“So, Cúip, what ye been doing with yerself?”

  “Me? What d’yuh think, girl?” Scamp grinned at Upthog, receiving the same portion she was fond of doling him. “Smithing. Making barrels and weapons for the war.”

  “We at war?” Scamp asked. One failing of living in the extreme north was the slowness with which news arrived. Thinking about it, he supposed it didn’t matter because being at war was hardly news. The kings always found reasons to fight; he figured it was part of being a king.

  “Soon. King Eochaid’s withholding grain, so Connavar’s no choice but go after it. That’s what these’re for,” the smith said, nodding at the wagons. “Soon as we’re finished loading, down to Indber Colptha they go.”

  “Empty barrels?” Scamp asked, unsure if he understood.

  “Aye. Losán thinks Eochaid’ll just sit back and let him take the grain. Conquerors always think that way. Truth is, Southron King’ll fire ‘is granaries soon as Connavar’s warriors wade out the wash.”

  Scamp would never understand the motive of someone—not even a king—destroying food out of spite. What would his people eat? Come to that, what would the Northerners eat? North Kingdom relied on Middle Kingdom’s grain. Burning it meant that, in time, they would all feel their stomachs rumbling.

  When Scamp raised the question with the smith, he said, “Southrons are already starving, so they are. Thank the Tuatha that Connavar saw it coming.”

  “Don’t thank that bodalán for ought,” Upthog hissed. “If he played fair, none of this would be happening.”

  “Word from the refugees is Eochaid’s seized all the grain, so no one’s tempted to sell,” Cúip continued. “They’re guarding it in granaries. They’ve got the pestilence, too, seemingly. Goes with all that death, I reckon. All them bodies can’t be good.”

  Upthog was staring back into the hills they’d just left. He couldn’t see her face but knew what she was thinking. Conquest. War. Famine and Pestilence. Death. Dhuosnos’s disciples. The harbingers of the scourge were in Middle Kingdom. He felt an urge to scream.

  Is the time of Dhuosnos’s release upon us?

  He shook his head, not wanting to admit he was wrong, but it was becoming more challenging not to. The evidence seemed to mount with each passing day. If it were true, then it led him back to his dreams being messages. How could that be correct when his calling a demon had failed so completely? And he hadn’t had any dreams since attempting the call.

  I did something wrong.

  Scamp couldn’t think what it might be. He’d followed the alabaster woman’s words as if she were standing beside him, whispering them into his ear. But he’d been seeing flashes of something from the corner of his eye. There was never anything he could grab hold of and say I knew it. Flashes. Ever since the night she freed him from the… And then the murders of the women crashed into his head. Awful images of the ground outside the granary. Brutal. Savage. Inhuman. Something a demon might have done.

  Oh, Tuatha, it was me.

  A new reality crashed into his life, a life that had been so simple. His new reality wasn’t complicated. He called a demon, and it mutilated two Guards.

  “Scamp, are y’alright?” Upthog asked, putting a hand on his shoulder.

  “Feel like I’m gonna puke.”

  “Come,” Cúip said. “Strangely, food is often the answer.”

  Scamp nodded, not understanding why. A sense of guilt pressed down on him, a feeling that not only was he responsible, but he’d also been blaming Upthog. Watching her walking beside him, concern showing in the creases around the corners of her eyes, he thought of apologising. However, the thought didn’t linger because he realised that he would have to tell her he’d conjured a demon. He didn’t know what her reaction would be, only that it would not be welcoming.

  The smith led them into a long hall beside the mine entrance. Men and women were eating oats and mutton around tables lining the length of the hall. Cúip found them a seat and went to get food from the servers at the back.

  What would we eat without oats?

  When he returned, the smith was carrying a tray Scamp would have difficulty lifting. It contained wooden bowls of steaming food, bread, cheese, and a jug. “Nothing like ale to wash down yer mutton,” he said, pouring three cups of brown, frothy liquid.

  Scamp nodded in agreement, grabbed a cup and swallowed the ale in one pull.

  “Whoa, boy. We’re heading for the fords after eating. Can’t do that if ye’re scuttered.”

