Balor’s throne room was not the sweetest-smelling place. Sitting on his black onyx throne, staring at the monstrous demon standing at the base of the dais, he knew he shouldn’t expect the scent of roses when his dominion was the land of the Undead—the land of the grey skins. Indeed, Balor didn’t expect much of anything. He hoped for revenge and waited for it to be not just cold but ice-like in the serving—a millennium of waiting. Ever since Etercel’s descendent, Ruirech of the Great Forest, united the clans and forced Balor and his Fomorii underground in what became known as Balor’s Canyon, into the labyrinthine tunnels and holes with rivers of fire and untold power seeping from the clay of the tunnels’ beds. The tunnels they’d been trying to escape ever since.

  Not quite true.

  “Dhuosnos proposes a truce.”

  Why can’t they talk like everyone else? The demon messenger pressed words into his head, causing it to throb. How he hated to be pressured.

  The beast can wait. I’ve things to consider.

  No. At first, the Fomorii waited for a chance to escape, and Balor sent out warriors to probe the rebel defences. However, Ruirech’s Horse Warriors were ever vigilant, and the ensuing skirmishes were always narrowly lost. Eventually, their waiting morphed into a belief that their time would never come, and with that, the apathy set in. It was an apathy that had feasted on the heart of his Fomorii for nearly a thousand summers.

  Has our time finally come? After so long?

  Thinking about what the demon represented, Balor was unsure. It would take a lot for him to trust again—for his people to trust again. He was not sure they ever could.

  Being mercilessly driven into the caves often made him wonder if the brat, Ruirech, knew what lay in the tunnels. Had the rebel known a fate worse than being beaten in battle was hiding under the sulphurous stench? Untold power, but not only untold, also unwelcome. A power that created the horror of dying but not dying. They’d not been undead when they entered the caves. However, they didn’t age and transitioned from alive to undead, one by one. Something in the draíocht of the labyrinth kept them animated and—if not exactly fresh—not rotting away to dust either.

  Worse, it was only with time that they realised what had happened. Had it not been for their lost appetite and thirst for life, they wouldn’t have started to ask about their seemingly perpetual existence, which was being alive but not living. Of course, those offering immortality never offered perpetual youth as a side dish. Eventually, their skin began to grey, and their lives became dry. Even love lost its appeal: emotional love because anger would not allow it; physical love because undead skin, grey and dry, would not permit it either. The Undead Horde then started dreaming of revenge—at least until the Tuatha-forsaken apathy set in. Now, Balor hoped there was a way forward that was more than a dream—a messenger from Dhuosnos promising their salvation and the fulfilment of earlier dreams.

  But if I do not trust Dhuosnos, what then are my options?

  He stared at the demon, which stared back with black, fathomless eyes as dead as Balor’s were undead. The haft of a massive battle axe rested on its shoulder, and it was girt for war. Being undead, the Fomorii were difficult to destroy, but splitting them from crown to crotch or legs from torso would do it. He had no idea how many undead the monster would return to dust before they destroyed it, but he knew it would be costly. Hundreds might cease to be, including Balor, who was only a long stride away from the enormous, black-headed axe. The orange light dancing on the silvery edges of the weapon’s head, made him wonder what it would feel like to be split in two.

  Would it be so bad after all these summers? If I reach for my ancient blade, it will destroy me. I could rest but would forfeit my people’s greatest desire. Revenge.

  Finding that he was fidgeting with his crown, Balor put his hands on the wolf pup on his lap to keep them occupied. He always kept a pup because it gave him a way to touch life. Adult wolves could not abide him or his people. The pups seemed uncaring, as though they were untouched by the prejudices of adulthood.

  “Did you hear me, King?”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  “I could hardly not hear you, demon, as you are speaking in my head. I am pondering what you’ve told me.”

  “Do not ponder for too long, Balor. My master has other avenues to explore.”

  “You came to me, axe on your shoulder, girt in iron as though prepared to force our allegiance. But let me tell you, even with that weapon, you would fall in the end, and my people would fight on until that eventuality. A promise you should remember when you threaten me, Demon.”

