Bec

Orna growls like a wild animal. “You’ll die on that spot if you do!”

“Let her go,” Connla laughs cruelly. “If she’s so desperate to mother demons, who are we to stop her?”

“Bricriu!” Goll roars, the foul curse for a meddler. Connla only smiles.

“Please, Orna,” I mutter, trying another approach. “I need you. You’re like a mother to me. Let me be your daughter. I couldn’t bear it if you left.”

Orna’s eyes soften and she smiles. “You’re a good girl, Bec. And I love you, almost as much as I loved… love my little lost ones.” She shakes her head ever so slightly. “But you’re not mine. They are. And they’re calling me.”

“But—”

I get no further. In an instant, taking us all by surprise, she leaps away and is racing down the hill towards the three undead children, who raise their arms and croon with delight.

Fiachna starts after her but Goll trips him. As he rises angrily, turning on Goll, the old warrior sticks his hands out, palms upwards, the sign for peace, then says softly, “Macha help her.”

The fury fades from Fiachna and he turns to watch, along with the rest of us. “You should have let me go,” he murmurs. “I might have caught her.”

“No,” Goll replies. “She was too far ahead and too desperate.”

Orna reaches the children and stops. I expect them to attack but they just stand there, staring at her, arms outstretched, waiting for her to hug them. For a moment I wonder if we were mistaken, if these are her children and mean her no harm. But then Drust nudges me and points to the right, further down the hill. I spot the outline of Lord Loss, inhuman eyes fixed on the woman and children, wicked smile visible even from here.

Ronan fires an arrow at the demon master, then another, but both stop short of their target, as though they’ve struck an invisible wall. Lord Loss doesn’t even glance in our direction.

Orna kneels, extends her arms and draws the children in close. I see their faces, alight with evil glee. The eldest boy gently, lovingly brushes the soft flesh of her neck—then sinks his teeth into it. Orna stiffens but doesn’t cry out. The girl latches on to the warrior’s upper arm, chewing at it like a dog with a bone. The youngest boy’s head sinks beneath Orna’s shoulders. He rips her tunic open. I can’t see from here, but I know he’s suckling, drawing blood instead of milk.

Orna’s arms tighten around the children, hugging them closer. She hums a tune women sing to send their young to sleep. I gasp with horror when I hear that and turn away from the awful sight of the undead boys and girl feasting on the living flesh of their mother.

Fiachna squats beside me and grabs me tight, letting me bury my face in his chest. “There there, Little One,” he coos. “She’s happy. She thinks she’s back with her children. We should all be lucky to die so willingly.”

“But they’re not!” I cry. “They’re not her—”

“I know,” he whispers, stroking the back of my head. “But she thinks they are. That’s all that matters.”

Although I’ve turned my back on the carnage, I can’t block out the sounds of ripping flesh and the occasional painful hiss from Orna or moan of satisfaction from the undead beasts. Even when I cover my ears with my hands, I hear them, or imagine I do.

After a while the others turn away from the sickening sight, one by one, ashen-faced, eyes filled with regret, stomachs turning. Even cruel Connla, who gave up on her before anybody else.

The only one who doesn’t turn away is Bran. The boy remains sitting where he awoke, watching silently, head tilted to one side, frowning curiously, as if he’s not entirely sure what’s happening and is waiting to see if this is a game with an unexpected, amusing finale.

Eventually, since I can’t bear it, I walk over, turn him around and sit beside him. I lean against the simple boy and keep him faced away from Orna, allowing her the humble dignity of dying in private.

FAMILY

We leave first thing in the morning, pausing only for Drust to set Orna’s remains aflame, so she can’t return to life as one of the undead. Often demons take the bodies of their victims with them. I think Lord Loss made the children leave Orna so her bones and last few scraps of flesh could further unnerve us.

We march in silence, all thoughts on Orna and how she went willingly to her monstrous death. Is her spirit with her children now in the Otherworld or is it doomed to wander this land for all time, lost and damned?

Even Drust is sombre, leaving the lessons for later, proof that in spite of his stern appearance, he too is human, with the same emotions as the rest of us.

The ground has been getting rockier the further west we proceed. Fewer trees, no fields of crops, not many animals, no raths or crannogs. But people live here, or did at one time, since there are remains of many dolmens and wedge tombs. Most of the dolmens have been knocked over, the stones scattered, the bones they housed burnt to ash. And the seals of the wedge tombs have been broken, either by demons or humans. If we were to go into the tombs, we’d find charred ash or the sleeping undead. I don’t think any of the dead in this land lie whole and in peace any more.

In the afternoon we come to a small village of beehive-shaped stone huts. It’s an old settlement, with only a crumbling short wall surrounding the perimeter. The huts are in poor condition, some fallen in on themselves. At first I think it’s a ghost village, all the people dead or fled. But then I spot smoke coming from a few of the huts and hear a woman shouting at a child. We look around at each other, surprised to find life in such a hostile, vulnerable environment.

“Humans or demons?” Fiachna asks.

“I’m not sure.” Drust sniffs the air. “There’s a scent of something inhuman, but…” He smells the air again, eyes narrow slits. “There are humans too. Peculiar.”

“Should we avoid it?” Goll asks.

Drust thinks a while, then shakes his head. “We need to rest. We’ve had little sleep recently. We must seek shelter.”

“But if there are demons…” Goll mutters.

Drust glances up at the sky. “It’s a long time until sunset. We should be safe. And I’m curious. I want to know what these people are doing here—and how they’ve avoided being butchered by the Demonata.”

There’s a narrow gateway into the village but we climb over the wall in case the entrance is set with traps. There are animals within, scraggly sheep and goats. They scatter when they see us, bleating loudly.

A boy sticks his head out of a hut, a sling in one hand. He starts to shout—he thinks some animal has entered the village and scared the sheep and goats. Then he sees us and his shout changes from one of anger to one of alarm. “Strangers!”

Within seconds two men, three women and three children—two girls and the boy—are in front of the huts, spears and crude swords to hand, facing us. We hold our ground, weapons raised defensively. Then Goll gives the order for us to lower our arms. He steps forward, right hand held palm up, and shouts a greeting.

One of the men meets Goll halfway, face creased with suspicion, eyeing us beadily. The pair have a quick, hushed conversation. At the end, Goll turns and nods us forward, while the man returns to his place among the others.

When we’re all together, Goll makes our introductions. The man who met him then tells us they’re the MacGrigor. His name is Torin. The other man’s Ert. The women are Aideen, Dara and Fand. We aren’t told the names of the children.

“They’re on a quest,” Torin says. He’s a short, muscular man, dark skinned. “They want to stop the demons.”

One of the women—Fand—laughs. “Just the eight of them?”

“One is all it takes,” Drust responds.

“We don’t have much respect for druids here,” Ert says, spitting into the dirt at Drust’s feet. “Your kind aren’t as powerful as you pretend to be. We had dealings with your lot before and they failed us.”

“Failed you in what way?” Drust asks with cold politeness.