“Goll?” yelled The ávertach from his seclusion. “What are you waiting for?”

  A fourth man emerged from the side room on the right. He stood a full head taller than his comrades. His upper arms were wider than Maeve’s waist. A strip of fabric wrapped around his head and covered his left eye. Dark magenta locks draped over his shoulders and onto his chest. He carried no shield, just a warhammer with a long handle and a spike opposite its heavy blunt side.

  Finn knew everything about Goll mac Morna that the tales mentioned of him. mac Morna was one of the strongest warriors of the Fianna. Goll slew Cumhaill, its leader, only to abdicate his own control of the warband when Cumhaill’s son, Fionn, came of age and rightfully proved his worth. For years he served as Fionn’s second-in-command.

  The man stopped and bounced the weapon's violent end in his hand as he assessed mac Rónáin’s battle with Niall and Maeve. It was a visage to inspire dread in most people yet Finn found himself relieved.

  áed mac Morna, known as "Goll" after he lost his eye, was not the only figure named Goll in the tales. Generations ago, on the side of Sheepshaven Bay across from Dunfanaghy, Lugh himself felled a Fomori giant named Goll.

  Finn could not know how much sentience each of the warriors in The ávertach’s thrall possessed but he was in no rush to learn how long a Fomori giant held a grudge.

  “I saw that, MacLaughlin,” Maeve said. “What was with that look of relief?”

  “Long story,” Finn said. “The kind likely to bore you.”

  Maeve shook her head. “Naw, you’ll need to explain this one to me later.”

  With his free arm Goll lifted a bench and heaved it across the room, unleashing a guttural shout as it left his hand. It crashed against the wall behind Finn’s group. Broken planks and splintered wood rained on the head of Caílte mac Rónáin but the Fianna thrall did not react. He squished his face in anger as he repeatedly swung his dense sword at Niall. Finn’s elder fared far better than Fergal did against Oscar. In fact—and Finn had to rub his eyes to confirm—Niall was smiling.

  “Howya faring, Uncle?”

  Niall’s head jerk reminded Finn that he rarely called Niall “uncle.” Niall’s surprise created an opening on his left side, but he closed his defense before mac Rónáin’s sword could breach it.

  “Is it wrong that I miss this?” Niall said. “I saw so little action back home last year.”

  Finn looked up at Maeve, whose last arrow struck the table Goll used as a makeshift shield. “What do you say?”

  Maeve showed him a wide smile and nodded. “Why not?” she said. “Niall, stop faffing around and let Finn and I have a crack at mac Rónáin. You and Ferg need to hold off the big guy for a moment; Finn’s glowy shield won’t get him anywhere but crushed.”

  Finn wanted to argue, but her assessment was sound. “I’m going to need you to use more of your magic than your arrows this time,” he told her.

  “If it comes down to a choice between saving you and felling him, I’ll do him in without a second thought,” she said.

  “I understand,” he said as he squared up with mac Rónáin. “It’s worth trying, though. I’ll give you as many windows of opportunity as I can.”

  Caílte stepped over the pile of boards and readied his next strike.

  “Bocóit,” Finn said.

  Light from the early dawn leaked through the window behind the sprinter, and his shadow eclipsed Finn after three steps.

  Finn doubted his chances of survival in a straightforward duel. He had to set mac Rónáin up to get waylaid by Maeve from behind. If Niall could stand in with his foe and come out of it happy, it meant that Caílte’s leg speed did not, in fact, carry into other aspects of his fighting. Finn could keep him off balance until the right moment. He still worried about his sword surviving an outright parry of the Hard Destroyer.

  Caílte charged with a sidearm chop, covering four normal strides in just one bound. Finn reacted before he comprehended. He shifted back and to his right, spinning into mac Rónáin’s body. It turned his foe’s attack into a glancing blow off of his barrier, and it provided the additional push needed to throw Finn’s weight into Caílte’s chest.

  Caílte staggered backward. He grabbed his shoulder as it jerked forward, and as he bent over Finn saw several of Maeve’s arrows protruding from mac Rónáin’s upper back.

  That wasn’t a miss, Finn thought. “Thank you,” he called out to her.

  “His arms are an easier target than his legs,” she said. “Otherwise he’d be limping by now. Get on with it.”

  mac Rónáin stood once more, nearly a foot taller than Finn. A flash of anger in his eyes warned of the next attack, a two-handed thrust from the hip that Finn again dodged with a hop to his right. He brought Fragarach down on his foe’s sword near its crossguard, and it shifted Caílte’s balance away from him.

  Finn had staved off the attacks with little effort but he could not connect with sword nor spell. Judging from the tears and red streaks in Caílte’s leine and cloak, he fared worse against the warrior than his uncle did. He needed to tip the scales in his favor.