  “I’ll be grand.”

  They ate in silence, which pleased Scamp, his mind on the conjuring. He assumed the others had their worries, but he had no interest in discovering what they might be. He failed to fathom how anything big enough to create so much mess could remain hidden and do it in silence. He could only think of the queen of draíocht, Carmen. Legend held she had three sons, Dub, Dother, and Dain. Dub could have shrouded his brothers in draíocht, smothering all light and sound while Dother and Dain murdered the women. But where were they now? He would have noticed three demons; at least, they should have made themselves known to him.

  I can’t have conjured Carmen’s sons. I can’t have.

  Shaking his head, he put them out of his mind, concentrating on the food. Funnily, the ale settled his gut, and he could eat. The food was basic but wholesome, and after several days on the road, many of them without a fire, he found himself enjoying eating.

  “How did the pair of you meet?” he asked after pushing away his empty plate. The question caused them to glance at each other as if it was an unwelcome one at best.

  It seemed to take an age until Upthog finally answered him. “Cúip found me on the side of the road waiting to die. Would be dead if not for him, no.”

  “Now, girl, don’t be exaggerating, so. Yuh were indeed a little on the skinny side and blue as a summer’s sky.”

  “Aye, blue’s right. I’d just lost me brother to that bodalán chasing us.”

  “Chasing yuh. Who’s chasing yuh?”

  “It’s a long story, Cúip. Suffice to say we’re leaving North Kingdom.”

  Scamp watched the news causing a ripple of varying emotions on their host’s face. He seemed unable to grasp what she was telling him. Scamp didn’t want them to get into the tale for fear it would lead to talking about his escape. He thought she would read his face like a simple glyph, as if the words, A Thiarna, tabhair dom diabhal, were a message tattooed on his forehead.

  “How many summers had you seen?” he asked.

  “Ten summers. Was a waif. Now, can we change the subject?”

  Yes. Let’s.

  “Sorry,” Scamp said, gazing around the packed hall.

  “Don’t be sorry, just don’t ask more questions.”

  He could feel the heat of her glare on the side of his face and feigned interest in the conversation on the opposite bench.

  “Could ye use a donkey?” she finally asked Cúip.

  “That’s some way to change a subject,” Cúip said.

  “Didn’t I say, change the subject? Now, ye want the donkey or not?” The smith frowned at her but let it go.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  “That beast came with yuh?” Upthog nodded. “Looked a bit sorry for herself.”

  “Aye, six days in the foothills on starvation rations’ll do that to the hardiest donkey. She’ll be grand in a few days. Works hard and rarely complains.”

  “Is that so? Never met a donkey that don’t complain.”

  “She’s sweet as an autumn apple.”

  “Don’t believe it,” Scamp said, shaking his head.

  “Shut yer eineach, boy; ye’re in no place to judge just because ye annoyed Rosie. Ye’d rile a docile lamb.”

  “No need to get angry,” Scamp said.

  “Ain’t there?”

  “Won’t youse need her?” Cúip asked.

  “She won’t board a ship. Kicked up murder whenever I tried.”

  ***

  Volt looked up in expectation when the door to the lockup swung open. He slumped back against the wall when he saw Mes walk in, grinning. The King’s Guard was carrying a corked flagon in front like a peace offering.

  More insults?

  “So, Volt, how’s the accommodation?”

  Volt frowned at the man. He was wearing his black cloak and riding gloves. “Going somewhere?”

  “I told you already. I’m on a mission for King Connavar. Heading into Middle Kingdom as soon as I’m done with you.” The tone and the words were out of character. Mes hated authority outside the troop. His sense of hierarchy went as high as King’s Champion and stopped. At least it had.

  “You’ve changed, Mes.”

  “What does that mean?” the man asked, tilting his head, a disdainful sneer creasing his mouth.

  “You are different from the Mes I promoted to First Warrior. That Mes was a good man, a good leader. Now you’re nothing but a cúlaistín of that bloodsucker, Connavar. What happened to you?”

