Despite Upthog’s declarations, Scamp hadn’t expected the gruff voice from the door. With a skip of his heart, he watched a blond warrior walk in, another behind him. They were not nervous, with naked arms at their sides, weapons sheathed, and helmets hanging from their belts. Black boiled leather covered their torsos. Triús covered their legs to just below the knee, where riding boots took over.

  Magón’s guards. Trackers. She told the truth about that, anyway.

  If she’d told him the truth about the murder, could she be telling the truth about the rest? The guards who’d entered caused his heart to flutter with nerves. These were men who would not stand for any mischief, sure as rabbits in a meadow.

  The one who’d spoken was grinning at them; the other chuckled. Scamp didn’t relax because of the grin. A move from friendliness to outright violence was a blink away. White scars crisscrossed all four naked arms. These were veterans of many hard knocks. They could take him without raising a sweat. Scamp wanted to cry. His adventures were over before even beginning.

  “We’ll all be calm now, won’t we? Calm as a hound after eating a stag.”

  The words made Scamp think of a wolfhound after feasting, chops resting on crossed forepaws; listening to what was happening without lifting its head; an animal assured in the kill and the feast.

  These two are no different to a wolfhound.

  “Who’re youse? What d’ye want?” Upthog asked, her face as unreadable as a naked shield, her eyes as dull as an unpolished boss.

  And if they’re the hounds, she is the hound master.

  The thought, completely unbidden, didn’t make much sense to Scamp. He didn’t know enough about the woman to reach any such conclusion. It was as if some outside force was giving him important information.

  “Just the boy. Wanted fer murder, so he is,” the talker said.

  “Who wants him?”

  “That’d be Volt, Magón’s Champion. Oh, and the bundún, Kathvar. Then the King, o’ course, who they all speak for. Or is it act for? Never knew the difference, so I didn’t.” Scamp watched Upthog shake her head before nodding at the speaker.

  “Wanted by the King, eh? Well, won’t argue. No use for the boy round here, anyway. Can’t even till a bit of muck. Take him.”

  Scamp glared at her with his mouth open, but she refused to meet his eye. Her words hurt for a moment until he realised she owed him nothing. Why would she die in this glade defending someone she hardly knew? Reverse the roles, and he would give her up, and Fomorii take her. Besides, what could a mad-as-a-bag-of-rats herbalist do against two armed trackers? Beat them to death with her cauldron? Not just armed trackers. Trackers from Volt’s troop. The best. So good that even the King called on them.

  She’s master of nothing but a cauldron, he thought.

  Scamp shuddered when the silent one moved over and took him by the shoulder. He thought briefly of ducking down and running for the door but was too late. The other tracker might have been inside his head because he moved to block the way, still grinning like the hound who got the liver.

  “Nothing mad now, hear?” he asked.

  As sure as rabbits in a meadow, Scamp thought, and nodded and then shook his head, unsure which was correct. Uncertain whether he would yield without a fight. Well, his version of a fight, which was run like the Four were after him. Unsure if he could do anything other than run. These men were veteran trackers, and he was just a boy fond of lighting fires.

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  “You’re doing the right thing,” the talker said to Upthog as the other guided Scamp out through her door and into the glade.

  As he would expect of Volt’s trackers, they wasted no time. One standing on either side of him, the guards guided Scamp out of the clearing, heading for the King’s Highway. He glanced into the clearing just before they lost sight of the roundhouse. Upthog was watching them, hands on hips, with a blank expression.

  Cac on that.

  “Do we need to tie you?” the talker asked.

  Scamp shook his head and glared down at his boots, not trusting himself to speak. There was no point in running. These two would track him and then truss him like a chicken for the pot. The only way out would be to convince the Champion he didn’t do it. He supposed the Champion would have authority over Kathvar. Volt spoke for the Chief and, like the tracker said, for the King. He could argue against the Summoner, surely.

  But would he?

  Upthog said she thought Kathvar killed Cathal, but if he told him, would Volt believe Scamp? It would be the word of a known mischief-maker against that of the village peacekeeper. The other stuff she’d said, he didn’t believe. From how people spoke, Kathvar’d always been the law in the village. It being a strange plan of the bundún was so much cac. He should have asked her how she knew. It was stuff a recluse wouldn’t know. Not unless…

  Mad as a bag full of starved rats held over a fire and poked with a stick.

  But was she, though? She’d been to Caer Scál and warned him. Told him he needed to run. She even offered him her donkey and some silver. He was sure no one was in the shed when he set the fire. Who could have burned the old reprobate if not Kathvar? And she mentioned that Kathvar killed her brother, which brought another question bubbling to the surface.

  Why is she here near the village? Near where Kathvar lives.

  Walking down the deer track, it seemed obvious she had a grudge against the village peacekeeper. She could easily be using the old legends to justify her hatred, like the talk of Dhuosnos and the Scourges with demon hordes, like the talk of witch-hunts and rewards for freeing the giant.

  Like making Kathvar into a monster.

  As they broke from the forest onto the road, Scamp gazed up the King’s Highway towards Caer Scál. Not even two days gone, and he missed the village. When the guards guided him in the opposite direction, he frowned.

  “Where’re we going?”

  “Caer Droma. Champ’s waiting for you there. No doubt drinking a cup, so the sooner there, the sooner we can join him.”

  “Why Caer Droma?”

  “It’s on the way to Tayvir, so it is. The Champ’s bringing you before the King.”

  Scamp felt his mouth drop. With all the talk of the King back at the roundhouse, he’d still not suspected they’d be bringing him to Connavar. It made little sense to Scamp. Why would the King be interested in Caer Scál’s laws or the murder of an old gate guard? Surely there were more important things to occupy him.

  “Don’t worry, boy, Volt’ll make sure you get a fair hearing, so he will.”

  Cac on that. “I didn’t do it,” he whispered.

  “Well, ain’t that as sure as rabbits—”

  “In a meadow,” the silent one—or, at least, mostly silent—interrupted.

  “It’s true, though.”

  “Aye, well—”

  Whatever the tracker was going to say was halted by a thud and a sound like someone dropping a bag of supplies. Cursing, the other tracker spun and started to say, “What the—” when another thud stopped him.

  Moments later, Scamp was staring at the trackers where they were lying half on and half off the road. The first had an arrow in the back of his head, and the other, an arrow in his temple. Scamp frowned down at them until he heard boots thumping towards him.

  He started to flee, when the words, “Scamp, it’s me,” stopped him.

  “You killed them,” he said as Upthog arrived before him. He could feel tears pricking the corners of his eyes.

  “There was no other way.”

  “What’s that mean? No other way.”

  Someone’s made it seem like I murdered Cathal, but you did murder these two.

  “There’s no time. Come, I will explain when we’ve got more to play with, no.”

  “I ain’t going with you. You’re as mad as a bag of rats.”

  “I’ll ignore the insult. What’ll ye do if ye don’t come with me?”

  Scamp didn’t need time to think about it. To him, it seemed like there was only one choice. “I’m going to Caer Droma to tell the Champ what happened. To tell him I’m innocent.”

  “Ye think that bodalán’ll believe ye?”

  “He has to. Surely. There must be some honest people.” Watching her, he could see she was far from convinced. He wanted to believe—had to believe, in truth.

  “Sorry, boy,” Upthog said.

  “For what—” he started to ask before he felt pressure on the back of his neck. Trying to turn, he felt his knees give out and he sagged into blackness.