I came face to face with the Godslayer, she maimed me.

“Fionn!” cried another voice. “Firemaster Fionn!”

Fionn turned around to find the source of the familiar voice. A man carrying a simple spear over one shoulder came running through the crowd.

“Ah, Cormac of Roseán,” said Fionn, nodding as the man approached. “It is good to see you well.”

Fionn wished he could say the same for himself; somehow speaking out loud had caused the beating in his skull to return. He quickly took a drink from his waterskin. The water on his parched lips tasted like it had been sweetened. He had to stop himself abruptly to ensure he didn’t consume all he had brought with him.

“And you,” said Cormac, patting Fionn on the shoulder as if they were old friends.

I suppose we have been through a lot together, said Fionn. He hadn’t made any real friends since he had arrived in Penance. Just allies who he had narrowly avoided death with multiple times.

The two boarded together. The landing dock of The Majestic was far less majestic than that of The Glory of Penance: the ship Fionn and Bearach had taken from Cruachan, seemingly an eternity ago now.

This ship’s interior was far narrower, with two stretching corridors towards the ship’s bow and stern. Unlike The Glory, the ceiling was made of thick steel, held up with heavy, wooden beams. Fionn reckoned this was to separate the large ballonets filled with explosive gas overhead from the rest of the ship. This was confirmed by the many signs Fionn walked past warning the passengers aboard to avoid open flames and sparks on their journey.

Perhaps that is why they were staring at me, thought Fionn.

Following the crowd, Fionn came into a large room at the back of the ship. This was extravagantly designed, with a red velvet carpet and thick, gold embroidered curtains open to reveal large windows with filigree adornments around their frame.

The room was void of furniture, however. This was seemingly once a luxury suite to allow the nobility of Penance to travel with absolute comfort. But all comforts had been removed to allow some two hundred soldiers of the Triad to sit on the floor with their arms and armour for the duration of the journey.

“It is good to see you still fighting,” said Fionn, as he took a seat on the floor beside Cormac. “Despite the horrors we witnessed at the Goldgate.”

“It is in spite of them that I’m here,” said Cormac. “But it’s a shame the same can’t be said for many others who were by my side that night.”

“We lost too many good people to the horde,” said Fionn. “Hopefully we can end it all in Dromán.”

A group of men carrying spears walked past, one laughing a loud, shrill laugh at an unheard joke.

“It isn’t just those that died who aren’t with us,” said Cormac, more quietly now. He leaned in towards Fionn. “Many were… recruited. By the Sons of Seletoth.”

“The Sons?” said Fionn, looking around. “But aren’t they here too?”

“Not all of them. With the king dead, and the Móráin line at an end, there’s little reason to continue worshiping the Trinity. That fellow who was always with the Silverback came to talk to our battalion after the fighting was done. Most of them disavowed the Church and its teachings, in favour of those of the Sons.”

Ruairí, said Sir Bearach.

“But not you?” said Fionn.

“I wasn’t there, sure. I was down in the tunnels with you and the others, meeting the Lady Meadhbh Herself. When I came back, those in the battalion told me of their newfound faith. But of course, I couldn’t renounce the existence of the Trinity.”

“Because they don’t believe in the Lady,” said Fionn, nodding.

That’s why he wanted to meet you, lad, said Sir Bearach. It wasn’t to learn about the Lady, but to recruit you.

Of course, thought Fionn. And he saw the folly in his attempt once I told him that the She really does exist.

“Many of those he spoke to,” continued Cormac, “left the Triad’s army, opting to stay in Penance while the rest of us marched out.”

“So, they’re planning something?” said Fionn. “What could be more important that stopping the Godslayer?”

Cormac’s gaze fell to the ground, he shook his head slightly.

“I’m sorry,” said Fionn. “She’s still your daughter after all.”

“My daughter is dead,” said Cormac. He folded his arms. “And we’re going to kill the monster that has taken her place.”

As the others settled into place, the room’s well-kept floor was barely visible beneath all the bodies that sat on it. With a low whirr, the engines of the ship started, and among a chorus of excited voices, it slowly began to rise from the ground.

Others whooped and cheered as the ship took flight, but Fionn’s stomach immediately began to stir again.

I thought we got the last of it out, said Sir Bearach.

Nausea took hold of Fionn with an overwhelming force that pushed out every other thought and feeling from his mind. He stumbled to his feet, blinking his eyes with watering lids.

“Fionn, are you okay?” said Cormac. “You’ve gone terribly pale.”

Fionn dared not respond. He rushed out into the hall, hoping to find some suitable place to throw up. After a few steps up the corridor towards the direction of the bridge, Fionn’s stomach gave way, hurling its meagre contents to the ground with a scattered splash. Between gasping breaths he threw up again, this time expelling nothing. The dry wretch came out of him with so little voluntary input, it was as if Fionn no longer had control of his body. With another heave, the muscles on his neck tensed up, and an unbearable pressure pushed against the back of his eyeballs, bringing flashing stars into his vision.

Afterwards, Fionn slumped onto the floor, gasping for air. His stomach felt somewhat settled now, but the nausea was still there.

Are you sure it was just three glasses, Bearach?