Turning, Scamp relaxed his knees and dropped from under the hand on his shoulder, landing in the loam. From his elbows, he could see a tall soldier, no doubt one of Volt’s Horse Warriors. The man was burly, blond, and wearing a white cloak over black leather armour. At least, he guessed it had been white once. Now, it was more cream and grey, with scuffed edges, near black at the bottom. Scamp caught glimpses of other white cloaks among the trees, but none of the warriors were in plain sight.

  “There’s no sign, Mes,” someone called. “Tuatha-forsaken witch vanished into nought. Gives me the shivers.”

  The burly warrior ignored the words, pulling Scamp up by the scruff of his neck while saying, “So, boy, we meet at last.”

  “Name’s Scamp.”

  “Ye must be mistaking me for someone gives a rat’s polltóna what yer called. Get moving.”

  With the words, the warrior spun Scamp about and shoved him in the back, causing him to stumble onto his knees. Regaining his feet slowly, he thought about what the other warrior had shouted. Sometime after they left the cave, the invisible warrior must have seen Upthog, which implied they’d been onto her from the outset.

  “Just sos ye know, Oisín and Ruairí were friends o’ mine, so they were,” the warrior said, grabbing the back of Scamp’s cloak in his iron grip.

  “I don’t know who they are,” Scamp said, lifting his arms as if trying to protect his head from a clout and then kicking himself for a show of weakness.

  Why didn’t they attack when she was with me?

  “Were, boy, not are. Trackers murdered on the road yesterday. Couple o’ arrows in’ em.”

  Scamp thought Upthog’s bow might explain their reluctance to attack. She would have posed a threat unless taken by surprise. He supposed these warriors had been working their way around them when she turned tail and headed back up the mountain. She might even have dropped him like a hot cauldron because she knew they were there.

  “Nothing to do with me,” Scamp said, looking at his feet.

  “Ain’t that what they all say?” a voice asked from off the track. “The guilty, like. What about the donkey, Mes?”

  “Leave it. We’ve enough with the dailtín, so we do.”

  “Where you taking me?” Scamp asked, staring into the foliage with a frown.

  “Donkey’d surely die, Mes.”

  “Keep yer mind on the damned witch,” the burly blond shouted into the woods. “Just think Oisín and Ruairí. Don’t wanna lose any more of youse gaimbíní. Even if you’re not worth the steam off my turds.”

  “You didn’t answer me,” Scamp said.

  The warrior said nothing, instead cuffing him none too gently on the back of the head. Scamp stumbled again, deciding that wherever they took him, it would be best over with soon. Keeping his thoughts to himself would no doubt speed their progress or at least make it less painful. So, rather than talking, he concentrated on catching sight of those on the flanks. Aside from the odd flash of off-white, he saw no one.

  When they got to the King’s Highway and went south, he knew where they were taking him. Upthog had supposed the Chief’s Champion and the Summoner would make for Caer Droma. Their going south seemed to prove her correct. Again. The guard pushed him along the road at pace, obviously as much in a hurry as Scamp, if for a very different reason.

  As they walked, Scamp thought about Upthog. In a short time, the woman had morphed from a reclusive herbalist into a killer, a tracker, and other frightening characters. She had skills, all of which jarred against his capture by the White Cloaks. The more thought he gave to it, the more it convinced him she knew they were there, which meant she’d staked him out like a goat for a mountain cat.

  Scamp wasn’t sure exactly how he felt about it other than inadequate, at least at first. A fit of slow-boiling anger quickly replaced those feelings. By the time they were in sight of the hill fort of Caer Droma, the anger had grown from fomenting in the base of his gut to giving him a burning sensation at the back of his throat: a burning sensation and a sudden desire to see Upthog treated in like manner.

  She used me. What he couldn’t figure was why. What could she hope to achieve against a troop of White Cloaks? And not just any White Cloaks.

  Coming out from the forest at the base of Caer Droma’s hill, five men joined the blond and surrounded Scamp as if they thought he would try to escape. As they climbed the hill, he saw that the sun had long passed its zenith. He couldn’t believe that evening was nipping at their heels.

  The gate guard said nothing as she let them in. Before passing through, Scamp turned back and thought he saw someone hiding on the forest edge, a lighter shadow under the eaves. He opened his mouth to say something, but whoever it was—if anyone—vanished in the time it took him to blink.

  “Waiting for youse in the drinkery,” the guard said as she closed the gate.

  Scamp felt his nerves jangle as they moved toward the settlement’s centre. Despite it being close to Caer Scál, he’d never been to Caer Droma. It didn’t matter. He knew where they were going; the hostel would always be at the centre. Ale, mead, and stories were integral to the North’s life, so they built their settlements around where they happened. When they reached the centre of Caer Droma, the long squat blockhouse made of treated whole timbers surprised him.

  Never seen a long hall.

  Arriving at the heavy oak door, he realised they would use the long hall as protection during battle. Those not fighting would seek refuge behind its strength and wait for the settlement’s defenders to tell them it was safe.

