“We can fight the demons ourselves,” Lorcan says stiffly. “We don’t need help from the likes of you.”
Drust laughs. His laughter offends us all, but before we can react, he speaks quickly. “You haven’t fought the masters yet, only their minions. The demons you’ve faced—along with the pitiful undead—are merely the first wave. A tunnel has opened between this land and the Otherworld. It will allow demons to enter our realm freely. It’s a small tunnel but it’s growing. As it grows, larger, smarter, stronger demons will cross. They can roam the land by day as well as night. And, as I’ve already told you, they can only be killed by magic.”
He stops. Our faces are ashen. Nobody can speak, not even the hot-headed Connla. When Drust has measured the impact of his words, he continues. “The druids won’t come to your aid. This island had already passed beyond our control—the Christians drove us out. The view of most druids is that it makes no difference whether Christians or demons rule here. In fact many would prefer the Demonata—they hate Christians even more than demons.”
“But they’ll slaughter us all!” I cry.
Drust’s expression is unreadable. “Aye.” A pause. “Unless I stop them.”
“By yourself?” Connla sneers.
“There’s just one tunnel and at the moment it’s vulnerable,” Drust says. “If the gap between worlds can be plugged, the demons can no longer cross. One man, if he has the power and knows what he’s doing, can close the tunnel. I am such a man.”
“But why?” Fiachna asks. “If the rest of the druids don’t care, why do you?”
“I have reasons,” Drust says, lowering his gaze for the first time. “They are my own.” His eyes rise again. “Will you help me or not?”
“To do what?” Goll asks.
“Stop the Demonata!” Drust groans. “Haven’t you been listening?”
“I have,” Goll says, smiling bitterly. “What I mean is, how can we help? What exactly do you want us to do?”
“I must go west,” Drust says, “to the coast. There, I can find out where the tunnel is located.”
“You don’t know?” Fiachna asks.
Drust shakes his head. “I searched for it with my original companions. I thought I could find it by myself. I was wrong.”
“How will you find out by going to the coast?” Orna asks.
“That’s my business,” Drust huffs. “Yours, if you accept the challenge, will be to escort me safely. Say now whether or not you are worthy of such responsibility. If not, I’ll send Bran forth again, to hunt for those of a nobler clan.”
Connla drives himself to his feet, hand going to his sword, ready to cut Drust down. But at a wave of Drust’s hand he stops, frozen. It’s a simple halting spell—Banba taught me several like it—but expertly woven. Connla might as well be carved out of wood.
Drust looks questioningly at Goll. The old warrior’s unhappy. His distrust of the druid is plain to see and mirrored on the faces of the rest of us. But if what we’ve heard is true…
“You must come to our rath and tell your story to our king,” Goll says. “If he’s inclined to provide assistance, he can send more—”
“There isn’t time,” Drust interrupts sharply. “Come with me in the morning or return to your homes and I’ll search for other allies.”
Goll sighs, deeply troubled. He looks around for advice.
“I don’t trust him,” Orna says, making a sign to ward off evil spirits. “But I am not of your tuath. I will follow your lead in this matter.”
“We’ve made it this far,” Ronan says neutrally. “We can go further.”
“Perhaps he could teach us better ways to kill demons,” Lorcan notes.
It’s clear the twins like the idea of journeying with the druid and facing extra dangers and demons. They’re young and bloodthirsty. They care more about notching up kills than the welfare of the clan.
“I’m of two minds,” Fiachna mutters. “Our people will think the worst if we’re gone too long. Perhaps one or two of us should go back. Bec, for instance.
I’m about to protest but before I can, Drust does it for me. “No!” he snaps with unexpected force. “If you stay, the girl stays. Her powers might come in useful. She’s weak and undisciplined but I can work with her. She’d be an asset.”
“Connla?” Goll asks.
Held by the spell, Connla can’t answer, so Drust waves his hand again and frees the warrior. Connla glares hatefully at the druid, then spits at his feet. “I say damn him and all his wretched kind! Where were they when the demons came? We can hold our own without them, as we have since the start.”
“And if hordes of demons attack by day?” Fiachna says softly. “More powerful than any we’ve fought so far? Organised, brutal, unkillable?”
“Why should we believe that?” Connla counters. “He could be lying, just to—”
“The ring of stones and the church,” I remind him. I shouldn’t involve myself in this without being invited to share my thoughts, but I can’t keep quiet. “We’ve seen the work of clever, cunning demons. It’s true, Connla. You know it is.”
Connla hesitates, the memories altering his expression.
“It would be a great honour,” Fiachna says wryly. “If Drust succeeds, and we play a part in that success, we’ll be hailed as heroes throughout the four provinces.”
That’s the clincher for Connla. If he could help save the entire land, his kingship would be guaranteed. And maybe not just king of our tuath, but of our province. Maybe more—the first high king of
“Very well,” Connla grunts. “I vote we go with him.”
Goll nods reluctantly. “Then it’s decided.”
“I thought it might be,” Drust says with a self-satisfied smirk. Then he turns his attention to the meat boiling in the water and adds a few more hot stones to keep the heat constant.
POTENTIAL
A quiet night. No attacks. The demons think everyone here is dead, so they’ve no reason to bother with the crannog. I get a night of deep sleep and so do the others, too exhausted even for nightmares. We all wake refreshed in the morning. Drust’s already up. He’s prepared cold slices of meat from the night before and hot porridge, which we share in silence in the greyish pre-dawn haze.
Fiachna searches the village for a forge, smith’s tools or other weapons like Bran’s knife but he doesn’t find any. The rest of us go on a quick search too, for weapons or food. We kill the remaining chickens, take the eggs they’ve laid and some slabs of cured pork. But there’s little else worthwhile.
We’re ready to go but Drust says he needs to pray first. He finds a place where he can face the rising sun, then kneels, closes his eyes and meditates.
“How long will he be?” Connla asks me.
“Five or ten minutes.” Actually, I don’t have a clue but I don’t want to look ignorant in front of Connla.
“Time enough for a quick shave,” Connla says. Filling a bucket with water, he douses his face, takes a small knife, wets the blade and waits for the water to settle. Then, studying his reflection, he scrapes the hairs off his cheeks and chin. Most of the men in our rath grow beards but Connla prefers the smooth look. Goll sometimes teases him about it, says he looks like a girl.
Bran—it’s hard not to think of him as Run Fast—watches Connla shave, fascinated. Maybe he’s never seen a man shaving before. He pays extra close attention as Connla trims around the sides of his upper lip, careful not to disturb the hairs of his moustache. As he’s finishing, cleaning the blade, Bran reaches over, grabs a patch of Connla’s moustache and yanks hard. The hairs rip out and Connla howls with pain and surprise.
Bran holds the hairs up proudly, grinning. He thought Connla missed them and was trying to help. But