  “I offered no threat, merely stated a fact. My master has other places he can go to.”

  “Your axe is a threat.”

  Your very presence in my domain is a threat.

  “My axe is for my protection, King of the Undead. I will not use it unless provoked.”

  Balor studied the beast for signs of subterfuge. It was hopeless. He might as well examine the rocks of his domain in search of the history of the Kingdoms.

  “You say Dhuosnos is proposing a truce. So, what are you telling me? Precisely, I mean. What form would this truce take?”

  “Humans are weak. There is famine and war. Their armies are spread thin, and there is no one to occupy the walls of their lofty forts.”

  “Why do we need you if the clans are weak?”

  “The humans are weak, not so the Tuatha. If you were to channel draíocht to Dhuosnos and we attacked together, even Danu’s people could not withstand us. Both our goals would be fulfilled.”

  Both our goals? Does Dhuosnos not do the Tuatha’s bidding like a hound chasing a stick?

  “Our goals, Demon? What exactly would your Lord of Darkness achieve?”

  “Dhuosnos has long dreamt of an age of darkness. He abhors being released and then herded back into Tech Duinn like so much cattle. Together, we would be strong enough to defeat Whitehead and Neit’s Maidens here in Middle Kingdom, and then we could bring war to the humans. All of the humans.”

  Together, we would rule the Kingdoms in eternal darkness.

  Balor inclined his head and smiled at the demon to hide his rancour. He was not as much of a gaimbín as the monster seemed to think, having heard similar tales before. Rulers—kings and chieftains—were the same wherever they came from or practised. It was never so simple as together we would. One of them always climbed to the top and claimed the tower’s peak, usually on the backs of those promised equality. Otherwise, what use was there of having a tower?

  The biggest threat to them was the Tuatha army led by Bairrfind—commonly known as Whitehead. Balor had spoken to the leader of Neit’s Maidens while he was still king in Gorias. After so long, he didn’t remember much about her except she was a formidable looking warrior, standing a head taller than him.

  “Where is Whitehead now?”

  “The Tuatha is in her fastness, Sliabh Culinn, on the eastern edge of the Great Forest. It is vast and strong—too strong for either of us alone, but we could take it together. United.”

  Does this demon think me a fool? I have been in Sliabh Culinn. However, Neit’s Maidens hidden away on the far side of the forest is good news.

  “What is it that your lord wants from us exactly?”

  “Access to your power. With your draíocht, Dhuosnos could release a scourge. An army of demons and your Undead Horde would wreak havoc.”

  So, not much. Just the Heart of the Mountain.

  “Why does the Lord of Darkness not use his own power?”

  “The humans destroyed his coven. His power is spent. For now, at least.”

  Balor watched the demon while he considered Dhuosnos’s offer—or at least pretended to consider it. He didn’t believe the message. The demon’s horned head and dead eyes showed no emotion; it gave no clue what it thought, but that told him nought. The monster would never show emotion. It was quite possible that feeling didn’t exist in its world. It stood completely still while waiting for Balor to speak as though frozen in time, the glow of torches reflecting from the edges of its menacing axe.

  There are no nuances here.

  Bábdíbir served its master and nothing more—nothing at least that Balor might understand. There was no doubt in Balor’s mind that the Lord of Darkness would use the Fomorii and then discard them, as King Ochall had before; may he rot in the pit.

  Unlike Ochall, he didn’t blame Dhuosnos.

  If the roles were reversed, that is what Balor would do. Not believing the promises didn’t change his predicament. However, despite his earlier defiance, he would be better off not to antagonise the monster standing at the base of his dais. It might be emotionless, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t attack, and swings of that axe would be deadly, regardless of any emotion behind them.

  And Balor would be the first to die.

  His reality was that he needed to at least pretend to think about Dhuosnos’s proposal. He’d no doubt—none at all—that if he refused, the demon would begin swinging and would not stop until his warriors managed to down it. Abartach was a huge warrior by the standards of Balor’s army, but compared to the demon, he was a child’s size.

  “Tell your master I will consider his proposal. Return after five nights, and I will give you my answer.”

  And I hope five nights will be enough.