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 all the provinces. Many have tried to exercise complete control. All have failed. But still the greedier warriors dream.
“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 Connla doesn’t see it that way. He roars at the boy and swings a fist. Bran ducks, still holding up the hairs. Connla lunges after him. Bran laughs and flees, shouting, “Run fast! Run fast!” Connla chases, cursing foully, drawing his sword.
The rest of us fall about with laughter. We know Connla won’t catch Bran—if he was too fast for demons, a human stands no chance. Connla eventually realises this and stops chasing the boy. After hurling a few final curses at him and some more at us, he storms back to the bucket, regards his ruined moustache with a miserable expression, then scrapes the rest of the hairs away, shaving his lip bare.
Bran edges up to me, timidly holding out the hairs. “Giblets,” he says, handing them over. I give the boy a delighted hug. Goll claps him hard on the back—the old warrior is crying with laughter.
“I’d keep him out of Connla’s way for a few hours,” Fiachna chuckles. “He’ll calm down later but he’ll be in a foul mood for a while.”
“Don’t worry,” I grin, squeezing Bran tight. “I’ll look after him.”
“Giblets,” Bran repeats, stroking the hairs fondly, as if they were petals, making us all laugh again.
Shortly after the sun rises, Drust stops praying and we depart. Bran trots along beside us, unaware of the scowling Connla’s dark looks. I keep the boy close, in case the surly warrior tries to hurt him. I doubt he would, but I’m never sure about Connla. He’s a hard one to read. Impossible to know how he’ll react to a joke or how deeply to heart he’ll take a light insult.
I study Bran as he jogs, smiling at the countryside, squinting up at the sky and birds, perfectly content. I assume he had family and friends in the crannog, all of whom are dead now, but he doesn’t seem bothered by the loss. At first I pity him but the more I think about it, pity turns to envy. It must be nice to live like Bran, immune to the pains which the rest of us suffer. Knowing what I know—that unless Drust succeeds, this land will be overrun by unstoppable demons—I wish I could be as empty-headed as the fleet-footed boy.
Heading due west, we make good time. After a while Drust drops back and walks beside me, nudging Bran out of the way. The druid asks lots of questions about my past, Banba, my training. He wants to know what I can do, how powerful I am. He sneers when I tell him about my remarkable memory—that doesn’t interest him. When he asks about my family, I tell him I’m an orphan of unknown origin.
“You’ve no idea who your people were?” he presses.
“No.” I pause. “Do you?”
He frowns. “Why should I?”
I shrug, not wishing to tell him about my vision and the possibility that my mother might have been sending me out to find my original clan.
Drust continues asking about my magic, what spells I know, where my strengths lie. His enquiries fill me with unease. They shouldn’t. It’s natural for a magician to be interested in the abilities of another. But this doesn’t feel like simple curiosity. He seems to be testing me, probing for weaknesses. I recall what he said back in the hut—“You’ll do”—and worry burns in my stomach like a fire.
At midday we take a short rest. Drust sits slightly apart from the rest of us. Instead of eating, he pulls a board out of the bag which he carries on his back. A strange board, the surface divided into an equal number of black and white squares. It’s the thickness of the length of my thumb, made of crystal. He sets it down on the ground, then spills small, carved shapes out on to the grass. When he starts to position the pieces on the board, I realise it’s some sort of game.
“Chess,” Orna says as Drust moves the first piece.