* * *

Keeley faced Cyrus. He wasn’t near enough for her to hit him with her hammer. And he was well surrounded by his soldiers.

“Your army is still losing, peasant Queen,” Cyrus laughed. “Even with your half-horse abominations.”

“If you’re so confident, Prince Cyrus, fight me.”

“I’m not my brother, foolish woman. You can’t goad me into a fight by challenging my manliness. Not when my army can simply wipe out yours and then . . . wipe you out. You see, I have nothing to prove. I have my god on my side. What do you have, heretic?”

A flash of bright light distracted Keeley from the conversation. And when she looked out over the valley, she saw that there was an army of war monks. But it wasn’t Ragna’s war monks. It was another order. And another. And then another. Plus several orders of war priest armies. And an army of battle witches. An army of temple virgins. A small unit of divine assassins easing out from the nearby trees.

Then it got strange. She heard the sound of a lot of chains and . . . snarling. For a moment she thought her wolves had come too, but it wasn’t her wolves. It was a large army of women on horseback. They were barely dressed considering it was wintertime. And covered in thick tattoos. Their horses were even more interesting, though, with bright red eyes . . . and fangs. Sitting beside their horses were something like dogs . . . maybe. Whatever they were, they were snarling and snapping and ready for a fight.

Keeley didn’t understand what was happening. She didn’t understand how or why all these sects had appeared here now.

Then she saw a gleeful Ragna hanging midway from a trebuchet with one hand, screaming toward Cyrus.

“Do you see, Prince Cyrus?” she called to him. “Your protection is gone! Destroyed by Queen Keeley! Now our gods have opened the doorways and unleashed their mightiest warriors to wreak their revenge. There is no escape for you now! Our gods will have your soul, foolish Prince! And they will have it for eternity!”

Slowly, Keeley faced a now sick-looking Cyrus.

“I guess I have what every god really needs,” Keeley said to the fallen prince. “Blacksmithing skills.”

Behind her, Keeley heard Ragna bellow out, “My fellow brothers and sisters, destroy Cyrus’s sycophants! Kill his followers! Leave none of them alive to ever speak his name! Or the name of his god! It is now that our gods call upon us to take our vengeance in the names of all those we have lost! Let none of our enemies live! Kill everyone!”

With that last call, the battle started, but Keeley didn’t bother to turn around.

She slapped the head of her hammer into her left hand. “Come on, Cyrus the Honored. Just you and me.”

“Kill her!” he ordered his men. “Kill her.”

Keeley sighed, not really in the mood to fight a whole bunch of men just to get to that one idiot she absolutely had to kill, but if she had to, she had to.

She raised her hammer but before she even had a chance to swing, something blew past her, and the soldiers charging her disintegrated into ash before they were even close enough to strike.

Stunned, Keeley looked over her shoulder, expecting to see one of the religious groups using their magicks, but they were all too busy destroying Cyrus’s other soldiers. Even Ragna wasn’t paying attention to Keeley at the moment.

Hearing screams, Keeley looked back and saw that Cyrus was being dragged off the field of battle.

Well . . . that wasn’t quite accurate. His soul was. His body was still there, on its knees, staring at her. His soul, however, was being dragged away by a god.

The god stopped, turned toward her. “Keeley Smythe.” He smiled at her. It was stunning. No one should be that beautiful. Or that giant. Especially with that many scars and open wounds. He must be a war god.

“I am Morthwyl. I and my brother war gods are grateful to you for your help.” He lifted Cyrus’s soul, shook it a bit. “Stop screaming! It won’t help you!” He chuckled.

“This one,” he said to Keeley, “and his god have been quite a problem. Killing our followers, without permission. That’s not acceptable. But now my brothers and sisters . . . we can have some fun. But we couldn’t have without your help. So thank you.”

“You’re welcome?”

“The body is yours to do with as you will. It’s still alive . . . so enjoy!”

He took a few more steps, then abruptly stopped, looked over his shoulder and down at her, adding, “By the way, nice work on your hammer. I mean before the dwarves got to it. Don’t get me wrong, they did a nice job too. We all know that’s their thing. And I can tell you from personal experience that Soiffart, their god, is a cocky fuck. But seriously, the work you did on it before they ever touched it . . . ? Nice. Just thought you’d want to know.”

