Scamp recalled arriving in her clearing shortly after mid-morning, scratched and tired. Upthog was sitting at her cauldron brewing some stink, sorting through shite on the ground between her legs and dropping it into the brownish slurry bubbling in her pot.

  “Watcha doin’ here, Boy,” she had asked, without looking up.

  He told her he’d left Caer Scál for good, but not why. Rather than commenting on his claim, she told him he smelled like a pile of shite; led him to the trough to wash and told him to get up her ladder and get some sleep. He recalled the comfort of her cot and the sweet smell of soap from the pillow.

  Scamp recalled all that.

  He’d no recollection of how he came to be standing a tall man’s hundred strides from this dark headland racked by storming seas. A bull-like rock dominated. The entrance to the rock was a gaping maw of bull’s mouth only lacking a pink tongue. Black. Not somewhere Scamp would enter of his own will. Indeed, somewhere he would fight hard not to enter at all.

  Despite wearing his heavy cloak, the one lined by rabbit fur, he felt the wind bite. Strangely, it was the cloak he’d left behind when fleeing Kathvar’s wrath. Sea spray was wetting his face, even so far from the rocks. Sea birds cawed above the sound of the waves striking the rocks and tower, so he was surprised to hear the voice.

  Come, Scamp. I await you.

  Thinking, he realised he didn’t hear the words; they just pressed into his head and seemed to cause his skull to bulge. The pressure brought an ache to his forehead, between his eyes, as did the image of a man in black robes. The man was tall and carried a heavy staff. His most striking feature was his eyes, which had no pupils and shone red, two bright points of light below the duller red of the ruby in the black strap around his head. Like the words, he didn’t see the man, just felt him.

  Not man, but demon, he thought.

  Behind the demon, three other figures. These were wavering as if seen through a fire’s heat haze. The one with the burning face and strange hat he had seen in the fire, one who was more bones and loose skin than a man, and a pale-skinned woman, near-naked in a flimsy dress and beautiful. Each had the same red eyes and a ruby adorning their forehead.

  Come, Scamp. Scamp…

  Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

  The Four, Dagda and Danu preserve me.

  “Scamp, wake up. Ye have to go.”

  He opened his eyes. Upthog was sitting on the cot’s edge, shaking his shoulder. He shuddered as the vestiges of pain behind his eyes began to recede. By the time the dream had taken on a hazy quality, he was sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

  “Get up. Ye’ve to get out of here, now.”

  “What’re you talking about? I just got here.”

  “Not true, boy. Ye’ve been asleep hours. While ye slept, I rode to the village. The old gate guard was in the cowshed ye set alight. Ye killed him.”

  “Cathal?” he asked, incredulous.

  How can it be?

  “Aye, who else?”

  Scamp felt his heart leap into his throat. Cathal was an old reprobate, but he didn’t deserve to be burnt alive. No one deserved that fate. He loved the flames and images they showed, but not to the extent he would kill to see them. He always made sure there was no one in anything he set alight.

  Did I miss him? I can’t have, there was nothing in the shed but a layer of dust.

  “No. The shed was empty. I checked.”

  Upthog stared at him. Her eyes bore into Scamp, suggesting the red eyes shining at him in his dream. He found himself turning away, unable to withstand their power.

  “Look at me, boy.” Unable to resist her voice even less than her eyes, Scamp snapped his head back. “No one was in that cowshed?”

  “No one. I swear it on the Tuatha.”

  Again, her eyes bore into him. Again, he wanted to turn away. He found himself unable to face them without wincing. Eventually, Upthog nodded once.

  “Ye must go. Through the forest. Magón’s guards will be watching the road.”

  “Where will I go?”

  Scamp felt panic start to build. Faced with a new reality, fear began to nip at his heels. The idea of running from the village peacekeeper after burning a cowshed held an element of excitement—a sense of adventure. No one would hunt him for a cowshed. He’d even harboured ideas of joining Upthog in her seclusion. Childish ideas. Running from murder was a much more daunting prospect. They would hunt him to death. Literally.

  “South. Ye must cross the Narrow Sea. Go to one of the other Kingdoms. Ye’re not safe in North Kingdom.”

  “Cac on that. I’ll never get there.”

  “Listen to yerself, boy. It’s about time ye let yer magairlí drop. Ye ain’t a little lost goat. I’ll give ye me donkey. She’s good in the forest and can carry enough provisions to see ye to the Narrow Sea. I’ll give ye silver enough to get ye started.”

  “But why are you helping me?”

  “I don’t believe ye killed Cathal.”

  “Who else?”

  “At a guess, I’d say Kathvar did it? He killed me brother during the witch hunts. Bundún has a scheme, and ye’re in the middle, no.”

  “Cac on that, Upthog. He has no reason to kill anyone and blame me.”

  “He’s every reason, boy. He’s a fraud. Although a bit of a rogue, ye’re the real Summoner.”