Bec

The demon collapses, half its legs gone, sight destroyed. Ronan steps on its head, takes aim, then buries a knife deep in its brain. The dog-spider stiffens, whines one last time, then dies. Ronan withdraws his knife and wipes it clean on his long hair. His natural red hair is stained an even darker shade of red from the blood of demons. Lorcan’s stubble is blood-caked too. They never wash.

Ronan looks at me and grins. “Nice work.” Then he runs with Lorcan to where Co

I take stock. Goll’s section is secure—the demons are retreating. The boar-shaped Fomorii has been pushed back over the fence. It’s clinging to the poles, but its fellow demons aren’t supporting it. When Ronan and Lorcan hit, blades turning the air hot, it screams shrilly, then launches itself backwards, defeated. Co

They’re retreating. We’ve survived.

Before anyone has a chance to draw breath, there’s a roar of rage and loss. It comes from near the back of the rath—Amargen, Ninian’s father. He’s cradling the dead boy in his arms. He had five children once. Ninian was the last. The others—and his wife—were all killed by demons.

Co

Amargen stops, draws his sword and points it at Co

No bluff in the threat. Co

Amargen quickly hooks the chariot—a cart really, nothing like the grand, golden chariots favoured by champions in the legends—up to a horse. It’s the last of our horses, a bony, exhausted excuse for an animal. He lashes the horse’s hind quarters with the blunt face of his blade and it takes off at a startled gallop. Racing through the open gate, Amargen chases the demons and roars a challenge. I hear their excited snorts as they stop and turn to face him.

The gate closes. A few of the people on the rampart watch silently, sadly, as Amargen fights the demons in the open. Most turn their faces away. Moments later—human screams. A man’s. Terrible, but nothing new. I say a silent prayer for Amargen, then turn my attention to the wounded, hurrying to the rampart to see who needs my help. The fighting’s over. Time for healing. Time for magic. Time for Bec.

REFUGEES

No clouds. The clearest day in a long time. Good for healing. I take power from the sun. It flows through me and from my fingers to the wounded. I use medicine, pastes and potions where they’re all that’s needed. Magic on those with more serious injuries—Scota and a few others who were struck by the Fomorii’s fire-blood.

The warriors are tired, their sleep disturbed. They’ll rest later, but most are too edgy to return to their huts straightaway. It takes an hour or two for the battle lust to pass. They’re drinking coirm now and eating bread, discussing the battle and the demons.

I’m fine. I had a full night’s sleep, only coming on watch a short while before the attack. That’s my regular pattern on nights when there isn’t an early assault.

Having tended to the seriously wounded, I wander round the rath, in case I’ve missed anybody. I used to think the ring fort was huge, ten huts contained within the circular wall, plenty of space for everyone. Now it feels as tight as a noose. More huts have been built over the last year, to shelter newcomers from the neighbouring villages in our tuath. Many of those who lived nearby were forced out of their homes and fled here for safety. There are twenty-two huts now, and although the walls of the rath were extended outwards during the spring, we weren’t able to expand by much.

The use of magic has wearied me and left me hungry. I don’t have much power, nothing like what Banba had. The sun helps but it’s not enough. I need food and drink. But not coirm. That would make me dizzy and sick. Milk with honey stirred in it will give me strength.

Goll’s sitting close to the milk pails. He looks downhearted. He’s scratching the skin over his blind right eye. Goll was king of this whole tuath years ago, the most powerful man in the region, with command of all the local forts. There was even talk that he might become king of the province—our land is divided into four great sectors, each ruled by the most powerful of kings. None of our local leaders had ever held command of the province. It was an exciting prospect. Goll had the support of every king in our tuath and many in the neighbouring regions. Then he lost his eye in a fight and had to step down. He’s not bitter. He never talks of what might have been. This was his fate and he accepts it.

But Goll’s in a gloomy mood this morning. He hates making mistakes. Feeling sorry for the old warrior, I sit beside him and ask if he wants some milk.

“No, Little One,” he says with a weak smile.

“It wasn’t your fault,” I tell him. “It was a lucky strike by the Fomorii.”

Goll grunts. That should be the end of it, except Co

Goll stiffens and glares at Co

“At least I was there to make a mistake,” Goll growls. “Where were you, Co

“I was in the thick of the fighting,” Co

“Aye,” Goll sneers. “You hit it with a spear. In the back. While it was ru

Co

“Enough!” Co

“He questioned my courage,” Co

“And you called him an old goat,” Co

Goll sighs and extends a hand. Co