  The warrior pushed Scamp’s head under the decorative lintel and kicked him through the open door. Picking himself up, he gazed around as he got used to the light. He could see a table on a raised dais at the furthest point from him at the end of a long, narrow firepit. Tables and benches rested the length of the daub-covered timber walls on both sides of the room. Round shields hung between sconces carrying torches. He assumed each shield hung above where its warrior would sit during feasts. Behind the dais, a golden oval shield hung above a war hammer resting on two hooks.

  The hall was empty except for two men on the dais.

  Despite knowing who would be in the hostel, his heart skipped to see Kathvar sitting with his elbows on the table, fingers steepled under his chin. The grin on his face, visible through the dirty smoke rising from the firepit, could only be described as feral. The man beside him had to be Drombeg’s champion, Volt.

  “Bring him here, Mes,” the man said.

  The blond took Scamp by the scruff of his cloak and dragged him to the foot of the dais, where he forced him onto his knees before cuffing him again.

  Too handy by far, this cnapán, he thought, while vowing his revenge.

  “Well, Scamp, how does being this close to the hangman’s noose feel?” Kathvar asked, a grin splitting his face.

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  ***

  Volt stared at the nondescript boy on his knees. He had no idea what he’d been expecting. A wiry youth, more mischievous than dangerous, to be sure. But what else? Whatever it was, this frightened rabbit didn’t seem to fit. Mousy brown hair, mousy brown eyes, and a chin not yet sporting the fluff typical to others his age.

  Something about this boy has Kathvar on edge.

  There was no evidence to suggest he was anything but the harmless rogue Kathvar claimed him to be. And yet he was drawn to the fire. Volt’s mother always said those drawn to the fire were like to be Dhuosnos’s disciples. In truth, his mother often allowed her tongue free rein, spouting nonsense and claiming it was wisdom.

  That’s not fair, the warrior hissed at himself. His mother had always been a go to person when he needed advice. You’re stressed and lashing out.

  “This is the one you suspect of murder?” he asked, hiking an eyebrow.

  Kathvar’s only response was to turn his eyes on him. The Summoner might be unnerved by the boy, but that didn’t lessen the impact of his eyes. They had a deadness to them that Volt always tried, but never succeeded, to ignore. As if to punctuate his rising hopelessness, a log exploded in the fire, sending a column of sparks towards the rushes.

  “Dailtín denies it, so he does.” The only benefit from Mesroeda’s words that Volt could detect was Kathvar switching his gaze to the First Warrior.

  “And are you in the habit of believing the words of murderers?”

  He seems to be far from a murderer to me, Volt thought of the boy, dejected and on his knees.

  “No inkling on it, one way or the other,” Mes said, seemingly unaffected by the Summoner’s eyes. Volt was beginning to think he was the only one who saw the threat in the man. During the hangings, Connavar laughed, the crowds cheered, and Volt wondered what sort of monster the King had unleashed.

  “He’s not a murderer until proven guilty, Kathvar,” he said, keeping his eyes on the boy, who regarded him from under lowered brows, a sudden hope shining in his eyes. It seemed the boy saw Volt as his salvation.

  “Where’s the woman?” Kathvar asked.

  “Ran. Reckon she saw or heard us. Decided her best option was doing a flit.”

  “She’s suspected of murdering the trackers,” Volt said.

  “Suspected by whom?” Kathvar asked.

  “Who else could it have been? You think this boy did it?”

  “Once again, you are making a connection that doesn’t exist. It could have been anyone.”

  “And yet she ran when my men got close.”

  “She might be a shy one—”

  “How could you let her escape?” Volt demanded of the First Warrior, interrupting any more half-arsed excuses from the sadistic man seated beside him.

  “We’ll get her, Volt. She hasn’t gone far, so she hasn’t,” Mes replied with a lopsided grin.

  “How do you know?”

  “Tailed us all the way here. She’s a clever one. Kept her distance, and whenever one o’ the lads got close to her, she melted into the loam. If I believed in such horse dung, I’d name her a shape changer.”

  On hearing the words, Scamp lifted his head. Volt wondered why those particular words would interest the boy more than anything else they said.

  Does he think her a shape changer?

  Not that any such thing existed. They belonged in the realms of the fantastical with Dhuosnos and the Four. Volt shook his head slightly at the apparent contradiction. He’d hunted witches, so why didn’t he believe in the rest? His mother warned him against The Coven, but he knew witches were just sages, men and women who knew how to mix herbs and had powders that would cause a fire to blow and create green smoke. They became power-hungry and used the myths of the Lord of Darkness and the Four to challenge Connavar, hence their demise, which they had suffered without fighting back. If they were actual witches, they could have stopped him with witchery.

  He knows or suspects something about this woman.

  “What do you know about it?” he asked the boy.

  “There was no one in the shed when I set the fire,” he said, keeping eye contact. “I made sure of it.”

