Scamp waited until he could hear her snoring lightly. There was a glow from the embers giving enough light for him to see the hump she made on the other side of the fire. After eating, he’d wrapped himself in his blanket, fully dressed, including his boots. He didn’t want to wake her through dressing. Throwing off the cover, he started climbing slowly, noiselessly, to his feet, keen to get away from the horror he was now sure this woman represented. She could deny it until her hair fell out, but her actions spoke louder than her words. The arguments for running were solid because even if she didn’t kill the White Cloaks to release him from the granary, she did kill the trackers. He didn’t care how many excuses she thought she had. Murder was murder, whichever way it was dressed up by the guilty.

  Set on his chosen course, another thought struck him as he climbed to his feet, Am I running from her or my destiny?

  Was everything happening to him preordained? He tried to recap events. Had anything proven or disproven what his dreams and the recluse were trying to tell him? Scamp could only think of one proof. He had tried and failed to conjure a demon, which might prove the dreams to be nothing but that and Upthog as mad as a bag of rats, as he’d suspected from the outset. Even trying to call something from legend didn’t make much sense to him. If he didn’t believe, then why did he try?

  Desperation? Stupidity? Cac?

  Did anything make sense now? It all seemed too much for one so young. He’d spent his life being more mature than his peers, but that had been an accident of circumstance, not an act of the Fáithe. A violent drunk for a Dah would be enough to age the most immature of dailtíni. Being more mature than his peers didn’t mean he was mature enough. Nothing would mature him enough.

  What’s the consequence of running?

  He remembered Kathvar trying to teach him about consequences—he always said everything has an impact. Of course, Kathvar was usually talking about Scamp’s misbehaving and not something as grave as abandoning destiny.

  You set a tinder; something burns; you slash with a knife, and someone bleeds. You murder; you deserve to hang.

  But not everyone did hang. Did that not disprove Kathvar’s argument? Didn’t it mean nothing is preordained but a sequence of unrelated coincidences? Conquest. War. Pestilence. Death. Random events and not some scheme of the Creator. Not some scourge to aid Nature or punish humankind for their excesses.

  “Ow,” he hissed under his breath. He hadn’t realised he was in a half crouch until his calves started to burn with the effort. “Cac.”

  “Crouching s’long hurts, don’t it?” Her words caused his throat to constrict as though a chicken bone had lodged in it.

  “Ah, Upthog, you’re awake. I um, I was just, in just…” he stuttered, staring over the fire. He couldn’t see whether her eyes were open or even if she had her back or her front to him.

  Tuatha take her.

  “Shut yer eineach, boy. Yer running.”

  “No, I was going for a whizz—”

  “Didn’t even take yer boots off before wrapping up. D’ye think I’m an amadán?’

  He realised there was little point in arguing. “Cac on you, Upthog. You blame me for wanting out? You’re a killer.”

  “I won’t tell ye again; it wasn’t me as killed them White Cloaks at the granary.”

  What difference does that make?

  “You killed the trackers,” he said, staring at where Rosie fidgeted in the rear as if sensing their argument.

  Her next words surprised him, “I won’t stop ye, boy. Ye should know, though, that these mountains are full o’ cats. Big uns, too. To say nought of whatever killed those women.”

  “So, it was a shape changer.”

  “That’s some leap. Don’t matter, though. Shape changer, wolf, bear, what’s the difference? They’ll split ye from gullet to crotch either way.”

  Scamp continued staring into the back of the cave. He now thought he knew what the consequence would be if he left. In truth, he hadn’t thought about it before Upthog pointed it out.

  Mountain lions, bears, and Tuatha know what else. Cac.

  He knew, in many ways, he came across as arrogant but wouldn’t be so foolish as to think he could survive a bear attack without help.

  Slumping back down, he wrapped himself in his blanket and turned his back to the embers and the annoying losán. He hated to admit defeat, but maybe there would be an opportunity later, perhaps when they were out of the mountains and back in civilisation.

  “Thought ye were desperate for a whizz, boy?”

  He could hear the laughter in her tone, and it made him want to weep. Not that he needed a reason to cry; he had more than enough reasons.

  “Cac on you, Upthog,” he said under his breath.

  “Ye wouldn’t be the first.”

  ***

  Volt rode up the hill to the capital shortly after sunrise in the company of six horse warriors—the First Leathdhosaen. After cresting the hill, they went east towards the stables outside the main walls. He could only describe the view from the hill outside the fort as breathtaking: the wooden bridge spanning the fast-flowing, aptly named Big River; the empty plains of the First Canton; on the horizon, poking its bald head above the plain, Mount Solitude.

  Swinging out of his saddle on reaching the stables, Volt could see the wooden watchtowers behind the ramparts, warriors in them keeping a constant vigil—watching for an attack. Not that anyone had the strength to attack Connavar’s capital—none of the clans of North Kingdom, at least. Besides, the three chiefs had all sworn fealty to the King and would not risk the wrath of the Tuatha by breaking their oaths.

  Fools to a one.