  “Lasa? lann,” he said, pushing his left hand towards his sword. As flames rose Fragarach’s blade so, too, did Finn’s morale. Caílte righted himself and traded quick strikes with Finn’s flaming sword. mac Rónáin winced each time the flames neared his body.

  Fire it is, then, Finn thought. It was one thing to create fire, but if he wanted to throw it in battle, he’d have to relinquish the radiant targe covering his left arm. He waited until Caílte swung at him in a manner he could bat away with his barrier. Once the warrior’s weapon extended away from his body, Finn swung his flaming sword furiously at his foe’s body. Caílte successfully recoiled from each swing but had no time to brace for what Finn would do next.

  “Your vines, Maeve!” Finn yelled. “Go low.” He gripped his sword with just his thumb and index finger and used three fingers to pull energy from Mag Ionganaidh toward his left arm. "Lía?rit teine,” he yelled, pushing his left hand forward. “Now!”

  “Fuip fíniúna!” Maeve said. A thorny vine made of amber light wrapped around mac Rónáin’s legs.

  “Pull!” Finn yelled. “Gáe? nert.” He guided a force of wind toward the floor.

  Caílte’s feet flew backwards and he could not catch himself during the fall. He landed face first on the floor.

  “Be sure,” Maeve said.

  Finn stuck his sword in between two floorboards and picked up a large piece of a broken bench. He struck mac Rónáin in the back of the head and the warrior stopped stirring.

  Finn’s head spun toward his friends. Goll mac Morna shoved Fergal with a right foot in MacDavett’s chest. He held high his warhammer and twisted it so that the spike faced Niall. The spike pierced Niall’s shield just above its center, only stopping when the handle bumped against the buckler. Goll stepped forward, bent his right arm and pushed it against the hammer’s handle. The interlocked weapons lowered, forcing Niall to a knee as the spike bent the highest lame on Niall’s left spaulder.

  Maeve landed an arrow in Goll’s left shoulder. The man grunted in pain but pushed harder, now grimacing. Fergal collected himself and searched the floor for his poleaxe. He wouldn’t reach Niall in time to distract Goll.

  Finn turned for his sword but a faint reflection from the floor caught his eye. Why not? He picked up the Hard Destroyer. The weapon’s feel confused him. It was lighter than he expected, yet the balance was all wrong—it felt like a club or polearm in his hands.

  He turned and hesitated for a second, scared of striking Niall. Goll’s eight-foot frame, even hunched over his opponent, was twice as big of a target as Niall. Finn twisted his body behind him for more leverage and let the legendary sword fly with a swing from his hip. It spun at an incline as it flew toward Goll’s right arm. Finn had never trained with throwing weapons, and as a result, it was a feeble attack. That it drew blood from the side of Goll’s arm and caused him to rear back in pain had to have been because of the sword’s mystic properties. Finn felt no shame, as it provided Niall a chance to slide from under Goll.

  Goll’s hammer remained entangled in Niall’s buckler. The man pinched his face and ripped the shield from Niall’s hand. mac Morna swung the contraption around his head and body as he eyed the mortals in front of him. With one swing Goll missed striking Niall with his own shield by inches.

  “Do either of you have a plan?” Finn asked Niall and Maeve.

  “Here I was going to ask the two of you the same,” Niall said.

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  “Both of his hides are awfully thick, even for my enchanted arrows,” Maeve said.

  Another swing forced Fergal to hop back.

  “I’d love a crack at his head,” Finn said.

  “You’re saying that because we wouldn’t?” Fergal asked.

  “I’m saying it because I’m not strong enough to make it happen,” Finn said. “If you catch my meaning.”

  Fergal’s eyes widened and a smile spread. “So I do.”

  Maeve shook her head. “You’re going to make him wrestle that thing?”

  “Not quite,” Finn said. “Just get your vines ready in case he takes his left hand off his weap—”

  “—Niall, duck!” Maeve called out. Their elder had dodged Goll’s latest swing before she finished the command. “My vines?” Her shoulders sank. “Nevermind. I’d rather have Ferg wrestle him.”

  “Then what’s my part, lad?” Niall asked.

  “Keep him from noticing me,” Finn said. “Fergal, tease him and wait for a—”

  “—downward swing, hai,” Fergal said.

  Finn shifted to a spot between Niall and Maeve and took three steps back.

