He’s eager to move ahead of the rest of us but we hold him back—otherwise he might disappear in the undergrowth like a rabbit. Connla and Fiachna are behind us. Connla’s sulking and hasn’t said a word since we left. Goll brings up the rear.
I brood upon my reasons for leaving the rath as we march, feeling uneasier the more I think about it. Mostly I chose to leave because of the vision of my mother. But there was another reason—fear. The rath seemed to grow smaller every day. I felt so confined, I sometimes found it hard to breathe. I had nightmares where I was trapped, the wall of the fort closing in, ever tighter, squeezing me to death. If our worst fears come true and we fall to the hordes of demons, I don’t want to die caged in.
Is it possible I created the vision to give myself an excuse to leave? I don’t think so. I’m almost certain it was genuine. But the mind can play tricks. What if this is folly, if I’m running away from my fears into worse danger than I would have faced if I’d stayed?
If it wasn’t a trick—if the vision was real—why would the ghost of my mother send me on this deadly quest? She wouldn’t have urged me to risk my life if it wasn’t important. Maybe she wants to help me unravel the secrets of my past. I’ve always longed to know more about my mother, where I came from, who my people were. Perhaps Run Fast can help me find the truth.
If that’s just wishful thinking, and my past is to remain a secret, maybe our rath is destined to fall. My mother’s spirit might have foreseen the destruction of the MacConn and acted to spare me.
Whatever way I look at it, I realise I left for purely selfish reasons. The MacConn need me. I shouldn’t have abandoned them because I was afraid, to hunt down my original people or save myself from an oncoming disaster. I should go back. Fight with them. Use my magic to protect the clan as best I can.
But what if there’s some other reason my mother appeared, if I can somehow help the MacConn by coming on this crazy trek? Banba said we should always follow the guidance of spirits, although we had to be wary, because sometimes they could try to trick us.
Ana help me! So many possibilities—my head is hurting, thinking about them. I should stop and give my brain a rest. Besides, there’s no point worrying now. We’re more than half a day’s march from the rath. We couldn’t return to safety before nightfall. There’s no going back.
Everybody was quiet during the morning’s march, thinking about those we left behind and what lies ahead. We stopped to rest and eat at midday. Ronan and Lorcan caught a couple of rabbits, which we ate raw, along with some berries. After that, as we walked slower on our full stomachs, the talk began, low and leisurely, with Fiachna asking Orna a question about the three-bladed knives she favours.
There were lots more questions for Orna after that. Those from our rath know all there is to know about each other. Orna and Run Fast are the only mysteries in the group, and since Run Fast simply grins and looks away when you ask him anything, that leaves Orna as the focus for our curiosity.
She’s had four husbands, children by three of them. She says she likes men but has never been able to put up with one for more than a couple of years. Goll laughs at that and says the pair of them should marry, since he won’t live much more than a few years.
“I wouldn’t have a lot to leave except memories,” he grins. “But they’d be good memories. I had three wives when I was young and didn’t disappoint any of them!”
“Except when you lost your eye and kingship,” Connla smirks, sending Goll into a foul mood.
“You shouldn’t provoke him like that,” Fiachna whispers harshly.
“He’s an old wreck,” Connla retorts. “My father’s a king and I plan to follow in his footsteps. I’ll speak to the old goat any way I like.”
“We’re not in the rath now,” Fiachna says. “We’re a small, isolated group and we need to rely on each other. Think on—Goll might hold your life in his hands one night soon.”
As Connla scowls and considers that, I ask Orna about her children. Were they among those who arrived yesterday?
“No,” Orna says shortly, gaze set straight, her shaved head glistening in the rain. There are tattoos on both her cheeks—the marks of Nuada, the goddess of war—dark red swirls which suck in the gaze of all who look at them in an almost mesmerising way. “They’re dead. Killed by demons a week ago.”
“Ana protect them,” I mutter automatically.
“Ana keep them dead,” Orna replies tonelessly.
“You didn’t burn the bodies?”
“We couldn’t find them. Demons slipped in through our souterrain and made off with them. They must have been playing in the tunnel. I told them a hundred times never to go down there. But children don’t listen.”
Her eyes are filled with a mixture of sadness and rage. As a warrior, she won’t have allowed herself to mourn. But women can’t make themselves as detached as men. Our hearts are bigger. We feel loss in a way men don’t. Orna has the body and mind of a warrior but her heart is like mine, and I know inside she’s weeping.
Ronan and Lorcan spar with Orna in the evening as we cross bogland. She knows a few knife feints which are new to the brothers and they practise until they’ve perfected them. Ronan and Lorcan, in turn, know lots of moves which Orna doesn’t and they teach her a few, promising to reveal more over the coming days.
Once warriors were secretive. They kept their techniques to themselves, always wary of their neighbours, knowing that today’s friend can be tomorrow’s enemy. The Fomorii changed that. Now we share because we have to—warriors, smiths, magicians. The demons have united the various tuatha of this land in a way no king ever has. A shame we can’t join forces and face them on a single battlefield, in fair combat—I’m sure we’d win. But although demons aren’t as clever as humans, they’re sly. They spread out, taking control of paths and routes, limiting the opportunities to travel, dividing prospective allies. We share our arms, learning and experience with others where possible, but I fear we shan’t be able to share enough.
As Ronan and Lorcan spar with Orna, Connla asks Fiachna for advice. He has an idea for a new spear, topped with several sharp fins, and wants Fiachna’s opinion. Fiachna listens politely, then explains why the weapon won’t work. Connla’s disappointed but Fiachna cheers him up by saying if there’s a smith in Run Fast’s village who can make weapons like the boy’s knife, perhaps the two of them can come up with something along the lines of Connla’s design.
I chat to Run Fast, asking him again for his real name, where he’s from, if he has family. But he doesn’t answer. After a while Goll nudges up beside us. “Having trouble, Little One?” he asks.
“He won’t tell me anything,” I huff. “I’m sure he could—if he can tell us his people need help, he must be able to tell us his name—but he won’t!”
“The heads of the touched are hard to fathom,” Goll says, rustling Run Fast’s hair. “My second wife had a brother like this. He couldn’t dress himself, wield a weapon or cook a meal. But he could play the pipes beautifully. In all other ways he was helpless—but set him loose on the pipes and he could play any man into the ground.”
“What happened to him?” I ask.
Goll shrugs. “He went wandering one day and ate poisoned berries.”
“Berries!” Run Fast shouts, rubbing his stomach. He picks up on certain words every so often and repeats them.
“It’s not that long since we last ate,” I tell him. “Wait until dinner.”
“Berries,” Run Fast says again, sadly this time. Then he stamps his right foot several times and looks at me hopefully. “Run fast?”
“No,” I groan. “Not now. You have to stay with us.”
“Run fast,” he sighs, stamping the ground one last time, letting me know that he could race up a storm if I gave him the go-ahead.