Scamp must have fallen asleep sitting with his back to the wall. He thought it was still night, but strangely, he could see clearly. An orange glow made the shadows dance against the granary wall. He had no recollection of his dreams. Not even anything vague. No needle-like towers or red eyes. No storming seas or talk of Dhuosnos and the Four. He hadn’t dreamed of a demon or a devil; his failure to summon one seemed to have diverted the flood of strange dreams.

  Did I try to summon a demon? Cac.

  And as the pieces fell into place, he remembered the threat of a hanging. The stubbly blond losán in the hostel said one or both of them would hang in Murias. He remembered the sound of the bolt in the granary door.

  Cha chunk.

  The sound of the drop.

  Tuatha, but I need a way out.

  “Scamp, wake up, boy,” someone said to his left, a whispered hiss. With the words, he realised what woke him. He didn’t recognise the voice, probably because of the hiss. He never could tell a voice that was… “Now, boy.”

  Cac on you, woman.

  He might not recognise the hiss, but he did recognise the tone and the choice of words. Upthog had joined him in his little slice of Tech Duinn. He wondered how she got past the guards before another thought came to him.

  What did I want to ask her?

  Turning, he saw she was crouched beside him, holding a torch. As always, her face was unreadable, eyes in shadow, lips tight together. She had her bow on her back and a quiver of arrows hanging from her belt.

  “It’s all cac, Upthog,” he said, closing his eyes.

  She took hold of his shoulder and gave him a violent shake. “We ain’t got time, boy. There’ll be all kinds of shite to pay when they find the bodies.”

  “Which bodies?”

  “By the door. White Cloaks, I reckon. Messy, too.”

  “You killed more guards?” he asked, wondering what messy meant.

  “Not me, boy. They were dead when I got here.”

  “But—”

  “There’s no time. We’ve no idea how long the gaimbín will be gone.”

  “Mesroeda?”

  “Blond cnapán, ‘bout ninety hands tall; even more across?”

  Scamp nodded. “He’s Volt’s First Warrior. Where’d he go?’

  “Riding after the witch.”

  “Kathvar?”

  “Look, boy, like I said, we ain’t the time to sit and chin.”

  Scamp took a deep breath to still his heart. “I’m going nowhere ‘til I know what’s going on.”

  “Ye’ve me oath; I’ll tell ye soon as we’re clear.”

  “That’s it, though. We won’t ever be clear.” Upthog crossed her arms and glowered at him.

  “Ye’re such a pain in me polltóna, ye know.”

  Cha chunk.

  She’s right, he realised; arguing was futile and a waste of time.

  Scamp used the barrel to pull himself to his feet. He realised he’d been arguing for the sake of it without any intention of sitting in this granary to wait for the hangman.

  “Volt means for us to hang in Murias,” he said as he dusted the seat of his triús. “So, I’m coming with you. You can tell me as we walk.”

  Upthog nodded and said, “Keep yer eyes off the mess by the door.”

  Scamp agreed to look the other way, even though he knew it would be nigh impossible. He would want… no need… to see what mess she’d created, in no doubt that Upthog killed the women to free him. Probably cut their throats. The guards had pushed him through the door and treated him like so much chattel, but they didn’t deserve a bloody end. Still, he was happy she’d returned to free him and would not cry at their deaths. Not too hard or for too long, anyway.

  “I’m gonna put the torch out before we leave the shed. Don’t know who’s watching.”

  Scamp nodded as he reached the door and looked through. The sight on the ground before the granary changed everything. The light was behind him, Upthog moving towards the water butt to the left, but still, it was enough for him to see the horror in two messy piles. He dry heaved, aware if he’d eaten, puke would have joined the gore at his feet.

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  So, she meant messy. Nightmares will be back.

  The hiss of the torch in the butt preceded Upthog grabbing his arm. “I told ye not to look,” she said as she dragged him into the forest.

  “What happened to them?” he asked, now sure Upthog was telling the truth. She was skilled with her bow and strong, but someone had murdered the two women without regard for human life or the sanctity of the body, someone who was not squeamish. It wasn’t someone who killed through what they believed to be a necessity—like the trackers on the road—however misguided.

  “I’ve no idea. Didn’t ye hear anything?”

  Scamp shook his head. He’d been sleeping soundly but still didn’t understand how the murders in front of the granary hadn’t woken him. The bestiality of it should have caused enough noise to wake those long since burned on their pyres, never mind the screams of the victims.

  “Where’re we going?” he asked to distract himself.

  “We’ll collect Rosie, then head to a cave I know.”

  “Oh, cac, I forgot about Rosie.”

  “Don’t worry, boy. I collected her from where ye tied her—”

  “You saw me tie her?”

  “Aye, Scamp. I’ve been with ye all the way.”

  You staked me out like a goat, he wanted to say. Instead, he said, “Mesroeda’s men spotted you.”

  “Aye. It was a real game of lions chasing mountain goats, for sure.”

  Scamp thought about asking her who were the goats and who the lions, before deciding it was a question best left until daylight.

  “You said Mesroeda chased Kathvar. How did that happen?”

