The spring rains had eased. The walk was, even though hard work, pleasant. The animals seemed happy that the breeding season was around again. Their songs, roars, bleats, and chirps all spoke of love and breeding. Their simple delight made him forget any sense of impending doom. Even the gorse was awash with the colours of spring.

  Scamp had been right when he thought their trek would improve. After his admission, Upthog treated him with more respect. If not for the gravity of their plight, he would enjoy the hike through the foothills of the Impassable Mountains. When not as angry as she could be, Scamp found the woman good company. He’d also lost the sense someone or something was watching him soon after they left the wagon train.

  They spent nights in the open, eating dried meat—Upthog allowed no fires—but the coldness had noticeably retreated, and gazing at the stars wrapped in warm blankets, despite a poor meal, was also a pleasant experience.

  Not only pleasant but new.

  He would lie awake at night considering what he’d seen.

  Every so often, they came in sight of the plains of Mag nAí, rolling hills of rock and little else, beautiful to behold and yet inhospitable to life needing more than coarse grass and gorse to live on.

  “Where’s this cove?” Scamp asked on the third morning.

  Upthog put her hands on her hips and stretched her shoulders back before answering. “It’s where the mountains meet the sea.”

  “Another hidden place?”

  “Aye, Camas Clochaí. Smugglers hide in a cave below the cliffs. The entrance is completely hidden from the sea. Ships can sail into a lake in the cavern. Smugglers built a harbour, and there’s a warren of tunnels: enough to hide a host.”

  “You sound excited.”

  “Aye. After running from Cúip, I’d good times there.”

  “Why d’you run? I thought him a good man.”

  “He is a good man, in his way. Wanted to marry me off to the mine owner’s boy, though. I wasn’t ready for that.” Upthog changed the subject by mentioning the beauty of the sea, and Scamp admitted he had never been further than a league or two from Caer Scál and only ever in the forest.

  “Ye’re in for a real eye-opener then.”

  “Is it as big as they say?”

  “Aye. Noisy, too. And blue, you wouldn’t believe, but sometimes green like a massive emerald. Whitecaps and the sound of the surf.”

  “You’re selling it well,” he said with a grin.

  “We’ll arrive at the cliffs in a couple of hours, then head west. Should be at Camas Clochaí before nightfall.”

  “How high are the cliffs?”

  “We’ll be there soon. See for yerself.”

  Before they reached the cliffs, Scamp could hear the sea battering the rock in the constant fight, water against stone. He knew the sound because he’d heard it in his dreams about the rock, the Bull’s Head, according to Upthog. He wasn’t sure, although he was beginning to lean towards belief. The way the bees behaved had to have been controlled. If not by a demon, then what? Dhuosnos? He’d prayed to the Lord of Darkness from inside his barrel. But then, he thought not; the bees arrived soon after he’d whispered the prayer. Too soon after for Dhuosnos to have sent them.

  “Oh,” he said.

  “What is it?” Upthog asked.

  “The sound of the sea in my dreams. It’s real. How can that be when I’ve never heard it?”

  “I told you, Scamp, dreams are real.”

  She was walking beside him with a grin splitting her face, seemingly happy to be near the sea and her past life. He wondered if she was aware of the implication of his dreams being messages of the Four. They implied that he was a Summoner. According to Marbh, Scamp was the last one. Any Summoner was Darkness’s disciple, who would release the demon horde from Tech Duinn.

  I am to be the one to begin the Scourge.

  ***

  Volt rode slowly, following the dogleg in the King’s Highway but skirting Caer Droma and Caer Scál. In no mood for company, he kept his mare at an easy walk. He could have cut through the forest, but the forest route ran the risk of meeting the bandits hiding in its depths. Occasionally, they would venture to the road to ambush the unwary. Mostly, they stayed away from where the King’s White Cloaks patrolled. If he rode into their domain, they might not attack him if they recognised him as a Guard—as they must with his distinctive cloak—but then again, they might.

  No, better to stick to the road, which also suited his lack of haste.

