An earsplitting boom and a wave of power rippled outward. The bodies at our feet crumbled into dust, and the dust was sucked away by the wave of power, leaving nothing but the men’s weapons behind. The silence that descended after was deafening.
I took a shaky breath and pulled the sword free. A tremor began, the ground beneath our feet quaking with increasing intensity until the glass of the few remaining windows shattered. A cold fog descended, obscuring our vision. Leif grasped my arm and pulled me close to his side.
The quaking continued, and we braced ourselves for something terrible to come. And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped. The fog ebbed, revealing a ghostly sight.
My father stood before me, two hundred men at his back. My heart sounded like the fluttering of birds’ wings in my ears. Gray-faced they stood before us. There was no scent of decay. They were devoid of any smell at all. They were completely outfitted in the same black armor as Leif and I, claymores strapped to their backs. The black of the leather was a strong contrast with the faded color of their skin. It was as though I viewed them from underwater. No details of their bodies aside from the armor they wore could be seen sharply. They were hazy, one foot in this realm, another in the next.
“áthair?” I asked, unsure if it was truly my father or merely something that resembled him.
“Princess Ciara, daughter of the Phantom Queen, we have heard your summons.” He made a fist with his hand and crossed it over his chest in a strange gesture of respect. The others immediately did the same. This, then, couldn’t be my father. But just as I doubted it, he said, “Though I never would have agreed to such a blasphemous ritual in life, after being shown the destruction that awaits éirinn without this army, you have my blessing.”
I bowed my head. “áthair, I’m glad for your blessing, because knowing I couldn’t defend you when your life was taken has nearly destroyed me.”
“It is not you from whom I crave vengeance.”
Before I could respond, a sound drew my attention to the back of the church. It was the sound of a hoof hitting the steps of an altar. A horse as black as pitch trumpeted an impatient whinny. “Sleipnir?” I said in a rush. “How?”
The warriors parted as my massive warhorse approached. His coat was as glossy as a raven’s feathers, with no hint of the trauma that had befallen him. But as he drew closer, I saw the difference: his eyes were no longer a horse’s warm brown, but rather the deep red of a wraith.
When he was close enough, he dipped his head, snuffling my hands. I threw my arms around his neck, tears slipping down my cheeks. He might have had eyes like the devil now, but he was still Sleipnir. I was not afraid of him.
“The king and your horse have retained their identities,” Leif said in the midst of my reunion, “but it would seem the rest of the warriors have not.”
I glanced up to find Leif was right. The warriors lined up in perfect rows, their arms still held over their chests, their faces emotionless.
My eyes scanned the warriors, searching for Fergus and Conall. I found them standing at attention, the same as the others. When I approached them, no flicker of recognition appeared on their faces; they remained eerily still. Not far from them was Séamus, and the bleak nothingness I saw reflected in his eyes was almost more painful than seeing his loathing.
“You’re right,” I said to Leif, deep regret weaving its way into my heart. It had been foolish to believe I could have everything. “They don’t know me.”
“They know you only as the one who ultimately commands them,” áthair said.
“But you remember who you are?” I asked him.
My father shook his head, and I could see he was only a shadow of himself. “The Morrigan came to me just as my soul left my body. She said as king, I would be given the chance to avenge not only my own death, but the deaths of all my clansmen. I remember only what I need to know to bring vengeance upon King Sigtrygg.”
I looked at my horse and wondered if he felt the same toward the j?tnar. Had he died swearing he wouldn’t rest until he had his revenge?
“You’ll have your revenge.” Leif turned to me. “I’ll find myself a horse, and then we should march on Dyflin. So much time has already passed that I have no doubt that Sigtrygg has begun the march here. If not, we can draw him out of Dyflin. With an undead army, I imagine you won’t have to rely on ambushes to defeat him—you can fight in open battle.”
He strode out of the church, and I was struck by how much having him here was a help to me. It allowed me to focus on what needed to be done. I turned to address the men, their commander now in death as I had never been in life. “Clansmen, to the gate.”
I took one last look at the devastation that’d once been the church, my jaw clenched tightly. With a hand upon Sleipnir’s neck, I walked down the steps. My macabre army followed silently behind, even their footsteps muffled.
Once outside, I grabbed a handful of Sleipnir’s mane and pulled myself astride. The men continued, marching five abreast in perfect unison. My father had fallen in with the rest of them, and with no crown or robe to differentiate himself from the others, he was difficult to recognize. I was glad; already the explosive sound of the summoning and the sight of the silent warriors had drawn a crowd.
“Princess Ciara,” the people whispered.
Faelan, noticing our return, hurried to my side. “Milady, who are these men?” He glanced back at the gates—the only entrance into the bailey—and back. “Where did they come from?”
“You needn’t know. All you need know is that we will exact revenge on King Sigtrygg and ensure the safety of this clan.”
Sleipnir pawed the dirt with his hoof as though eager to be on our way. I couldn’t help but agree. I wanted to be gone before anyone recognized these men. I couldn’t imagine my fellow clansmen’s reactions when they saw their fallen loved ones resurrected, or worse still, their king. With their gray skin and expressionless faces, the identities of the undead would be camouflaged—but not for long.
Sleipnir’s ears pricked forward as Leif exited the stable astride a beautiful dapple-gray stallion—my father’s warhorse. The horse was temperamental and difficult to ride with everyone but my father, but Leif handled him easily, the horse as calm as a kitten.
“You’ve chosen well,” I told him as our horses greeted each other nose to nose. “That is Abrax, my father’s charger.”
Leif gave him a pat on the neck. “I chose him because he was the only one in the stable who seemed eager to leave.”
I smiled. “He is almost as bad a warmonger as Sleipnir.”
“They’ll have their fill of it soon,” Leif said. “We should leave now. Are you ready?”
I glanced back at the keep longingly. “My sisters . . .”
Leif reached across the horses and touched my leg. “They’re safe, and you’ll ensure they’ll stay that way.”
I knew he was right; knew that every moment we remained brought Sigtrygg ever closer. “Warriors,” I shouted, “we march to Dubhlinn.”
Leif spurred Abrax on, and the undead men immediately began their silent march. Sleipnir danced in place, eager to move, but I couldn’t stop myself from turning back to stare at my father’s castle one last time.
“Ciara, wait!” a voice cried then from the right side of the bailey. Branna and Deirdre ran toward me, and I immediately threw myself from Sleipnir’s back.
I caught Deirdre in a firm embrace, the hairs of her fur-trimmed gown tickling my cheek. Branna wrapped her arms around my middle as tears pooled in her eyes. “Máthair said you’d been exiled! She said you attacked áthair and ran off with the Northmen, but we knew it couldn’t be true.”
“It is true, Bran,” I said, feeling as though I would be sick. “I can’t explain right now . . . but all of éirinn is in danger.”
“áthair . . . ,” Deirdre said, biting her lip as though holding back her own tears.