  Mes laughed and said, “Reality, what else?”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Came to tell you that Connavar has a rake of business, so best make yourself comfortable. It will be days before you get an audience.” Volt shrugged. In his current mood, he didn’t care how long it would take. “Oh, and I brought this to keep you company.”

  Mes put the flagon beside the bars and backed towards the door, grinning.

  “Losán,” Volt called.

  “Ah, don’t take on so. Best oak-aged mead. Don’t drink it all at once.” Saying which, the former First Warrior left, slamming the door behind him.

  Volt tried not to look at the flagon but found it hard; a slurp of oak-aged mead might make his cell more bearable. What Mes had said to him in Caer Droma was stopping him. The perception he liked his mead a little too much had to be something his troop also believed. He’d never given it much thought. Spending time in the hostels of the Third Canton with his warriors seemed… well, right.

  He rubbed a gnarled palm over his stubbled head, frowning.

  Just a swallow. Where’s the harm?

  Standing, he moved over to the bars and picked the flagon up. Retreating to the wall, he squatted and pulled the stopper. The sweet scent of mead, tinged with the sharp edge of alcohol, was intoxicating. Volt found himself inhaling deeply. He lifted the drink to take a swig just as the door crashed open, and Maga charged in like a woman assaulting a shield wall.

  “Put a cork in it. Connavar’s demanded your presence.”

  ***

  Upthog was staring at the river through a boiled leather tube she’d taken from her satchel. Scamp could see a bulge of something clear at the front of the tube. Her eye was pressed against a metal ring at the narrower end.

  “What is that?” he asked, unable to contain his curiosity.

  “This?” she asked, lowering it and shaking her head at his innocence. “A spyglass. Ye never seen one before?”

  “No. What does it do?”

  “Here. Put yer eye at this end and point the glass at the ford.”

  Scamp did as she asked and gasped when the black-cloaked Guards seemed to jump at him. He could see everything, even down to which Guard was chewing on a piece of grass.

  “They’re checking everyone,” he said, panning the spyglass from left to right.

  “Why didn’t Cúip mention it?” she asked.

  “Guess he didn’t know,” Scamp said. They were a league or more from the mines, so the guards might have arrived undetected. “I thought guards wore white cloaks.”

  “Aye, they did. This is new.”

  “D’you think they want us?”

  “Who else, boy?”

  Scamp continued staring through the tube. A wagon crossing was at the midway point and had water up to the axles, which would be waist height for him. He wondered how deep the river was on either side of the fords.

  “Can’t we wait until dark and cross further down?” he asked.

  “Can ye swim?” Scamp shook his head. There was no water near Caer Scál, neither river nor lough, so he’d never had an opportunity to learn.

  “Me neither. No, I think we’ll have to bluff our way.”

  “Bluff?”

  “They’re checking for a young woman and a boy. We’ll cross as an old woman and a lass.” Scamp gazed down at the guards and wondered if such a ruse would take them in. He doubted it.

  “Come on, back to the mine,” she said, climbing to her feet.

  When Upthog explained her plan to the smith a short time later, he was as sceptical as Scamp. “Don’t reckon they’d be such amadáin, truth be told.”

  “What else can we do?”

  “It’s time to come clean, girl. Who is it as wants yuh and why?”

  Upthog didn’t answer immediately but glowered at the hills. Scamp could see the emotion behind her facade of anger—she thought killing the trackers had been justified but worried Cúip wouldn’t see it in the same way. He might be her best-ever friend, the man who saved her as a child, but still, the guilt was gnawing at her so much she was unwilling to take the chance.

  “They’re chasing me,” Scamp said. “I’m wanted for murder. They think I burnt our gate guard in a cowshed. Upthog’s helping me.”

  “Did yuh?” the smith asked.

  “No. It was the bodalán, Kathvar,” Upthog answered for him, gratitude shining from her face. “He’s up to his schemes.”

  The smith nodded. “Yuh word’s good enough fer me, so it is.”

  “Ye’ve our gratitude, Cúip.”

  “Nothing,” the smith waved the words away. “More important, what’s to do.”