  He had no time for the chiefs, his own, Magón, least of all. Before Connavar united them through battle—beating them into submission, they’d been petty-minded fools without direction. After Connavar joined them, they remained petty-minded fools without direction but with a King.

  The First Leathdhosaen were under strict orders from Mesroeda to deliver him to Murias. Mes and the messenger had gone ahead, mumbling something about a mission for the King.

  Volt took his saddle bags and walked around the palisade, leaving his horse to be tended by the stable hand. The horse warriors remained in their saddles and rode behind him. After delivering Volt, they would return to hunting for the woman and boy, now more than a duty because one or both of them killed four of their friends and comrades.

  The thick trunks of the fort’s walls stood proud of the hill by the height of two tall men. He could hear the banter of the guards walking the ramparts. With those in the watchtowers, it seemed Connavar was on a war footing, born out when Volt reached the gates to find them closed. On a typical day, they would be open but guarded.

  “Let me in,” he called, banging on the gate with the hilt of his longsword.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  To face the King’s justice.

  “Who demands entrance to Murias?” someone called from the gatehouse.

  Shaking his head, Volt took several steps back and, turning his head up, shouted, “If you don’t get this gate open, Fachta, I’ll tell your Mah.”

  Shortly after the words, a red-headed youth gazed over one of the pointed logs, “Oh, it’s you, Volt.”

  “Who did you think it was? And how is Maga?”

  “Mah’s fine. She’s expecting ye. Open the gate for Magón’s champion.”

  Volt watched as the First Leathdhosaen turned their horses and rode for Caer Droma without a word. He briefly considered walking away before realising that if Maga expected him, her guards would be waiting for him to run. If they were anything like the King, hoping he would run. He probably wouldn’t reach the road before being peppered full of arrows.

  “You tell her I sent greetings,” Volt called up to Fachta as he passed through the half-open gate.

  “Tell her yerself. She’s on door guard at the hall. Yer expected up there, so ya’re.”

  He nodded and strode up the main thoroughfare leading to the central square. Reaching the square, he stopped in front of the familiar sight. The large space was dominated by the King’s hall and, opposite, the gallows, a monstrosity of blackened timbers Connavar had built soon after assuming the throne. If anyone had been wondering what sort of King he would make, the gallows crushed their doubts. His father, who died in a mysterious hunting accident, had been affable. Ineffective but affable. No one would think Connavar was the King’s son unless they knew it was the case, so different were they. Connavar was neither ineffective nor affable. Shortly after coming to power, he created a well-trained army and set about subjugating the three other Northern cantons. What his father had failed to achieve with diplomacy, Connavar got through the shield wall.

  And now we owe fealty to a bloodsucker.

  Approaching the hall, Volt could see six guards lounging about as if off duty. Their relaxed postures didn’t fool him. He knew they would defend that door with their lives and wouldn’t give them cheaply. They wore the same black cloaks Mes had worn when he announced his treachery.

  Black opposing the colour of the old White Cloaks. The notion was so infantile, Volt needed to concentrate to suppress the laugh he could feel building.

  “Maga,” he nodded to the woman who was obviously in charge.

  Before answering, she removed her helm and ran a hand through sweaty red locks.

  “He ain’t ready for you.”

  Volt nodded again. “Any idea how long?”

  “You know him well as me, Volt. Could be moments, hours, or days.”

  “I’ll wait awhile and then head to the hostel.”

  “You’re to be kept in the lockup,” Maga said, shrugging an apology. “Give up your weapon, and I’ll see you’re comfortable.”

  He unbelted his sword and handed it over; sure there would be little comfort to be had in the guardhouse cell. Comfort for those headed for the gallows had not been a priority when they built the squat building beside the gate, Connavar’s first order as King, even before ordering the gallows.

  “Why am I here?” Volt asked Maga as she escorted him back the way he’d come.

  As expected, Maga shrugged before saying, “The bodalán, Kathvar, rode in like the Four was after ‘im. Then the King ordered your arrest. He sent your man Mes and our new King’s Guard Captain, Mac Da Tho, to get you.”

  Mes and this Mac Da Tho are involved somehow; I’d wager my mare on it.

  “You all in this new King’s Guard?”

  “Aye. Formed to protect Connavar in the coming war.”

  “There’s a war coming?”

  “Ain’t there always?”

  “Where’s Kathvar? I’ve a right to face my accuser.”

  “You’ll get your chance when called before Connavar. That said, no one’s seen the bodalán since his arriving.”

  Typical, he thought as Maga guided him through the cell door with a firm hand.

  After listening to the clang of the iron-barred door shutting on him, Volt squatted against the rear wall to await Connavar’s pleasure.

  ***

  The morning saw her laughter had evaporated. Scamp guessed she’d thought about it and decided his sneaking off—or trying to, at least—was unacceptable. Whatever the reason, she threw bread and cheese at him without a word, packed up the donkey and set off before he’d a chance to eat it.

  Cac on her.

