Without saying anything, Lorcan undresses quickly, then dives in and strikes powerfully for the crannog. We watch nervously, Ronan having notched an arrow to his bow, ready to fire instantly if his brother comes under attack.

Lorcan makes it to the crannog unhindered and pulls himself out, pausing only to offer up a quick prayer of thanks to the gods. He brushes water from his stubbly hair—it comes off in rusty red drops, coloured by the blood caked into his scalp. Then he unties a leather-framed curragh and rows across to where we’re waiting, hard strokes, one eye on the setting sun.

Lorcan, Goll, Run Fast and Orna cross first. Then Lorcan rows back to pick up Ronan, Fiachna, Connla and me. At the gate I test the air for the scent of demons. It’s clear. I don’t think there are monsters in the village but I can’t be certain.

“Will we try the gate or go over the fence?” Goll asks.

“The gate’s open,” Fiachna says.

Goll squints, then chuckles. “I was never the sharpest with two eyes, but with only one…” He looks around. “We’ll go in fast. Any sign of trouble, retreat to the gate. Based on what we’re facing, we’ll decide then whether to fight or flee.”

Deep breath. Weapons drawn. A signal from Goll. In.

No demons. No people either. Just a few chickens and lots of blood. While we stand a few paces inside the gate, Run Fast chases after the chickens, laughing. They squawk and flap away from him. With his speed he could catch them easily, but he’s only playing with them.

“Do you think they’re all dead?” Orna asks, eyes narrow, nose wrinkled against the stench of fresh blood.

“Unless they’re hiding,” Goll grunts.

“We should check the huts,” Fiachna says.

“Aye.” Goll points at Ronan, Fiachna, Connla and me. “You four go right. The rest of us will go left. We’ll meet in the middle if all’s clear.”

“What about Run Fast?” I ask.

Goll looks at the boy chasing the chickens. “I don’t think he’d be much help.”

We set off quickly, each of us aware of the rapidly setting sun. It’s almost the time of the Fomorii.

The first hut. Holes have been torn in the walls, so it’s easy to peer in. Floor caked in drying blood but otherwise empty. No trapdoor or hiding place. We push on.

The second hut’s smaller than the first. A tiny entrance. No holes in the walls. Dark pools of shadows. We stick our heads through the doorway, allowing our eyes to adjust to the gloom. Objects gradually swim into sight. Pots, a small table, a broken chair. Rugs on the floor—there could be a souterrain beneath. We slide in, Ronan first, me last, looking up for winged demons hanging from the thatch. The men search beneath the rugs—nothing. They file out. I’m bringing up the rear, almost through the door, when something breathes behind me.

“Beccccccc…”

I stop… turn… eyes wide… heart beating fast. I stare into the shadows. I can’t see anything but I know I’m not alone. I want to duck out of the door or call for help but I can’t. My tongue is frozen, not with fear, but magic.

Long, terrifying seconds pass. Then, in a blur, claws dart out of the darkness… a twisted face… fiery eyes… a savage mouth filled with rows of teeth… the demon grabs me!

DRUST

Instant reaction—magic. I don’t waste time screaming. I bark a spell, my lips moving quicker than ever before. My hands heat up. Then, instead of wrenching my arms away, which is what the demon expects, I grab its claws tightly and try to scorch them to scraps.

It doesn’t work. As my hands glow, the claws grasping me glow too. Brighter and brighter, the pair of us, a 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 hands. Smooth flesh, eight fingers, two thumbs. Dark flesh but not demon dark—human dark.

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?”