Upthog struggled to get out of the hammock, laughing to hide her stress. As she swore under her breath, Scamp thought through her earlier words. She claimed to have told him the truth about the Summoners—the absolute truth—so he would stop fretting over his part in the unfolding story. Contrary to her aims, the truth did nothing to make him worry less. If anything, what she’d said made him question her part and her motives. Besides, that faraway look when she spoke made him feel ill at ease.

  What does she gain from it all?

  She’d already told him she came from a steading on the slopes of Mount Solitude—the mountain where the Creator ordered the survivors to go. Was that just a coincidence? It seemed unlikely. It seemed to hint that the descendants of the survivors still lived on the mountain, and she was one of them, which conjured a whole new set of reasons to fret. Did she not tell him the original survivors betrayed the Creator; one of them, at least? And where would they settle but on the slopes that saved them?

  Would they still be there after thousands of summers?

  He didn’t know. What he did know was worrying about it would change nothing. As he started to climb the ladder, he turned his mind away from the problem, intent on getting through the next little while without any new upsets. He promised himself he would think about it later, fret about it later, maybe even confront her with it later.

  Put your mind to your immediate future.

  What Scamp hadn’t thought through was how they would get from the ship to Muirbheach on the north coast of Middle Kingdom. The size of the Sea Wolf should have provided him with clues. She was too big to pull up onto the sand, as he imagined the crews of lesser vessels would do. So, he followed the sailor and Upthog up the ladder with a mounting curiosity.

  When they arrived on deck, he could see sailors hoisting a small boat over the side using a weighted arm similar to one he’d seen used in Camas Clochaí before they sailed. Eogan was directing them with gruff commands and feigned impatience. Scamp could see all the sailors near were grinning like cats given access to the dairy just after the cows had been milked.

  Two men stood in the boat holding the ropes attached to both front and rear, and a third stood at the tiller, grinning at Scamp. The sailors on the lifting arm chanted as they hoisted it over the ship’s side. The small vessel was soon bobbing in the sea next to the ship, like a duckling sticking close to its mother. Moments after it hit the water, a thick rope net hung from hooks in the ship’s rail. Two of the men in the boat were holding it, urging Scamp and Upthog to climb down.

  “Packs and bow are in the boat,” Eogan said, nodding at the bobbing duckling.

  “Boy first,” shouted the one standing beside the tiller, still grinning.

  “You can do this,” Upthog said as she gave him a pat of encouragement. Scamp didn’t feel confident, swinging his leg over the rail. Climbing down the first couple of rope rungs, he realised his nerves were not misplaced. The water swelled. The boat moved, and the ladder danced a jig as it did. The sea seemed to come alive as it tried to throw him off his perch as if it hated the thought of him reaching the safety of the small boat. The further down he got, the rougher the waves became, and the bigger the lump in his throat grew. Finally, convinced he would fall into the sea and drown, he screwed his eyes closed and hugged the rope in fear, feeling his face flush with humiliation.

  “What’s wrong?” Upthog called.

  She must have been watching, he realised, feeling his red cheeks redden even more.

  “Can’t swim.”

  “Not getting it, boy. Still don’t see what’s wrong.”

  “You blind? I’m stuck faster than a boot in a bog.”

  “Climb when the rope’s taught,” Eogan shouted from beside Upthog.

  “Climb when the rope’s taught,” Scamp said, too low to be heard.

  “Eogan’s is sound advice,” she called. “Do as he says, no. If ye can’t, I’ll come down and help.”

  Is that a threat? he wondered.

  Forcing his eyes open, he tilted his head back. He could see the woman leering at him over the ship’s rail. “Ye gonna move?”

  “Give me a moment.”

  Grinning enough to show her teeth, she said, “Right, I’m coming, so I am.”

  “No, no. I’ll do it. See, I’m moving,” he said, the threat of her help enough to get him moving like he was born to it. Keeping his eyes on the ship’s hull, he found each new rung with a foot until he felt a sailor grab his jerkin and tug him off the ladder with one hand.

  “See, not so bad as all that,” the man said.

  Scamp saw Upthog throw a leg over the rail, wondering why he’d been so nervous and trying to suppress the heat of his embarrassment. He frowned as Upthog seemed to float down the rope ladder. He could tell she’d done it before, which didn’t make his humiliation any easier to bear.

  “Why the long face, boy?” she asked as she jumped into the boat. He shook his head, unsure how to answer. Patting him on the back, she guided him towards a bench in the boat’s stern.

  “You made that seem easy.”

  “What’s the worst could happen? Wet clothes and pride.”

  “You said you can’t swim.”

  “I lied.”