  Volt thought he might be telling the truth. If he was, it created a ream of other problems.

  “That’s not what was asked, Scamp,” Kathvar said, using a placatory tone that fooled no one. “What do you know about the deaths? How was the recluse involved?”

  Volt frowned, hearing the disbelieving tone and the complete change of tack. Only moments before, the bundún had been trying to convince him that the woman had nothing to do with anything.

  He’s trying to distract me.

  ***

  Scamp looked from one to the other. Upthog might have abandoned him—betrayed him, even—but he wouldn’t do the same. Although she left him to the warriors, she also tracked him, the dumb cnapán said. Maybe she had a plan. Maybe she’d more of a plan than he had. Either way, he didn’t intend to tell these men he saw her kill the trackers. Despite his earlier misgivings, there was something about the recluse making him think she might play a part in saving him.

  Watching the two men, he thought about what she’d said regarding Kathvar being a witch. Nonsense, of course—Volt hunted all the witches, and Kathvar hanged them—but maybe it was a way to throw a cow pat into the stew they were cooking.

  “Well, boy?” Kathvar asked. “How do you even know the woman?”

  “Cac on you, Kathvar. I don’t answer to no witch.”

  “What did you say?” the Chief’s Champion asked, suddenly sitting up straight.

  Scamp felt a kick of excitement as he said, “He’s a witch. Recommended you hunt The Coven so he’d be Dhuosnos’s only choice at the start of the next Scourge.”

  The words saw the warrior dart a glance at Kathvar, who was sitting with his mouth open as if taken by surprise.

  “Where did you—” Kathvar started to ask before the warrior interrupted.

  “That’s quite a charge, boy. The King ordered all witches hanged. This man was the executioner.”

  “Ain’t that the truth, and all part of his little—”

  “Who told you this nonsense?” Kathvar asked. “The Coven are dead.”

  Everyone who knew you as a witch, you mean.

  “All but one,” Scamp said under his breath, but loud enough to be heard.

  “Who, boy?” Kathvar asked.

  Scamp watched him closely. Despite an apparent calm, a film of sweat glistened on his upper lip, reflecting orange in the firelight. Volt kept darting glances at him, his bewilderment evident through his ridged brows, the gap between furrowed by multiple creases.

  A reason for hope?

  “Let’s not talk in circles, Kathvar. He means you. Come, boy, who has accused Kathvar of witchery?”

  But he hadn’t meant Kathvar at all. He had someone else in mind, and everything would change if his latest suspicions proved true.

  “Kathvar burnt Cathal,” Scamp said instead of answering Volt’s question, giving himself a chance to think through this revelation.

  “What nonsense is this? What reason could I have to kill an old gate guard?”

  Scamp felt his heart skip slightly. In all his confrontations with the Summoner, he’d never sensed anything except disdainful control. Listening to the man’s tone, an edge of panic had slipped in, however slight. Volt stared at the man with… what was it, triumph? It seemed like triumph. Scamp felt powerful for the first time in his short life. If Upthog and the Four were right, he should be powerful. Standing before these two men, he was beginning to enjoy the feeling.

  “Probably because you didn’t expect me to leave Caer Scál and needed Volt’s warriors to bring me back. The Horse Warriors wouldn’t have chased me for an old cowshed. There needed to be a body.”

  These were the woman’s notions, and when he heard them first, he hadn’t believed them. Not really believed them. Now, repeating the idea, he thought he could see some logic, especially with the edge of panic in Kathvar’s tone and Volt’s expression: the Summoner’s fear and Scamp’s sudden suspicion of Upthog’s true nature.

  “Nonsense, boy.”

  Even in the limited light of the long hall, Scamp could see the colour had drained from Kathvar’s face.

  “No, he’s right,” Volt said. “I wouldn’t have sent my men after him for an old cowshed.”

  “I meant the accusation is nonsense.”

  “I know what you meant. Only, I am beginning to wonder.”

  “Aye, me too,” said Mes. “How d’ye know where they went up the mountain without witchery?”

  “All right, Mes, thank you. But do answer the question, Kathvar. It’s one I’ve often meant to ask you.”

  “You’re mistaken if you think I answer to you. Nor can you compel me to answer anything. Only the King has that power.”

  “Oh, I ain’t sure that’s right,” the man Mesroeda said.

  Scamp was not watching the cnapán, so he didn’t see him draw his sword. He heard it, though, a sort of metallic swish. Glancing back, he was surprised to see the Horse Warrior advancing on the dais, his sword levelled at Kathvar.

  “You might have some sort of mind control over Volt, bundún, not over me,” the warrior said as he advanced.

  “No, because first, you would need a mind.”

  “Aye, crack yer gags, witch. We’ll see who laughs when ye make the drop.”

  “It’s all right, Mes—” Volt began before being interrupted by an almighty crack. Everyone turned toward the firepit—the source of the noise, to see a column of dirty grey smoke interlaced with orange and red flames.

  When they turned back, Kathvar had gone.