  Eating while walking was inconvenient but not the end of the world. He guessed her mood would lighten as the sun warmed her cockles. He couldn’t have been more wrong. Shortly after leaving, the sky clouded with a mass of broiling grey. The rain began about an hour later and continued for most of the day. That night saw them sitting in a cold camp—she wouldn’t allow a fire—wet and miserable. If Upthog’s mood had been sullen during the day, it became unbearably so during the night. Strangely, it made Scamp feel a little better to think she was suffering. When he’d asked about another hideaway, she ignored him, instead throwing him a strip of dried meat that was like chewing on his boots, only less flavoursome.

  “Will be better tomorrow,” he said, more to himself than her.

  “Ye think, bodalán? How? Believe when I say it can only get worse. Now, get some sleep.”

  Scamp grinned at the idea that he would be able to sleep. Wet, cold, a sore jaw from chewing a hide, and depression were not the best ingredients for a night of slumber.

  He was surprised, however, to wake with the birds twittering in the trees, a green light suffusing the clearing, which was so appealing in the light. He felt the morning buoying his mood until he found Upthog glaring at him over a bowl, chewing. Seeing the bowl, he saw a smokeless fire before her and got an enticing aroma of what smelled like rabbit stew.

  “Get yer bits done. We leave as soon as I’ve packed Rosie.”

  “What about something to eat?”

  “Those too lazy to wake with the dawn eat walking.”

  “Hard to eat stew walking.”

  “Ain’t it just.”

  A short time later, Scamp found himself walking behind the donkey, chewing a piece of stale bread and wishing the Creator would strike her down so he could eat the rest of the rabbit she’d packed away.

  Cac on you, Upthog.

  The following days continued in the same pattern: Scamp wished he was elsewhere while Upthog stewed in her mood. They spoke only those words that were necessary. The weather remained changeable, and he was starting to wonder whether they would ever get somewhere it would be possible for him to leave.

  Aside from the depression caused by her mood, Scamp felt he was being watched. The further south they got, the more he was convinced some malign being was stalking him. It was a feeling of disquiet as if he were on the edge of discovery, unable to bridge the final span. Occasionally, he thought he caught further glimpses of colour but was unsure. He didn’t mention them to Upthog; sure she would ridicule him.

  It seemed like the woman knew how to bear a grudge. As they climbed a steep path, Scamp wondered how much more he could stand. She’d said five or six days’ travel six days before.

  “Are we coming to the mine soon?” he asked, not expecting a response.

  “Aye, over this next hill, we go west. Half a day, and we’ll be there.”

  They walked over the hump, and Scamp stopped with his mouth open.

  “Where’s the trees?”

  He couldn’t believe what he was seeing—no forest for leagues. The country was flat and appeared to be bare, inhospitable. In the middle of the plain, a massive mountain with what appeared to be flat peaks.

  “What’s that mountain?” he asked.

  “Mount Solitude. Used to be me home.”

  “Isn’t that where the survivors lived?”

  “Aye. Top of the peaks are flat. They lived up there for a year ‘til the floods subsided,’ she said, before adding as an afterthought, “So legend tells us.”

  “Are we going there? Is that where the mine is?”

  “No, boy. Mine’s the opposite way, up that valley where you can see a river flowing out.”

  Following her finger, Scamp saw a narrow gorge was just visible in the mountains. Below them, a small road meandered in the direction of the valley. Beside it, a broad river flowed.

  “So, not far then.”

  The sight of the road seemed to have improved Upthog’s mood. The broadness of her grin matched that of the river. “The fords are in the valley, near the mine.”

  So, they headed west and slightly south, following the road but staying in the hills in case anyone came searching for them. Nearing their goal lifted a weight from their backs. Upthog started chatting to the extent that Scamp was tempted to tell her to give her tongue a rest.

  Finally, they crested another hill to see the entrance of the mine below them. Scamp had never seen anything so fascinating as a working mine. Men were trundling barrows out, which were filled with stone. The men emptied these stones into what appeared to be an enormous smithy, where smoke rose from several smoke holes in the thatch. Scamp could hear the ding of hammers, how he would expect a battle tattoo to sound—sword on sword.

  Several wagons were parked in front of the smithy. Men were loading them with empty barrels. Directing the men was the biggest specimen of humanity Scamp had ever seen. Even from the side of the hill, he could see an enormous brown beard covering the man’s face.

  “Come, Scamp. I want to introduce ye to a friend.”

  Upthog didn’t wait to see if he followed but ran down the hill like a young girl seeing a long-lost father for the first time in an age. When she reached the giant of a man, she stopped and wailed with glee. He picked her up and swung her around, just like a father who has been lost seeing his girl for the first time in an age.

  “Quick, boy,” she called.

  “I’m coming,” he replied, but saw no reason to run.

  When he finally caught up to them, Upthog said, “Scamp. Cúipéir. Cúipéir. Scamp. Cúipéir’s the mine’s smith and barrel maker.”

  Confronted by the barrel-chested man, he wondered if anyone could have a more apt profession.