  Frowning, he wondered what else she might have lied about. It seemed the longer they were together, the more lies he discovered. Sitting side by side facing the shore as two of the sailors rowed them towards the white dunes, which blocked sight of the land beyond, he wondered again about getting away.

  Are there bears in Middle Kingdom?

  He would have asked but guessed by doing so, she would know his thoughts. If he could use experience as a measure, Upthog would likely know his thoughts before he knew them.

  Grow up, boy, he thought, mimicking her scathing tones. Truth is, you need her.

  Whatever his feelings about Upthog, he thought he’d be doing well if he found a better guide. Her experience, hideaways, and acquaintances had kept the wolves outside the roundhouse. Apart from using him as bait, she’d protected him well.

  “Where’s the ship headed?” he asked as a distraction.

  “They’ll dock at Ceathru Rúa. Long stone pier, like Camas Clochaí. We’ve to disembark here because Kathvar’s people will be waiting on the pier. They’ll be watching all ports.”

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  “Does King Eochaid let them?”

  “The King knows little, if ought, about Kathvar’s Summoners. During the witch hunts, they were all over the Five Kingdoms. Kathvar and Volt. Quite a team, they were.”

  “Is the tracker a witch?” Scamp asked.

  It would explain a lot if he were, like why he always worked so closely with Kathvar. But then, he couldn’t be a witch after what happened in Caer Droma.

  “No. I think he’s just a gaimbín who’s easily led,” Upthog confirmed what he’d guessed.

  “You’re right. Kathvar fears him, I think. I saw it in Caer Droma.”

  “He’s strong and loyal, traits Kathvar would find threatening.” Despite the words, Scamp could feel her muscles were taut, like she was fighting hard to keep her anger in check.

  “You hate them, don’t you?” Upthog turned away, saying nothing.

  “What’s it like, behind the sand?” he asked, nodding at the wall of white, already much closer.

  “Ye’ll see soon enough. From the top of the dunes, you can see for leagues. The land’s flat and fertile. This season, hands will be out ploughing, ready for the planting. We’ll buy supplies from the hands: bread, cheese, dried meat—”

  “Will they still be there at this time?” Scamp interrupted.

  “They camp out in the fields during planting season.”

  “Why do they do that?” he asked, thinking it a strange practice.

  “Saves time. Maybe we’ll get some horses, too.”

  Scamp nodded and looked back at the ship. As he did so, he caught sight of something red flying above the Sea Wolf. It was like a large kite gliding on the updraught, and he shook his head in wonder. The bird probably thought the ship was a fishing vessel and would leave guts and heads for it to scavenge.

  “You’ll be disappointed,” he said.

  “Who?”

  “No one. Just a red kite flying above the ship.”

  ***

  Volt sat astride his mare and gazed down at the dirty-brown smudge gathering above the port’s roundhouses. In the centre, he could see the hostel, a three-storey wooden structure that appeared rickety even from atop his hill. He’d heard much about Lúr Cinn Trá’s hostel, none of which inspired him to go into it with his eyes half closed. According to rumours, like the settlement, the hostel attracted only the worst kind of amadán. He had no choice, though, as it was the only hostel in the port.

  “Well, horse, it has the reputation as the greatest pit in the kingdoms, but where better to drown in mead?” Volt shook his head and frowned. Whenever he started talking to the mare, it meant something was making him nervous. The last thing he would want now was more reasons to be worried.

  What am I doing here?

  Despite the thought, he knew the answer. It was a deep hole into which he could dive. A deep hole to hide his shame. A cesspool where he could drown without fear of being saved, which did nothing to explain his nerves.

  Not nerves. Misgivings, he realised.

  Something did not sit right with recent events. It was as if the world had decided to collapse in on itself, starting with the Five Kingdoms, its natural centre—as though a colossal sump had opened under the kingdoms to suck them down into the depths of Tartarus.

  If they can’t bring Dhuosnos to the surface, they must bring the surface to the Lord of Darkness. The thought raised a chuckle, not of mirth, but barely suppressed despair.

  And I am generally of such a happy disposition.

  Spitting in the mud, he stared at the cesspool.

  Although Murias was the capital of the First Cúinneán, Lúr Cinn Trá was by far the larger settlement. In fact, it was the largest settlement in North Kingdom. Volt supposed it sprawled ever wider because no palisade kept it within bound limits. Not that Murias remained within the limits of its barrier, far from it, but Murias burst its boundaries after many years. In contrast, Lúr Cinn Trá became a sprawling cesspool soon after they discovered a natural harbour out in the bay. Ships anchored; sailors came ashore; hovels sprang out of the sod in their hundreds. The illicit, the greedy, and the hangers-on all found a new life around the delta of the Big River, which split in two, creating natural defences to go with the harbour. There were two ways into the settlement: North Ford and South Ford, both narrow and easily defensible if the need arose, which it did more often than its chief, Gurk, would like, he supposed.