With that, the god went on his way, yelling out, “Hey, boys! I’ve got something for us to play with!”

Then he was gone, disappearing from her sight.

Keeley didn’t know how long she stood there, staring blindly into nothing. Cyrus the Honored sobbed at her feet, screaming about his missing soul.

Long enough, it seemed, for Ragna to show up, demanding to know if Keeley was going to finish off Cyrus or not.

“What?” Keeley asked the war monk.

“Are you going to kill him or not? Or do you want me to do it?”

“I don’t care.” Keeley hugged her hammer tight against her chest.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“He said ‘nice work.’ About my hammer. He said it. He meant it.”

“Who meant it?” She looked down at the sobbing prince. “Cyrus?”

“No. The god.”

Ragna gave a small laugh. “You’re talking to gods now? Who compliment your hammers? We need to get you home, I think.”

“It really happened.”

“Sure it did.”

“He was beautiful. Giant.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Blond hair. Green eyes. Talked about his war god brothers.”

“Of course he did. And I’m sure he loved your work, Your Majesty.”

“He even mentioned the dwarves and called their god, Soiffart, a cocky fuck.”

Ragna’s eye began to twitch. “What . . . what did you say?”

“He said Soiffart was a cocky fuck, which I think I will not mention to the dwarves. I’m sure that would only insult them.”

Ragna gawked at Keeley a long moment before asking, “Wait . . . you . . . you . . . you spoke to Morthwyl? You really did speak to him?”

Keeley frowned. “Now you believe me. Two seconds ago you didn’t believe a word I said and thought I was insane.”

“I’ve read every text about Morthwyl since I joined the monastery, and there are tales of wars between Morthwyl and Soiffart because he called Soiffart a cocky fuck. But you couldn’t know that. Can you even read?”

“I can read. I learned.”

“And Morthwyl spoke to you? You?”

“Why do you say it like that for? I am a—”

“Queen?”

“No. Blacksmith.”

Keeley walked a few feet away and that’s when she screamed out, “And he said nice work!”

Needless to say, Keeley was not surprised to hear Cyrus’s head being cut off by a growling war monk a few seconds after that.

* * *

Donan put the baby in his crib and picked his toddler daughter off the floor.

“You lot!” he barked at his older boys. “Stop doing whatever you’re doing that your mother is going to yell at you about and get back to work outside.”

“I’m reading,” his eldest son complained.

Donan grabbed the book from his son’s hands and threw it across the room.

“Read later.”

“Fine!”

His son stormed out but he came right back in, his eyes wide.

“What now?” Donan demanded.

The boy just pointed. His eldest wasn’t thrown off easily. He couldn’t be with so many siblings and a big farm to help manage. He had dreams too. Of being a librarian, which seemed a sad dream to Donan, but if that’s what the boy wanted, he wouldn’t stand in his way, but still . . . The look on his face.

Donan walked outside and froze. Now his eyes went wide. His wife always said that his eldest looked just like him, so the pair probably looked like matching tapestries at the moment, wide-eyed and pale. Both of them shocked into confused silence.

“What’s going on out here?” he heard his wife ask. She pushed past her husband and son and gasped.

“Where did they come from?”

There were so many. All of them children. Undernourished and desperate. Frightened and alone.

His wife did what she always did when faced with the unexplainable. She took care of it.

“Tommy lad, get as many blankets as you can find and then go to Lady Sheela’s house and tell her we’ll be bringing some guests over. Tell her I won’t care about her complaints!”

She turned to their eldest. “Listen. I need you to take Bessie and ride to—”

“No,” Donan quickly cut in. “We can’t send him there.”

“We have no choice. We can’t handle this on our own. Look at them. It’s not about how many. It’s about what’s been done to them. She’s the only one who can handle this.”

His wife was right, of course. Not that he’d admit that out loud.

“Go, Son,” his wife said, pushing her son toward their stable. “Go straight to Garbhán Isle and demand to see Queen Annwyl herself. Tell her exactly what’s happened here.”

CHAPTER 28

When word of Cyrus’s death spread, all those needy religious sects were gone in a blink. Some simply walked out the gate. Others just vanished. Only those who’d belonged in the area in the first place were still behind the castle gates. It didn’t matter, though. They’d been unneeded. Unnecessary. And had only taken up space.