Goll laughs. “He’s a lively one. You’ll have your hands full looking after him!”

“I might just push him into Sionan’s river when we cross,” I huff.

“We wouldn’t be able to find his village then,” Goll says.

“I’m not sure we’ll find it anyway,” I grumble. “How do we know he’s leading us the right way? He could have come from a southern tuatha for all we know.”

Goll squints at me with his good eye. “You’re in dark spirits, Little One. Are you tired?”

“No.”

Goll tickles me under the chin until I laugh. “Tired?” he asks again.

“Aye,” I sigh. “I’m not used to all this walking. And you go so quickly! I’ve only got short legs.”

“You should have said.”

“I didn’t want to look like a… a…”

“A child?” Goll smiles. “But you are. And a tiny wee bee of a child at that.”

“Just because I’m small doesn’t mean I can’t keep up!” I fume, quickening my pace. But I’ve not taken five or six steps when Goll wraps a burly arm around my waist and hauls me off the ground. “Hoi!” I cry. “Put me down!”

“Stop struggling,” Goll says and settles me on his shoulders, my legs either side of his head. “We might have need of you later. You’re no good to us fit for nothing but sleep.”

“I’m fit to turn you into a frog if you don’t put me down!” I grunt, but secretly I’m delighted and after struggling playfully for a minute, I settle back and let Goll be my horse for the rest of the afternoon, admiring the view from up high and saving my strength in case I’m called upon to fight demons in the dark.

We come to the crossing point of Sionan’s river late in the evening. The river’s narrow here, easy to ford. This is the joining point of two tuatha. A large cashel once stood here, the largest in the province. A couple of wooden roads lead up to and away from the place where the impressive stone fort stood. Many carts used to travel this way and the roads were carefully tended. But the cashel’s a pile of rubble now and the roads are in disrepair. We’d heard the cashel had been overrun by demons but hoped the reports were wrong. This would have been the ideal place to shelter tonight.

“What now?” Connla asks, studying the untidy mound which was once the pride of the province. “Cross the river or camp here?”

“Cross,” Ronan and Lorcan say together.

“There’s no safety here,” Ronan says.

“Where demons attack once, they’ll attack again,” Lorcan agrees.

“And many can’t cross flowing water,” Ronan says. “We’d be safer on the other side.”

Connla nods but looks uneasy. There was never a fort on the opposite side of the river, just some huts where folk of the neighbouring tuath dwelt. They used to greet those who crossed the river and either grant them the freedom of their tuath or turn them back. The huts are still standing but we can’t see any people. They might be hiding or they might all be murdered, demons sheltering inside the huts from the sun.

“Come on,” Goll says, setting me down and taking the lead. “The sun’s setting. Let’s get across and find a hole for the night which we can defend.”

There are dugouts tethered to the banks of the river, bobbing up and down. Each holds four people at most. We head for the nearest pair. Ronan and Lorcan team up with Run Fast and me. Goll, Orna, Fiachna and Connla take the other. Lorcan grabs the rope of our dugout and hauls it in. He’s almost pulled the boat up on dry land when I get a warning flash.

“Lorcan! No!” I scream.

He reacts instantly, drops the rope and leaps backwards just in time. A huge demonic eel unleashes itself at him, rising out of the boat like an arrow shot from a bow. Its jaws are impossibly wide, filled with teeth which would be more suited to a bear.

The demon snaps for Lorcan’s head and only misses by a finger’s breadth. It lands hard on the earth and writhes angrily, going for Lorcan’s legs. Ronan steps up beside his brother and stabs at the place where the demon’s eyes should be. But it doesn’t have any. It’s blind, operating by some other form of sense.

Orna jumps on to the demon’s back and hacks at it with her three-bladed knives, one in either hand. The demon bucks and twists desperately, trying to dislodge her, but she rides it like a pony, digging her heels in, face twisted as she screams hatefully, tattoos rippling with fury.

Connla takes aim and hurls a spear at the beast, down its maw of a mouth. The spear sticks deep in its throat. The demon chokes and slams its head downwards, trying to spit out the spear.

Goll darts forward, grabs the shaft of the spear and drives it further into the Fomorii’s throat, twisting savagely. The demon spasms, then weakens. Suddenly the warriors are all over it, hacking away like ants trying to bring down a badger. Fiachna, Run Fast and I watch from nearby.

“Do you think I should help?” Fiachna asks, fingers tapping the head of an axe which hangs from his belt.

“They’re in control,” I tell him.

And, moments later, the battle’s over and the eel demon lies at their feet, covered in the grey blood which previously pumped through its veins, torn to pieces, jaws stretched wide in a final death snarl.

Goll grasps the handle of the spear, yanks it out and hands it to Connla. He laughs and claps the younger warrior on the back. “A master throw!”

Connla smiles sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to hurl it down the beast’s throat,” he says with untypical modesty. “I aimed for the top of its head. But it moved. I got lucky.”

“I’ll always take luck over skill,” Goll says, clapping Connla’s back again. The pair grin at each other like lifelong friends.

“I’ve never fought a water demon before,” Orna grunts, wiping her knives clean on the grass. She dabs at the final few drops of grey blood with her middle finger, then rubs it into the centre spots of her spiral tattoos, one after the other.

“They’re rare,” Ronan says, studying the demon, turning it over on to its back with his foot. “We’re lucky it’s not night or it would have been stronger.”

“Come on,” I mutter, glancing around uneasily. “It’ll be sunset soon. More will be coming.”

That silences everyone. After a quick check to make sure the second dugout is free of demons, we’re in the boats and crossing the river as swiftly as possible, everybody keeping one eye on the water, wary of attack from beneath.

THE STONES

Nobody emerges from the huts as we dock. When we’re on dry land, we stare at the huts suspiciously. You’re not supposed to enter a tuath without announcing yourself and being guided by one of your own rank. But times have changed. Many of the old laws no longer apply.

“You in the huts!” Goll bellows, in case anyone’s alive inside.

Silence.

“Should we go see if anybody’s there?” Fiachna asks.

“They’d have answered if there was,” Connla says.

“Unless they’re scared or sheltering underground,” Orna notes.

Ronan points silently at a spot to the left of the huts. My eyes aren’t as sharp as his, so it takes me a few seconds to focus. Then I see it—a small arm, probably a child’s, lying in the dirt.

Goll sighs, draws his sword and moves to the front of the group. “Let’s go,” he says gruffly, and we proceed at a forced, nervous jog.

There’s nowhere to shelter, so we don’t stop when the sun sets, but keep going, hoping to outpace any demons which catch our scent. I try to persuade myself that we won’t be noticed. Only a fool travels at night in these troubled times. The Fomorii won’t expect to find anyone out in the open. Maybe they don’t even look any more.

A silly, childish notion. But for an hour it seems as though it might hold true. We don’t sight any demons and hope begins to grow.

But then we hear a howl of inhuman vibrancy far behind us, but not far enough for comfort. We pause and listen as the howl is answered by others. In my mind’s eye I see a group forming, demons and the living dead. They gather around the one who found our trail, sniff the air, lick the earth, quiver with excitement—then lurch forward, to run us down.