  “No idea,” Upthog admitted.

  “Ah, well, as it ‘appens, I do. I’ll be setting off soon with a wagon train of empty barrels to deliver.”

  “Surely, they’ll search.”

  “Aye, likely they will, but I can kick up a real stink when I’ve a mind.”

  Any further protests from Upthog were half-hearted, so Scamp soon found himself in a cramped semi-darkness—light leaking in through the air hole Cúip had drilled in the top. The barrel wasn’t the most comfortable resting place. The wagons rattled along the rutted track, and Scamp felt every bump and jostle. He thought by the time they got across the river, he would be the same colour as the old guards’ cloaks, except without the gold trim.

  Upthog was in the barrel next to his, and he listened to her complaining at each bump until Cúip hissed, “Hush now, we’re here,” from the driver’s seat.

  A short time later, the seat creaked, and he felt the wagon rise on its suspension as Cúip climbed down.

  “What’s the trouble, Captain,” he called.

  “I’ve orders to search.”

  “Search for what?”

  “Murderers. Woman and a boy. Murdered four guards.”

  Scamp held his breath while he waited for the smith to say something. Upthog trusted this man, even with her life, but that didn’t mean he deserved it. He could have tricked them into these barrels, intending to deliver them to the guards at the fords.

  “Doncha know I’m from the mine. I’m late, and need to get moving, so I do.”

  “Orders is orders, smith. I’ll not keep you long.”

  Scamp listened to the captain shouting to his guards as he walked away. Whatever stink Cúip had planned to kick up, he wasn’t given the opportunity. It seemed their escape to Scéine’s Cove was going to be short-lived.

  “Can ye hear me?” Upthog hissed.

  “Yes.”

  “Get ready to run, boy.” He didn’t think there would be much point. The guards would catch them easily. Even if they managed to escape the area of the fords, they would be without supplies or Upthog’s bow.

  What’re we to do? Dhuosnos, help us.

  Scamp frowned as he tried to decide what had prompted a prayer to the giant. As far as he could recall, he’d never asked the Lord of Darkness for help. He’d pleaded with the Tuatha on occasion—sworn using the Four on others—but never invoked the King of Tech Duin’s name. Not once.

  Scamp shook his head and concentrated on the noises around the wagon train. He could hear the guards, maybe two wagons ahead, opening barrels, laughing, and throwing banter at each other. When silence fell, he lifted his lid slightly and peeked out to see the guards on the next wagon standing and staring into the distance. He could hear others exclaiming and listened as curious tones switched to panic-stricken. As the volume of shouting rose, the words became strangely incoherent, drowned by a massive buzz filling the air. Standing, he gazed in the same direction as the guards to see a gigantic swarm of bees diving towards the fords.

  “Heeyah,” Cúip shouted, tickling the horses with his whip. Scamp hadn’t even noticed him retake his seat. The other waggoners were doing the same.

  “Get down, boy,” the smith said over his shoulder.

  Luckily, the guards showed no interest in the wagons as Scamp realised he was in full view. He ducked back down into his barrel, as much to get away from the bees as to hide from the warriors.

  Whatever discomfort the jostling might have caused during the drive to the fords, it was nothing compared to the race to escape the bees. If Scamp hadn’t ducked back down, he was sure he would have fallen into the barrel, unable to keep his feet. Just after the wheels struck the water, the swaying steadied. The crossing seemed unending until the swaying began anew, and the barrel tilted as Cúip drove the horses hard up the incline on the opposing bank.

  “Any sign of them?” Upthog shouted.

  There was a delay before the smith said the guards were fully occupied. Scamp heard the lid of her barrel fall to the wagon bed, so he stood. She was transfixed by the scene at the fords. Guards were running hither and thither, chased by the bees, which had divided into an equal number of mini swarms, one for each guard. The travellers meaning to cross were milling about at a safe distance, watching the spectacle.

  “Ye got summat to tell me, boy?” Upthog asked.

  “No. What d’you mean?”

  “That swarm’s demon controlled, else my name ain’t Upthog.”