1 PROLOGUE

AROUND 500 BC

_________________________________________

They think I am the god of death. They beg you for deliverance.

_________________________________________

'There is none to be had here,' the tattooed man said. 'Get out of my head!'

'As you wish,' the giant replied in the True Tongue. Twilight had settled over the fire-blasted glade. The tattooed man stood beneath the skeletal remains of an oak tree at the edge of the ruined clearing. Behind the tattooed man, lush woodland stretched rich and verdant to the banks of a wide river. At his feet, thick black ash smouldered gently while veins of red charcoal slowly settled, occasionally venting wisps of smoke into air already thick with heat and ash.

At the giant's feet knelt a man and a woman. Shock glazed their eyes and slackened their faces. Their legs had blistered and burned down to raw, blackened sticks. The stink of charred flesh came off them in waves. The man's mouth twitched madly. The woman stared at the tattooed man with empty eyes. She called out. Her voice was weak and choked with pain and anguish.

The sound was bestial and ugly to the tattooed man. He did not understand the language of humans, nor did he care to. The kneeling man, old and weathered, echoed the woman, and the tattooed man shut them out.

The giant standing above them smiled. 'You are not going to save them?' he asked.

'I care nothing for them or their kind.'

The giant smiled again. At eight feet tall, he was a spindly ogre. Despite his height, he appeared almost human: white skinned with lank black hair that fell to his shoulders and framed his narrow face. The tips of vaguely pointed ears eased out from his tangled mane, and weird eyes – hard crys‐ tal, ringed with black sclera – glittered above his nose.

His long fingers gently caressed the heads of the man and the woman kneeling at his feet. 'There could be a Ring here – can you feel it? The potential?' asked the giant.

'It would not do you any good.'

'Really?' The giant gripped the hair of his captives and pulled their faces up so he could look down into them. 'They are a fey race, these Brigantes, though there are not many of them. I have had to slaughter their entire village to gain enough power to escape you and your bitch mistress.'

'There is nowhere you can run, Cú Roí,' the tattooed man growled back.

Cú Roí did not appear to hear him. 'This one here,' he said, jerking the head of the man, 'was their leader. He has a strange gift – he can see the future. The tales he has spun to me … quite extraordinary. And this one,' he said, pulling at the female, 'is a healer. Sores, colds, breaks, sprains … she lays her hands upon them and they fade away. Yes, a powerful race these Brigantes. With their sacrifice, I shall have enough magic to leave you behind.'

'My life is tied to yours, Cú Roí. While you live, I live. Where you go, I go.'

'Yes, that has been difficult these last few centuries. You are quite the zealot.' He smiled without humour and the tattooed man saw rows of sharp, tiny teeth nestled in his gums. 'It was this one who finally solved the problem for me.' He dragged the man's head higher. 'Where can I go that you cannot follow? The answer is quite simple, once you think about it. The magic of your mistress is powerful, but what happens to you when I cease to exist?'

'Then my purpose is complete, and I will die.'

'Exactly,' hissed the giant. Silence filled the clearing. Mercifully, the man and the woman had fainted. Their legs were unrecognisable; flesh and sinew were burned away by the red-hot ash. Only Cú Roí's grip on their hair prevented them from falling flat onto the searing ground.

'Enough of this,' said the tattooed man. Raising a huge hand above his right shoulder, he gripped the sigil-branded leather hilt of the sword that was slung across his back. He pulled it free in one smooth motion. The sword was called Camulus, and it had been crafted by the Maiden of Earth and Water, blessed by her and engraved with runes, which shim‐ mered and skipped like rainbows in a tempest. It was a blade of power. It had been designed to destroy the towering laconic man at the centre of the devastation.

'It is time to die,' the tattooed man said.

'That is a pretty toy you have there, zealot, but what exactly do you expect steel to do to me?'

'Silver, monster. This is silver, blessed by both Courts, and etched with the words of your death.'

'Ah, you have been paying attention. Fortunately, so have I.' The disconcerting smile got broader.