  Fergal crouched and jabbed his weapon in Goll’s range like a man pretending to take a stick from a dog. Goll’s eyes rarely strayed from Niall, however, so Fergal made repeated attempts to draw the warrior’s ire before his moment arrived. Goll brought the impaled buckler to the floor and his spike snagged. Fergal sidestepped the chop and stepped up past the head of his foe's hammer. He wrapped his left arm around it and squeezed it into his armpit. As Goll jerked on the weapon’s handle, Fergal leaned as far back as he could to maintain his leverage. With each pull Goll drew Fergal closer. Niall stepped in and swung at Goll’s body. The warrior brought his arm up to block Niall’s strike. mac Morna’s leather wrappings were thick enough to prevent the sword from removing his arm.

  Niall cursed as he pulled back his sword. “Where’s the fairness in that?”

  Goll raised his arm to examine the wound, but another amberlit vine bound his left wrist.

  How hard? Finn wondered at that moment. Where is the line between knocking him out and laying him low? Goll was the largest man Finn had met—but what man stands eight feet tall?

  “Oi!” Maeve yelled. She stumbled with ever tug Goll gave her vine. “Some of us weren’t blessed with Fergal’s heft.” Finn ran to her as the warrior’s next pull toppled her forward.

  Finn reached the vine but caught one of its thorns on the first grab. He squeezed his left hand and rotated his right arm so the vine wrapped his forearm. “Why thorns?” he asked as one of them dug into his arm.

  “If you can find such a spell, then you can teach me,” Maeve said, climbing to her feet. “But I wasn’t expecting an ally to grab it now, was I?”

  Her right hand glowed in the same amber light as her whip. She entangled her left arm as Finn had done with his right. “You know this spell won’t last much longer, right?”

  “I do now,” Finn said.

  Niall stood in front of Goll. His stance wavered as he looked from Maeve to Fergal and back. “We might have to kill him,” he said. “Sorry, lad, but if he gets free, we might not get another chance.”

  “Give us one more lash at it first,” Finn said. “Maeve, I have to let go. Lean back and dig in when I do. Niall, take off your glove.”

  Niall removed the glove covering his silver hand. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”

  “It won’t kill ya,” Finn said, “but you won’t be begging me to do it again anytime soon. Give me a moment and get ready to give him a good puck in his gob. Ready yourself, Maeve.”

  Finn untangled his arm once he felt the vine behind him tense. He pulled his left hand to his shoulder and held it there until it trembled.

  “Lad?”

  “Count to three and hit him.”

  Niall stood in silence for two seconds. Oh no, Finn thought. “Niall, I meant—sai?et gealáin!” He smacked his right bicep as he thrust his right hand forward. An arc of lightning flashed toward Goll, only bending toward Niall’s hand at the moment his punch was about to land.

  Niall’s body twisted in pain after his fist struck Goll’s chin. The warrior fell backwards, unconscious before he hit the floor. It was only after Fergal and Maeve yelped a second after the punch that Finn realized he had miscalculated.

  “Is that what lightning does to a person?” Maeve asked.

  “I don’t know,” Finn said. “It has not hit me. I honestly didn’t know the two of you would feel it, too.”

  She walked to him and smacked the back of his head. “If you’ll remember, that’s what it feels like to get hit. If you ever do that to me again, you’ll feel a lot more of it, I promise you that.”

  “Don’t worry yourselves, friends,” Fergal said. “I’ll check on Niall.”

  Niall stood hunched, his left hand holding his right forearm. “I was expecting fire and heat, Finn.”

  “Niall, I’m sorry,” Finn said. “I didn’t want to risk burning you.”

  “Here’s something for your books,” Niall said. “That felt wile worse.”

  Maeve walked up to Niall and picked up Caílte’s sword and handed it to Niall. “Since your shield hand’s free now. We might need it.”

  "Niall has a second sword,” Finn said. “You can't just steal a legendary weapon like that.”

  Maeve shrugged. “Calm yourself. We’re just borr—”

  “Goll?” The ávertach bellowed. “Why aren’t they dead yet?”

  “Weapons!” Niall whispered. “Now!”

  Fergal and Maeve sprinted to their corners to retrieve their poleaxe and bow. Finn ran back to Fragarach and pried it from the floor. Caílte’s quiet body caught his eye.

  Finn had to know if the additional effort to spare these warriors was worth it. He touched the side of his blade to mac Rónáin’s neck and whispered his question. “Are you men of Tír fo Thuinn, or merely cursed beings controlled by your master?”

  The answer tickled his brain as it spread across it from back to front. They were men, as they will be again once the master’s curse breaks.

  “Who is that comes into my home and slays my people?” The ávertach yelled from the other room.

  “What is he doing in there?” Maeve muttered to Finn as he rejoined his comrades.

  “Is there an answer that will satisfy you?” Finn asked.