  His anger was on a slow boil, and no amount of deep breathing was working. Despite trying to suppress it, he thought it was justified. Maga had put it as clearly as anyone could: Volt had been loyal to Connavar to the extent he should be rewarded, not punished. Not that the King even cared.

  Volt guessed he owed the woman for defending him. If not for Maga, Volt would have faced the drop in Murias rather than ridicule in Drombeg. Ironically, she had saved him and stolen his troop, the troop he’d spent many summers training. Maga said she had no interest in commanding his warriors, but she hadn’t turned the King down.

  How could she turn him down? She couldn’t, he realised.

  She would be bound by her duty to him, and from what little he’d seen of Connavar, the King was not himself, needing as much help as Maga could offer. When he conquered the other cantons, Connavar had been a fresh young man with ideals and strength. From what Volt saw in the long hall, the power and ideals were gone. Yes, there’d been questions over his father’s hunting accident, but no one dug too deeply. Connavar was thought to be much stronger than his late father; much more able to rule, which he’d proven by quickly uniting the cantons and holding Middle Kingdom to ransom instead of the other way around. Unlike the previous king, Connavar understood the power of iron, showing some of its characteristic strength. Admittedly, his strength had a hard edge; some would call it an edge of insanity, which might be what was beginning to show.

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  How long will the people believe him strong now he doesn’t wash his hair?

  Volt knew how unimportant appearance was, but few others held his view. The common feeling was an unkempt body led to an untidy mind and, by extension, an unkempt kingdom. The slovenly way he lounged on his throne was not something people liked to see in their leader.

  What is wrong with him? A question Volt had been repeating since he rode through the gate at Murias. Is it madness?

  Volt’s mare whinnying and tossing her mane in mounting excitement made him lift his head and see the bulge of Drombeg’s hill start to poke over the forest ahead. Staring at the columns of smoke, which appeared to curl through the roundhouses’ thatch, he frowned. He was in no hurry to return to the settlement because being there would remind him of his failure. Warriors from other troops would treat him with disdain, hiding their laughter. The other troop leaders would be friendly to his face and then laugh behind his back. To begin, they would try to keep it hidden, but with time, they wouldn’t bother.

  There’s that Volt. Lost his troop to the King’s Champion. You know, the one who beat him at Caer Usk. What was her name again, Volt? Maga, was it?

  That sort of attention he could do without. He thought about the road that circled the hill and continued onto Caer Usk and Lúr Cinn Trá, the capital of the second canton. Some would consider riding on to be desertion, but Volt would not. Messengers rode between Murias and Drombeg continually. The Chief must already be aware of his dismissal, as, no doubt, were all the warriors in the settlement.

  The horse tossed her mane again as they approached the fork in the road. It was as if she were reading Volt’s thoughts.

  “Sorry, horse,” he said, about to take the road that skirted Drombeg when a call came from behind.

  “You heading for the hostel, Volt. Lads’re already there.”

  Pulling on the reins, he turned his horse and rested his wrists on the saddle pommel. He knew Fate to be mischievous, but to have Gabran, First Warrior in Sawan’s troop, riding up behind him with his Leathdhosaen was not only playful but also cruel.

  And so it begins.

  “Gabran. What brings you back? I thought you were patrolling the King’s Highway.”

  Volt knew Gabran had been patrolling because he’d hidden on the forest edge and watched them pass earlier in the day, but that wasn’t the only reason. He knew Gabran would be patrolling because he could not control his mouth and constantly spoke out of turn. His punishment was invariably patrolling the King’s Highway because he hated it.

  “Aye. Got a message to return. So, you coming?”

  “No. I have to report to Chief Magon.”

  “Chief’s in the hostel, waiting for us.” So, that’s what the messenger was doing. “Come, Volt, kill two rabbits with one slingshot.”

  Volt shrugged and fell in beside the First Warrior. With the Chief in the hostel and too many witnesses for him to sneak away, he felt he had no alternative. He would tell Magon what happened and then leave.

  “Are the rumours true?” Gabran asked.

  “I have been gone for days, so have no idea what rumours you mean.”

  “Aye, you do. They’re rumours about you, boy.”

  “I look like a boy to you, Gabran?” Volt hissed.

