Day 18 of Midwinter, Midday

Mag Mór, Tir Tairngire

Annwn

We had begun the battle with nearly four thousand soldiers. By the time the Old Gods had withdrawn, just over fifteen hundred were left standing. Only half of my Fomorian Comhthíreach had survived, and many of those were horribly wounded. The fianna and fae forces had been nearly obliterated by the giants.

The plain had become a graveyard. Hundreds of soldiers lay unconscious in the mud, their armor cracked, their weapons scattered. I knew these were mostly those infected by the Bodach. Though they had been released for the moment, it was unclear when he would call them back into his service.

Nearly every survivor bore wounds. Those touched by either foe would eventually turn if they were not healed. I knew from Bren’s curse that the Mark of the Bodach could not be undone, and I knew what that meant.

Oirneth was the first, and the hardest. She lay propped on the body of a fellow Fomorian, her blade clutched in a bloody hand. I stood above her, breathing deep to firm my resolve.

“My king,” she said, her hand loosening on her blade. “Do what must be done. I am not afraid.” Her eyes held mine as I swung Orna to cleave her head from her body. The Bodach would not have her now.

I felt my heart crack a little further as I shouted my orders. My soldiers called out to me at each of the Marked they found. My sword flashed again and again, heads rolling as I ended their cursed existence, keeping them from awakening as monsters. I forbade my people from carrying out the grisly task of executioners, and they trailed behind me, gathering the bodies for burning. Soon, a black, foul-smelling smoke filled the air.

The changeling soldiers and even some of the Tuatha looked upon me with a mixture of pity and anger. I didn’t care. We had taken the front lines, saving the combined army from being swallowed whole by the undead. All now knew of Nuada’s plot to wipe out Bres and the Fomorians. They knew the debt they owed us. But debts are forgotten over time. For now, the Fomorians had a tenuous peace with the kingdom. While many of the changelings and Tuatha likely understood the necessity of what I was doing, I would take no chances with my people. Any ire on their part would fall on me and me alone.

At last, the final Marked fell beneath Orna. I wiped the blade and sheathed it, looking out over the battlefield. We had lost so much.

Two of the four treasures, the Cauldron and the Sword, had been dragged into the volcano. Bren and I still held the Stone and the Spear, but I felt the Spear humming with magical energy, as if the relic itself knew its brothers and sisters were gone and longed to join them.

Our losses had been catastrophic. I did not know how many of the Tuatha still lived, but I knew Fern and Monty had survived their battle with the hag near the new lough that had pushed in from the wells.

Bren was inconsolable at the loss of Fíadan. Nothing remained of the last of the King’s Guard but a brilliant white crystal that my brother hunched over. A colorful and clearly heartbroken Ellyllon sat at his side, her expression heavy with its own grief. Fern leaned into his other side, her arms wrapped tightly around him as he wept. Monty had coiled his scaled body loosely around the group as if to protect them from further attack.

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In the distance, Goibhniu, Lir, and Ogma placed Nuada’s body on the pyre they had constructed. Even as the flames consumed his body, the red brand remained on his forehead. They burned him unceremoniously, with no song or keening. There would be no Caoineag to lament his fall. It was an ignoble death for the man who defeated King Neit, and even his former subjects averted their eyes from the pyre, one of hundreds that dotted the plain. The air was thick with the stench of burning flesh and wet earth. Thankfully, the carrion birds had not yet come, though I knew it was inevitable.

I exhaled deeply, trying to release the tension that had knotted my spine for weeks. Had it been only two days since I had lost Tethra? The image of her falling into the Abyss stabbed at me, and I shook my head hard, as if I could force the memory away.

“Try as you might,” a familiar voice said, “you cannot shake away the ugly.”

Ruadan lowered himself onto the rock I sat on, mirroring my posture. His boyish face carried lines of exhaustion.

A weak chuckle escaped my lips. “I’m glad you aren’t dead,” I said, glancing sidelong at him.

“Third time was the charm, I suppose.” His mouth quirked upward, but his eyes were heavy. I wondered how many of his doubles had died, and how many more were still out there.

For a time, we sat in silence, the kind born not of comfort but of shared exhaustion. Around us, the battlefield was quiet outside of the murmurs of soldiers aiding the injured.

Ruadan broke the silence first. “Do you think it was worth it? Any of it?”

My jaw tightened. “We had no choice but to fight.”

“That’s not what I asked.” His words cut sharper than usual, and I searched my heart for an answer. Nothing came.

I watched, tired, as a Fomorian dragged another headless corpse to a pyre.

“Cai.” Ruadan’s voice was quiet as he watched. “Even if it was necessary, they will hate you for this.”

“They already do.”

“Maybe with time…”

“No,” I said, and meant it. “But they will live longer, and that is enough.”

Our brief exchange seemed to have steadied something inside me. Amid the ruin, I had felt an echo of the past, of the camaraderie I shared with Ruadan. Not everything had been lost.

At the edge of the field stood Brigid, her eyes fixed on us. She tilted her chin in the direction of Bren and the crystal he still held. I tilted the Spear in answer to her unspoken question. Sometimes words were unnecessary.

It was time to move again. I knew there were wounded who still needed care, and dead who still needed burning. I trusted that it would be done without me.

I rose to my feet, tightened my grip on my weapons, and moved to my brother where he sat next to the grounded Gorias coastal cutter. He lifted his head, his face pale and streaked with tears.

“Cai,” he said, his voice hoarse but steady. “We don’t stop here.” Behind the sorrow in his eyes, I saw a deep well of anger.

I put my hand on his shoulder and felt the low charge of electricity from his armor. He rose to his feet, his expression hard. The crystal glinted faintly in his hands.

“We won’t,” I told him, watching the hazy tendrils that ran between us. The threads of possible disharmony, thicker than ever, led off to the northwest. Together we turned toward the smoking mountain that loomed over us. Fern, Monty, and the bright Ellyllon hovered behind us.

We would follow the Old Gods into the mountain’s fire, and even into Uffern itself. Danu was not finished with her plan, whatever it might be. I knew, with a cold certainty, that neither realm would be safe while she remained among the dead.

A familiar pain stabbed through my torso, a reminder of how Danu had wounded me in Hy-Brasil. I closed my eyes, seeing the faces of fallen loved ones there. Every one of them had been a sacrifice to the god of death’s war, and I felt my fury rise again.

We had a score to settle, and we would see it through, no matter what it cost.