  Niall stepped forward. “We didn’t slay your people,” Niall said.

  Finn lifted his chin. “And they’re not your people,” he said. “You merely cursed them.”

  “What?” the master asked. He appeared without the echo of even a single footfall announcing his approach.

  Four spindly fingers made of nothing more than skin and bone wrapped around the near doorjamb. Each ended in a point that was more claw than fingernail.

  The rest of his body entered the room. He stood the same height as the Fianna warriors—save for Goll—but height and pallid blue skin is where the similarities ended. His arms and legs were short, creating the illusion that his hands, feet, head and torso were oversized. If he didn’t stand seven feet tall, Finn could have considered him stout of build.

  His mustache and beard flowed low and wide yet were thin enough to show a faint outline of his jaw. He wore a thick brat cloak stained red throughout and from under its hood two eyes glowed with a sickly green light. He studied each of the others before locking eyes with Finn.

  “You?” he asked in his hollow voice. “How would a mortal like you know something like that?”

  His pupils glowed brighter than the rest of his eyes, and they slid down to the sword in Finn’s hand. He scoffed. “The Answerer. The son of Lir is nothing if not consistent with his meddling.”

  The ávertach glided further into the hall toward a spot twenty feet behind the center of the room.

  Finn’s friends drew together. None of them took their eyes off the Red Tower’s master.

  “What will he do?” Fergal asked.

  “If he’s like his minion, he’ll shapeshift into things like bats and mist,” Finn muttered. “Fast.”

  “Mind his claws,” Niall said. “He’s got some kind of poison, some manner of curse that makes those wounds feel like they’re freezing you from within.”

  “Maeve, I have an idea,” Fergal said.

  Maeve broke off her stare and looked at him. “You have an idea?”

  Fergal wrinkled his face. “Don’t need to act surprised,” he said. “In fact, it’s an old idea of yours. Remember that fight with Ciara near the forest?”

  Her eyes widened. “Really?”

  Fergal nodded. “Only we switch our roles. I promise you he’s not worried about me.”

  “That might work, MacDavett,” she said with a smile. “Keep your head down.”

  “Now’s the time when you tell us what the hell that all means,” Niall said.

  “The four of us spread out wide. On my mark Finn and I throw whatever we can at his face. Niall, you advance and keep him facing us. Go now. Not one of you takes your eyes off him.”

  Niall canted his head. “What ab—”

  “—Go now.”

  Maeve and Fergal spread out to their corners once more. Niall stepped toward their target.

  The ávertach cackled. “Make your plans,” he said. “They might buy you a bit of luck against mindless servants, but there’s nothing you can try that I haven’t seen in all my years.”

  “Interesting choice of words,” Maeve said. Faster than Finn had ever seen, she nocked an arrow and loosed it at the undead chieftain’s face.

  The ávertach flicked his right hand to the side. “Doingaib?.” A barrier of purple light prevented Maeve’s arrow from reaching his cheek.

  Finn jumped into the fight by throwing a combination of two fireballs. Both broke against the purple shield.

  “Close the distance!” Maeve yelled. She held three arrows and with each step she nocked one and let it fly. Finn ran forward three steps and let a heat blast fly. The ávertach’s barrier deflected the force of Finn’s spell toward the wall on the left.

  Three feet behind Fergal.

  The innkeeper didn’t stop to check the damage behind him. He kept his head down and hurried along the side of the room.

  He means to flank the monster, Finn thought. And I’ve been silent too long.

  “Sai?et gealáin!” Finn said, pushing a bolt of lighting at the undead man’s head. “Lía?rit teine!” “Teine!” “Pléasca? guirid!”

  The ávertach’s barrier of purple light glowed as brightly as when he first cast it. His mustache and beard parted into a sneer full of discolored and jagged teeth. “You mock me with your presence,” he said. “With your insolence. With your tactics.”

  Fergal neared the back wall and turned toward the center of the room. He was going to approach their foe directly from behind.

  “I claimed this castle,” The ávertach said. “I held some of the strongest warriors in the history of íriu in my command. Even more of them fear speaking against me."

  Finn and Maeve stepped even with Niall. He could barely hear his host’s taunts over his own invocations. “Lá?a teine!”

  Fergal’s steps slowed as he neared The ávertach. He held his hammer high, ready to bring it down upon the ghastly man.

  “I’ve brought Tír fo Thuinn so completely to its knees that even the Tuatha Dé won’t come here to stop me,” The ávertach said. His eyes slid to his right and he smiled. With one fluid motion he twisted his upper body, grabbed Fergal by his throat and jerked him into the air, forcing Fergal to drop his weapon.

  “And yet somehow you think me incapable of counting to four?”