contest. For several seconds we are locked together, no words, my gaze fixed on my hands and the claws. Then I start noticing details—not claws but
I bring my eyes up but I can’t see my attacker’s face because of the magical glow. A swift inner debate. Then I let the power drain from me. The light dies away. Shadows reform. It takes my eyes a while to adjust but when they do I see that I was right—it’s a man, not a monster. And he’s smiling.
“Good,” the man says. “You have magic—a bit anyway—and common sense. You’ll do.” Then he brushes past me, out of the hut, and summons the others with a far-reaching call.
“You can stop searching. It’s safe. There are no demons here. Now come and find out why I sent the boy to fetch you.”
The stranger’s name is Drust and—as we immediately see by his long blue tunic and shaved, tattooed head—he’s a druid. After calling us together and telling us his name, Drust doesn’t speak for a long time. Instead, he builds a fire and casts a spell to prevent smoke and contain the glow within the crannog, so as not to attract demons. After a while he takes hot rocks from the fire—with his bare fingers—and places them in a pit filled with water. When the water is the right heat, he drops in chunks of meat wrapped in straw.
We sit silently, eyeing Drust suspiciously, waiting for him to speak. I’ve never seen a druid before. Wandering men of minor magic, yes, but never one of the legendary seers. His tattoos are amazing. They’re a map of the stars, but they move like the stars do, slowly revolving across his scalp.
When the meat is cooking to Drust’s satisfaction, he stands before us and runs a calculating eye over the group, one by one, judging. His eye seems to rest longest on me but maybe I just imagine that.
We’re all tense. We have tremendous respect for druids, but we fear them too. They’re human, but something else as well, powerful, with rules and ways of their own. We’ve heard tales of how they sacrifice children to the gods, breed with demons, build mountains, level raths and divert the course of rivers.
Finally, Drust looks at Run Fast. He smiles at the boy, then clicks his fingers. Run Fast edges over to him like a dog to its master. Drust ruffles the boy’s untidy hair, his smile widening. “You did well, Bran,” he says.
“Bran!” I gasp. “Is that his name? He never told us. We called him Run Fast because…” Drust looks at me calmly and I come to a halt. There’s no menace in his eyes, but no warmth either. He studies me in much the same way that I’ve studied dead demons in the past.
“Yes,” the druid says in an accent not of this land. “It’s Bran. He didn’t tell you because he’s incapable of remembering names.” Drust speaks slowly, the words sounding strange on his lips. I don’t think our language is his own.
“Is Bran from here,” Fiachna asks quietly, “or is he your apprentice?”
Drust raises a mocking eyebrow. “You think I would take an idiot as an apprentice?”
“He’s simple but blessed,” Fiachna replies. “He has speed and other powers not of normal men.”
Drust nods. “Which is why I sent him for assistance. But, touched by magic as he is, Bran’s brain can never develop. He would be as useless to me as he was to his own people.” He pauses, then adds, “I doubt he came from here originally but this is where I found him.”
Drust releases Bran’s hair. The boy looks up at the druid, to see if he’s going to pet him again, then slides over to my side and sits beside me. I stroke the back of his hands absent-mindedly while the conversation continues.
“And you?” Goll asks. “Where are you from?”
Drust points in an easterly direction.
“Are you a Pict?” Connla asks. “Drust is a Pict’s name.”
“I was, as a child, before I became a druid.”
The Picts are an ancient people from across the great water to the east. I wasn’t aware that any still remained. They’re a dying race, killed or absorbed by stronger tribes. Drust must be one of the last of his kind.
Before we can ask any more questions, Drust points at Goll and says, “Are you the leader of this band?”
“No,” Goll replies. “We have no leader. But I’m the eldest, so I suppose I can speak for us.”
Out of the corner of my eye I see Connla bristle—he probably looks upon himself as the rightful leader—but he doesn’t say anything.
“Then I will address my words to you,” Drust says. “I’ll keep it simple. I am here to end the demon attacks. I need your help. You must come with me.”
He stops as though those few sentences are explanation enough.
The flesh around Goll’s single eye wrinkles. “You’ll need to tell us more than that, druid or no druid,” he murmurs. “To begin with, what happened here and where are Run F—I mean, Bran’s people?”
“Demons.” Drust shrugs. “They’d been attacking long before I arrived. Bran’s tribe—the MacRoth—were exhausted, close to defeat. Shortly after I came, that defeat finally befell them.”
“The demons killed everyone?” Goll asks and Drust nods. “Then why not you?” He phrases it lightly, but it’s clearly a challenge. It’s unnatural for all to perish except this one stranger. What Goll’s really asking is did Drust betray the MacRoth—and will he betray us too?
“They didn’t kill me because they couldn’t see me,” Drust says. “Just as your people couldn’t see me when they entered the hut where I was staying. I know masking spells which hide me from sight. If your girl priestess had been more experienced, she’d have seen through my shield. But she is not yet mistress of her arts.”
“Why not hide the MacRoth too?” Orna asks angrily.
Drust sniffs. “All magic has its limits. I have the power to mask a handful of people but not sixteen.”
“If not sixteen, why not eight?” Lorcan growls. “Or four? Or even one?”
“As your own magician—wet behind the ears as she is—can tell you, magic is draining. A masking spell for several people, maintained over a long period, would have tired me. I need to be at my most powerful if I’m to save all from the threat of the Demonata.”
“Demonata?” Ronan frowns. He’s been keeping one hand on his bow, ready to swing it round and fire off an arrow if Drust makes any untoward moves. “Do you mean the Fomorii?”
“They’re not Fomorii,” Drust snorts. “The Fomorii were brutish humans with just a hint of the demonic about them. The Demonata come directly from what you call the Otherworld. Their powers are pure. They cannot be fought and defeated by human means. Only by magic.”
“I think many of the demons we’ve killed would disagree with that,” Connla smirks.
“Familiars,” Drust retorts. “Weak, mindless creatures. They’ve come ahead of their masters, like rats ahead of a mighty plague. When the true Demonata arrive your weapons will be useless.”
Our features tighten. We’d guessed that more intelligent, stronger demons were coming, but not that we wouldn’t be able to kill them. If this is true, it means the end of all we’ve ever known and cared about.
Drust cocks an eyebrow, inviting further questions, making it clear that such queries are a waste of his time. Goll pushes on anyway. “So you stood by and let these Demonata kill the MacRoth. We’ll return to that, but first tell us—”
“We won’t,” Drust interrupts. “The MacRoth meant nothing to me, just as you mean nothing to me. My aim is to save this land. If sixteen—or sixty, or six hundred—have to die, so be it. The MacRoth would have perished whether I was here or not. Since their living or dying had no impact on my quest, I kept out of their affairs, just as I’ll keep out of yours if I decide you are of no use to me either.”
Goll’s face whitens with anger but he controls his temper and instead of shouting, he hisses a question. “Tell us how we can be
“But I do have need of you,” Drust says evenly. “I have travelled far to stem the tide of demons at its source. Such travels are perilous, even for one of my powers. I cannot complete my quest alone. When I set out, months ago, it was with several companions, all of whom fell in the course of our journey. I need new warriors to replace them.”
“If you have any sense,” Drust says. “The Demonata are