  “You look like a bundún who lost his troop to a foreign warrior,” Gabran said with a laugh before digging in his heels and galloping for the stables.

  Although on the outside of the palisade—as for most settlements—the stables of Drombeg were defensible and had a door into the main fort, so Volt didn’t meet Gabran on his way in. In fact, he didn’t see him again until he entered the hostel, where he was seated beside Chief Magon, whispering into the ageing man’s ear.

  “Chief,” Volt said as he came to stand before the table.

  “Volt, you’ve had an eventful time, it seems.”

  “More than eventful,” Gabran said, shaking his head and chuckling. “I always said he should not be Champ.”

  “And you should?” Volt asked, feeling his bile frothing. If he’d been wearing his sword, he would have grasped the hilt in warning, but being paranoid, Magon didn’t allow anyone to bear arms in his presence. The Chief’s longsword was supposed to be the only weapon in the hostel.

  “Couldn’t be worse ‘n you, bundún.”

  Volt expected Magon to say something, but the Chief sat silently with his chin resting on steepled fingers. For some reason, the lord of Drombeg was siding with the most annoying of his warriors. How could Magon not see Gabran for what he was?

  “Chief, I—”

  “The Chief doesn’t want to hear it, Volt,” Gabran interrupted.

  “Magon has a tongue, and I advise him to use it.”

  “Or what, bundún. Ever since Caer—”

  “Be careful, Gabran. You weren’t even at Caer Usk, having recently given up the teat.”

  “We’ve all watched you going down ever since Caer Usk, where you surrendered for some reason. What could it be? Was Maga’s army stronger? Was she the better warrior? No, it was—” The hissed intake of breath from those sitting and standing in the hostel should have warned Gabran, but it didn’t. He continued, unaware, “—cowardice.”

  Volt saw the warriors take several steps away from Gabran, distancing themselves from him. He didn’t care. All he cared about was the slight on his honour. It could not be allowed to go unpunished. Sense told him to wait and challenge the dailtín to the test, but prudence couldn’t withstand the wave of uncontrolled anger. Grabbing his knife from its hiding place in the armpit of his cuirass, he lunged across the table and plunged it into Gabran’s heart with enough force to bury it to the hilt.

  Almost total silence fell over the hostel, broken only by the scrabbling of Gabran’s legs under the table. Volt glowered at the warriors in the hall. When he turned back, Drombeg’s most annoying warrior lay back in his chair, staring sightlessly at the rushes.

  “Guards,” Magon called. Several warriors ran into the hostel, swords bared and stood around the Chief searching for the threat.

  “I am no danger to you, Magon. Gabran was the danger. You should know that.”

  “I cannot help you now,” Magon said.

  “I was defending my honour, Chief, as you would have,” Volt said through clenched teeth.

  “But you were carrying a weapon where none are allowed.”

  Magon gazed around at the gathered warriors with their heads bowed solemnly. Volt knew that each of them was carrying a dagger concealed somewhere and that Gabran kept one in his boot. As he leant over the table to point to it, Magon’s guards held their swords against his chest.

  “Check him. He, too, has a knife in his boot.”

  “I fail to see your point, Volt. Does two breaking my law mean it is invalid?”

  “But—”

  “There are no buts, warrior. You broke my laws.”

  “I apologise,” Volt said, bowing his head with the others.

  “I have no interest in your apology. The boy was right; you have outlived your usefulness. You are banished from my lands on pain of death. You have two moons to leave my canton. Do not return.”

  “But—”

  “Begone before I have a change of heart.”

  Volt opened his mouth to argue but realised it was futile. Magon’s reasoning was sound. He’d broken the Chief’s laws because of a wave of uncontrolled anger. He’d destroyed his life by killing a boy who hadn’t deserved to die. Gabran had been annoying and naive enough to think no one else in the hostel carried a weapon. Given time, the boy could have been diverted from a foolish choice.

  “Your will, Chief,” Volt managed to blurt before running from the hostel.

  Stumbling through the stable door, he felt the sting of tears but quickly wiped them away with the back of his hand and went in search of his mare.