  “I watched the blond arracht push ye into the long hall and waited. After a while, Kathvar rode out of the village as if the Four were after him. Cnapán followed soon after that. I’d have stolen a mount and gone too, ‘cept I needed to get ye out. Why’d the witch run?”

  While Scamp explained what happened, Upthog listened without interruption, occasionally glowering at him with her iron expression. Despite the glower, when he’d finished, she said, “Smartly done, boy. There’s hope for ye yet, I reckon.”

  “Name’s Scamp,” he said, trying to hide his pleasure at the half compliment.

  “Aye, Scamp it is, so.”

  ***

  When Mes walked into the hostel, Volt stared and wondered how he could be back in Caer Droma. The First Warrior appeared blurred because of the film over Volt’s eyes caused by drinking mead most of the night. He wouldn’t normally drink through the night. Still, implications of the boy’s revelations and Kathvar’s reaction hadn’t taken long to blossom. Volt spent three summers hunting The Coven, and now it seemed there’d been a witch under his nose the whole time. Connavar would not be pleased, putting it lamely. He didn’t doubt that a visit to the gallows in Murias was a strong possibility and took to gulping mead to lessen the blow.

  Still, he had time. Someone needed to report it all to the King. He could run south and offer his services to one of the other kingdoms. It might be treachery, but it would be better than facing the drop.

  “What you doing here?” he asked the First Warrior, trying to hide his slur.

  “The whole thing is strange, Volt. Very strange.”

  “Spit it out, man; what happened?”

  “Witch went straight to the King.”

  “How is that possible? It’s the King ordered him dead. Well, them all, if you know what…”

  Mesroeda shook his head and glowered down his nose at him. Volt suddenly felt tired, and not because he’d been drinking all night. It went deeper than that. Something was happening over which he had no control or even insight. Something about the boy made Kathvar nervous, and then he ran rather than answer the boy’s charges. But he’d run to the last place Volt would expect. And returning with the news seemed to have given his First Warrior an edge of disrespect.

  “It all hinges on the boy,” he said.

  “Aye, it does. Time to have a talk with the boy, I think,” Mes said.

  That’s what I was going to suggest.

  “I agree. I suspect this Scamp played me like a three-string fiddle.”

  “Us,” the First Warrior said as he spun on his heel and strode up the hall. Sighing, Volt ran to catch him.

  Shouldn’t this bodalán be running after me?

  He got a sense something was wrong after walking through the gate. There was no noise or light from the granary entrance. White Cloaks would typically light a fire and talk through the night, an aid to staying awake. Instead, the sky next to the forest was greying rather than orange, and the night was utterly still, no sound of animals or guards. They wouldn’t be shouting, but there would be the buzz of voices.

  “Why’s there no fire?” he asked. He sensed rather than saw Mes shrug.

  When they reached the granary, it became apparent something was sorely amiss. There was no sign of the guards, and a deeper darkness showed where the granary door stood open.

  “What the…” Volt exclaimed as Mesroeda stalked forward.

  He couldn’t make sense of the squelching noise coming from where the First Warrior walked, but then the wind picked up and the stench it brought left no room for doubt.

  “I’ll kill that Tuatha-forsaken boy,” Mes said. “Two of my best guards.”

  “What makes you think it was the boy? Might have been the witch.” And why is he now a boy instead of a dailtín? Now you have respect for him, now he’s gone.

  “Boy must have done it, aided by the woman. That’s my guess.”

  “Why not Kathvar?” You said he’s a shape changer.

  “You’re drunk, Volt. Why don’t you go sleep it off? Leave this to us as know what we’re about, why don’t you?”

  “How dare—”

  “How dare I? How dare you? You’ve been drunk more often ‘n not since we met.”

  “That’s nonsense—”

  “Maybe if you weren’t blathered, you’d be talking sense.”

  “What in Tech Duinn are you saying?”

  The look the warrior gave him was even more disdainful than the earlier one. “It can’t have been Kathvar. He’s in Murias with the King. He ran because the boy accused him of witchery, so why save him?”

  Volt wanted to say that it might have been more subterfuge. He wanted to remind Mesroeda about the legends, how a witch needed a Summoner and how the flames drew the boy like they would draw a Summoner. Kathvar, if he was a witch, needed a summoner, and this Scamp might be it—explaining everything. He could have led Mes astray, returned to Caer Droma, changed into a monster and ripped the women to pieces.

  He wanted to say all that but couldn’t get past the insubordination.

  To have his First Warrior treat him like an adolescent was bad enough, but to do it without cause was unforgivable. He drank no more or less than any other warrior in the troop, did he? He certainly hadn’t been drunk since Mesroeda joined the troop before now, at least.

  “I will have you flogged—”

  “You know what, losán, do what you want. I’m going to get help.”

  With the words still ringing in the air, Mes stormed off. Volt watched him go as far as the light would allow. As soon as the cnapán was out of sight, he crouched down to better see the evidence. A few moments later, a puddle of acidic mead had joined the gore, and Volt was nearly running back to the hostel, trying to get the taste of puke out of his mouth with the back of a hand.