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  “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 that suck in the gaze of all who look at them in an almost mesmerizing 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 that are new to the brothers, and they practice until they’ve perfected them. Ronan and Lorcan, in turn, know lots of moves that 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 neighbors, 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.

  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 tuath 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 bec 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 haven’t 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 on 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. I admire the view from up high and save 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 that 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 neighboring 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 from the sun inside the huts.

  “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 that 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 backward 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 that 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 onto 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 downward, 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 that hangs from his belt.

  “They’re in control,” I tell him.

  Moments later, the battle’s over and the eel demon lies at their feet, covered in the gray blood that 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 gray blood with her middle finger, then rubs it into the center spots of her spiral tattoos, one after the other.

  “They’re rare,” Ronan says, studying the demon, turning it over onto 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 that 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 anymore.

  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.

  “They might be after someone else,” Connla says, but his words are hollow. We’ve been discovered.

  “Let’s pick up the pace,” Goll says, expression stern.

  Run Fast’s head shoots up. “Run fast?” he asks eagerly.

  “Aye,” Goll says, then grabs the boy as he starts to shoot off. “Not that fast!”

  We can hear them, a pack of demons crashing through the woods, snapping off branches, knocking over smaller trees. I’ve never known demons so excited. I guess, when they attack a fort, it’s hard work. It must be frustrating, the scent of prey thick in their nostrils, having to fight their way through, often failing. But out here, in the open, they have only to hunt us down and we’re theirs for the taking. They’re like dogs after a fox.

  We’re looking for a place to make a stand, somewhere we can defend. A cave would be perfect. We could squeeze in and fend them off, maybe keep them at bay for the rest of the night, then escape in the morning. But there are no caves, or at least none that we can find.

  Goll comes to a halt in a small clearing. Trees have been felled here some time in the last few years. Somebody probably planned to graze animals or build a hut, in the days before the demons came. Goll looks around, assessing.

  “Not here,” Connla wheezes, face dark from the strain. “Too exposed.”

  “There’s nowhere better,” Goll gasps. He points to a mound of logs covered in moss. “We can start a fire. Fell more trees, stake them in the ground, and sharpen the tops. Make it hard for the demons to strike all at once.”

  “But . . .” Connla looks to the others for support, but Ronan, Lorcan, and Orna are already drawing their weapons, preparing for battle. Fiachna has his axe out and is studying the trees. They know it’s hopeless, that we’re going to die. But what choice do we have? There’s nothing to do but draw our lines, wait, and face those who will most certainly destroy us. Die as warriors, with pride.

  I’m thinking about what spells I can use when a small hand slips into mine. I look around. Run Fast is smiling at me. “Run fast?” he whispers.

  “Not now,” I sigh.

  The boy frowns. “Run fast,” he says more firmly.

  I shake my head. “We have to stay and fight. Can you fight? Do you know how to —”

  The strange boy’s fingers grab mine tightly and his face hardens. “Run fast!” he hisses, then points with his free hand. “Worm pups!”

  I start to snap at him to be quiet. Then pause. There’s a tingling sensation in Run Fast’s fingers. Some sort of magic. I look down. His hand is glowing slightly. The boy looks at it too, then up at me. “Worm pups,” he repeats, softly this time.

  “Goll!” I shout. The old warrior glances at me. “We’re leaving.”

  “But —”

  “Don’t argue!” I move ahead with Run Fast. “We’ll die here. But I think, if we carry on, there’s . . .” I stop, not sure what might lie beyond, but sensing in my heart that it’s better than this.

  Everybody’s looking at me now, torn between hope and suspicion.

  “This place isn’t much,” Fiachna says, “but it’s defendable. If we’re caught on the run, we’re finished for sure. Are you certain...?”

  “Yes,” I growl. “We have to go. Now. W
e’re dead if we don’t.”

  “But we’ll live if we do?” Connla asks dubiously.

  “Perhaps.”

  It’s not enough. They don’t trust my instincts. They’re going to stay. I open my mouth to argue afresh, but then Orna lowers her knives and comes to my side. “I’m with the girl.”

  “Why?” Goll asks — not a challenge, just curious.

  Orna shrugs. “A feeling.”

  Lorcan taps a few of his earrings with a knife tip. “I don’t feel like we’ll live if we go, but I’m sure we’ll die if we stay.”

  Goll looks around at the others and asks the question with his eyes. They answer with weary glances and resigned shrugs. “So be it,” he says, sheathing his sword. “Bec — lead us.”

  We run.

  Sweat. Terror. The sounds of chasing demons. Almost upon us. A minute, maybe two, and we’ll be forced to stop and fight — stop and die.

  The trees are thick around us. Impossible to see far. It’s dark. Too dark. I look up and notice extra branches, scraps of cloth, thatch torn from roofs, all sorts of bits and pieces scattered among the treetops, linking the upper branches, keeping out the light of the moon and stars.

  My stomach sinks. This is a trap! I was wrong. Run Fast was sent to lead us to our doom. And we fell for it. I start to shout a warning, even though it’s far too late. Then...

  We burst into the open and come to a surprised halt. There’s a clear circle around us and at the center — a ring of giant stones. Most are taller than me. Some even tower above the lanky Ronan and Connla. Set in the ground at regular intervals. Ancient, covered in moss and creepers. A place of magic, but magic from a time before ours, the time of the Old Creatures, when this country was the playground of the gods.

  The demons are hot on our heels, surging up behind us, their stench