“You!” Lorcan shouts, striding up to the druid. Drust doesn’t look up at the furious teenager. “You abandoned us and left us to the demons! What do you have to say in defence of yourself?”

No answer. Drust is fully focused on the chess game.

Lorcan’s axe is in his left hand. He raises it, his youthful face twisted with hatred. I want to stop him but I dare not interfere. And, to be honest, part of me loathes Drust for running out on us and wants to see him punished.

Connla roars a warning and reaches for his knife, to intervene, but before he can, Drust says quietly, “You cannot harm me here. You will suffer if you try.”

“Suffer this!” Lorcan screams and brings his axe down.

The head of the axe melts. The handle turns into a shaft of fire. Lorcan yells with pain and drops it. I blink dumbly—this is the work of magic, but it didn’t come from Drust. It seemed to come from the earth itself.

“Violence is not permitted here,” Drust says and he looks up. “If you try that again, you’ll die.”

Lorcan snatches for his sword with his unharmed right hand. Stops and curses. Kicks the smouldering remains of his axe and turns away, disgusted.

Drust looks around at us, meeting our accusing gazes without any hint of shame. “Lord Loss orchestrated the attack. He set the demons in place, knowing we must pass this way. I thought it was an ambush, so I fled for my life, as I was duty bound to. I see now it was merely a cruel game but I was not to know that at the time. I acted correctly.”

“What are you talking about?” Goll snarls. “Ronan died. It was no game.”

Drust shakes his head. “If it had been a real ambush, they’d have jumped me. Having trailed us this far and listened to our conversations, Lord Loss must know what our plan is. If he truly wished to stop us at this point, he’d have killed me. The rest of you don’t matter. That was why I ran. I couldn’t let myself fall, not this close to the end.”

“Fancy words, but it boils down to the same thing—cowardice,” Fiachna says.

“You may call it that if you wish,” Drust says coolly. “But I told you from the start that your lives meant nothing to me. You’ve helped me come this far, and so served a noble purpose. I’m grateful for that but it makes you no less insignificant in the greater scheme of things.”

Goll laughs bitterly. “I bet you didn’t have many friends when you were a child!”

“Druids don’t need friends,” Drust replies, then regards his chess set again.

I study the Jutland uncertainly. Night is upon us and I can hear the howls of the demons that Connla ran off. And Lord Loss is still out there. I feel exposed, open to attack. “Are you sure we’re safe?” I ask.

“Aye,” Drust says. “This is a place of Old magic. No lesser demon can set foot here. A demon master can, but like us, they can commit no violence on this soil.”

“Thank the gods for small mercies,” Connla sniffs. “Are there more places like this along the coast, where we can shelter in the coming nights?”

“No,” Drust says. “But we would have no need of them even if there were. This is the place I have been heading for. It’s the end of the road.”

Then he gives his attention over fully to the chess game, leaving us to stare at the grass, the drop on either side, the sea which stretches off into the distance—and wonder what exactly he brought us to this desolate place for.

Night darkens. Black clouds blow in off the sea, unloading their rain on top of us. I’m glad of the rain at first—it washes the worst of the blood from my face and neck—but its appeal quickly fades as a chill sets in. To combat the rain and sharp, bitter wind, I create a fire using magic and we huddle around it, capes and cloaks pulled over our heads, shivering from the damp and cold.

I’ve treated Fiachna’s wounded shoulder, but it’s a nasty purple colour. I’m not sure I cleaned out all the demon’s poison. It doesn’t look too dangerous at the moment but I’ll be keeping a close eye on it.

Lorcan is silent and distant, thinking of his dead brother. There’s not much you can say to a warrior when a loved one dies. Death is something all warriors learn to embrace. It’s part of their trade. At least Ronan died in battle. Lorcan will miss him but life must go on. There’s no benefit to be had from weeping or wailing like a woman or a child.

Drust continues with his game, head bent over the board to shelter it from the rain, moving figures around slowly, after much deliberation. Maybe this was his aim—to escape to a place where he’d be protected, safe to play his games of chess all night and day in peace.

After an hour the rain eases and moonlight breaks through the clouds. We should be grateful, but now that we can see more clearly, we spot Lord Loss hovering near where the Jutland starts, watching us intently.

With shouts and cries, we scramble to our feet and the men draw their weapons. Goll starts forward, roaring, then halts, remembering what happened to Lorcan’s axe. He lowers his sword and studies Lord Loss nervously.

The demon master ignores the old warrior and tilts his head sideways for a better view of Drust. He seems fascinated by the game the druid’s playing. He drifts closer. Something moves near where his legs end in long strips of flesh. I recall the dog-like creature I saw earlier. Peering down, I see that it has a large dog’s body, but its head is long and curiously flat, a dark green or brown colour, with evil yellow eyes. And it has human hands instead of paws. A woman’s hands.

Lord Loss passes Goll. The dog demon starts to follow, then stops, growls and retreats a few steps. Drust was right about this place being out of bounds for lesser demons.

Lord Loss drifts to a halt close to where Drust is sitting. We surround him, suspicious yet captivated. We’ve never been this close to a living demon for such a long period of time, free to study him at will. It’s a strange sensation. I feel the magic around him, lightly crackling, not that different to the power Drust and I create when we cast a spell. Except his magic is constant, never changing.

Finally the game ends and Drust begins rearranging the pieces.

“What is that you play?” Lord Loss asks, his voice laced with sorrow.

“Chess,” Drust says and peers up. “You don’t play?”

“No.”

“A pity.”

“But I would like to learn.”

Drust pauses, surprised. “Do demons play human games?”

“No,” Lord Loss says. “But this interests me. I have never seen it before. And the board… there is magic in it.”

“This board is unique,” Drust says, smiling proudly. “My master told me it is the original Board, a gift to us from the Old Creatures. My people have guarded it for many centuries, and others of magic protected it before the druids. Long ago, one of its owners fashioned a game to play on it, to pass the time. He crafted the pieces which have developed into what you see now, and so the game of chess came into being.”

“Then the board was not created for the game?” Lord Loss asks.

“No.”

“What was its original purpose?”

Drust shrugs. “Nobody knows. As you noticed, it is an artefact of magic, but we have never been able to unlock its secrets.”

“Perhaps I could,” Lord Loss says.

“Perhaps,” Drust agrees, then smiles. “Some other time.”

“Why not now?” Lord Loss asks eagerly.

Drust’s smile spreads. “That’s not possible. You have to leave.”

“I do not,” Lord Loss frowns.

“Aye,” Drust says. “You do.” He raises a hand and Lord Loss drifts backwards.

“What’s happening?” the demon master shouts, trying to stop but unable to.

“A minor spell,” Drust chuckles. “I tire of having you hound our trail. This will keep you at a safe distance for a while.”

“No!” Lord Loss roars. “You have no power over me! You’re just a human! You cannot command a demon master!”

“Normally, no,” Drust murmurs. “But magic works differently here. I am able to do things on this Jutland which I could do nowhere else—and you are helpless to resist, since this magic is more mine than yours.”