The tattooed man stiffened. The skin between his shoul‐ ders itched and his hackles rose.

Something was watching him. Gripping the hilt of Camulus tighter, the tattooed man inhaled deeply. There it was. Beneath the stench of seared meat, burned wood, and acrid smoke he could smell putrescence and blood. The tattooed man spun around to face the forest. He scanned the tree line but could see nothing. They were there though, and he cursed himself for being led into an ambush so easily.

The voice of Cú Roí drifted to him from over his shoul‐ der. 'You are familiar with my Barghest?'

Branches swayed as two huge forms moved silently from the forest. Their squirming bodies shuddered with anticipa‐ tion. Behind them came a slim man, his pale skin slick beneath the uncured furs that he was wrapped in. His head was too big for his body, and his eyes bulged out uncomfort‐ ably. He stared blankly at the tattooed man, never blinking, even in the smoke that choked the air. He held the Barghest on ropes.

'This changes nothing, Cú Roí. These … cubs … cannot kill me.'

'But they can hurt you, can they not? I give Leach there the word and they will tear you to pieces. I only regret there are not more, but as I said, I needed most of the humans for a different kind of sacrifice.' The giant's face twisted in sudden rage. His voice rose to a shout. 'You used to worship me. You and the four races knelt at my feet in awe and wonder. I was the Miracle Child, and you have the temerity to hunt me?'

The tattooed man turned back to face Cú Roí. 'You are an abomination that should never have been spawned, and my mistress never saw you as anything more than a dangerous curio. The blame for your continued existence can be laid at the feet of the Satyr of Fire and Air, and it is his mistake that I am here to rectify.' He took a step towards the giant, the sword held ready.

The pale man named Leach let go of the ropes, and the Barghest swarmed in with hungry, reverberating roars. The tattooed man slipped smoothly out of their way, ignoring the pain of barbed tentacles sliding into his skin. The sword flashed, and pieces of coiling pink flesh fell to burn in the drifts of ash. His tattoos writhed, and sinuous painted blue bodies shifted to cover the wounds, leaving nothing but ink scale where before there were open wounds. The Barghest backed away cautiously, and the pale man in furs stared malignantly at him. The tattooed man held his ground.

'They have learned a lesson,' Cú Roí said, nodding towards the lurking Barghest. 'It will stand them in good stead when I am gone.' Then his hands slipped down and in one smooth motion, ripped open the throats of both humans.

Blood spurted into the air and onto the ground. Impossi‐ bly, the liquid did not steam away. Instead it twisted and flowed through channels until it met in a single pool just in front of Cú Roí. The surface was still and stygian. The corpses slipped to the ground in puffs of ash. The woman's hair caught on fire.

Cú Roí stepped towards the pool. The tattooed man pulled back his arm and threw the sword with all his strength. It flew straight and true, point first towards the giant. Cú Roí's left foot touched the surface of the pool and it held his weight. His right foot joined it, and he turned and smiled triumphantly at the tattooed man.

The smile slipped when the blade plunged into his stom‐ ach. Cú Roí raised his head to scream, even as the puddle lost solidity. The giant's body dropped from sight, vanishing into the non-existent depths of the blood pool.

The tattooed man took a step towards it, but the magic had faded, and the blood was already soaking into the ash. The viscous substance boiled and steamed away in seconds. Cú Roí was gone.

Peace descended over the tattooed man. He looked up into the darkening sky. He could hear the Barghest, but he ignored them. Cú Roí was gone – he could feel it. The monster was dead. With that final realisation, his own death rushed down to engulf him.

By the time the Barghest reached him, his spirit was gone. The man called Leach watched the monsters' frenzy for a few seconds and then faded back into the forest.

The tattooed man's dead body was torn to shreds, his bones cracked and splintered, the marrow sucked into worm mouths, his flesh stripped and scattered. Then the Barghest sloped back into the forest, eager for fresh meat.

Neither Barghest saw the man with flashing eyes who stood and watched from the tree line, nor did they see the red-haired girl beside him, gazing sadly at what remained of the big man's tattooed corpse.