  He could see the guards standing about on the river’s banks as if exchanging gossip like unemployed fisher folk. They would be unaware the Chief had banished him from the Third Cúinneán, probably wouldn’t care anyway. It wasn’t like the cantons respected each other’s rules or hierarchy. He was in no doubt he could offer his services to Chief Gurk and would be readily accepted; however, he had no intention of doing so. He’d been disrespected enough over the last days and would not stand in the sights of a drawn longbow again, not willingly.

  Goading his mare with a gentle nudge, he rode down to North Ford and crossed without so much as a raised eyebrow from the settlement guards. The hostel boasted some stables, so shortly after crossing the river, Volt was sitting at a rough-hewn table in the common room.

  The hosteller who approached the table wiping his hands on a greasy apron was as derelict-looking as his establishment. What little hair he had left was grey and tufting above boxer’s ears, giving them the appearance of potatoes left too long in the cold store. His fleshy lips were downturned in a constant sneer.

  “What can I get you?” he asked in a honeyed voice in contrast to his appearance.

  “I need a room, a meal, and a flagon.”

  “Mead or ale?” Volt shrugged. So long as it was wet and strong, he didn’t care what it tasted like. “Show us the colour of yer silver.”

  Nodding, Volt unhooked his purse and dropped it on the table. It thumped and jangled with the sound of silver, and the hosteller went to fill the order without another word.

  While he waited, Volt gazed over the smoke-filled room. The firepit sat in the centre, clouds of brown smoke billowing in a lazy meander towards the hole above. Broad wooden stairs led up to the levels where the rooms must be. There were balconies around each upper level, held aloft by thick timbers. The patrons sat at tables under the balconies, deep in shadow, despite the torches in sconces on each upright. They were all cloaked and hidden by the shadows despite the light.

  Gazing at the sconces, Volt wondered at the naked flames. With the ageing dried wood, a stiff breeze would be enough to set the hostel ablaze that no amount of the water in barrels dotted about the common room would succeed in stifling.

  “You can have the room at top of the stairs on the upper level. Here’s the key,” the hosteller said, placing a flagon and a cup on the table. “Take yer bags up. Food’ll be ready by the time yer back.”

  “You not worried about fire?” Volt asked, nodding at a nearby sconce.

  “Flames ain’t real. Our Summoner comes in and replenishes them, time-to-time.”

  “Your Summoner?” Volt asked.

  Creating false fire sounded more like something a witch would do, but they were all dead as far as he knew; all except Kathvar, he remembered. Connavar had declared them outlaw, so at the least, if Chief Gurk thought there to be one in his canton, he should have arrested them and reported it. That is unless he didn’t know of the service the summoner offered.

  Of course, he knows. If he’s anything like Magón, he probably lives in here. “You have a law giver who knows magic?’

  “Aye. Real talent, so she is,” potato ears replied.

  It’s not your problem anymore.

  “Where exactly is my room?” he asked.

  “Up two sets of stairs. Right at the top. First door.”

  Volt took his saddlebags up to the room. Opening the door, he was surprised to find it clean and comfortable, unlike the hostel’s exterior, much like the hostel keeper. It was functional with a cot, a small table, and four stools. He thought there was little chance he’d be entertaining anyone, but if he did, the room provided the necessary.

  Returning to the drinking hall, Volt realised now the contrast between real and imagined was clear, he was anticipating a good meal. When he reached the top of the stairs to the first level, though, he stopped and thought about returning to his room before realising it would be a waste of time. Two warriors were talking to the hostel keeper, who had probably already told them Volt was here. Two warriors. One a head and shoulders taller than the other. Both with massive shocks of red hair. Mother and son.

  Maga and Fachta.

  Mother carrying her war hammer like she was setting out to battle.

  “What in the name of the Tuatha are you two doing here?” he asked when he reached the common room.

  Maga turned and said, “Volt. At last. We need you.”

  “You have my troop. What could you possibly need with me?” He recognised the anger in his question, suspecting it was born from his despair. Whatever the reason, he knew neither Maga nor Fachta were to blame and berated himself for his pettiness.

  “We might have yer troop, but we ain’t got yer nous,” Fachta said before his mother could speak.

  “Who asked you, boy,” Volt said, in no mood for platitudes.

  “He might’ve spoken out of turn, Volt, but boy’s right. We lack expertise.”

  “For what?”

  “For tracking. Someone has taken King Connavar.”