They stared over Talamh Thorthúil from the top of a tall dune. Upthog told him the plains were flat and fertile, and as spring had arrived, hundreds of hands would be tilling the soil to prepare it for planting. She’d told him the truth. The plains were flat, and the hands were there, but no one was tilling the soil. Instead, they were sitting around small fires between grubby tents doing nothing. There was an offshore wind blowing a smell at them Scamp couldn’t place, a sweet, sickly odour making him want to gag.

  There was so many of them they didn’t need to use her spyglass. It was almost as if Scamp could reach out and touch them. He felt a shiver up his spine at the thought of it.

  “What’s that stench?” he asked.

  “That’s Marbh and Plasgorta combined,” Upthog replied with a shake.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Pestilence and Death own these plains, Scamp. The most fearful of The Four.”

  “Oh.”

  “There’s so much plague here that these people are just waiting to die. They’ve lost everything, even their anger.”

  Scamp saw the forlorn figures sitting around their fires. They were mostly motionless and not many. He guessed those afflicted—the majority, it seemed—were under cover of the grubby leather tents or already dead and in piles waiting to be burnt.

  “What does it mean?”

  “It means we’ve to go to Ceathru Rúa for supplies. The supplies Eogan gave won’t last more than a day or two.”

  “Through that?” he asked, nodding at the scene of desolation.

  “No. We’ll have to skirt around. The last thing we need is a dose of the teidhm. Stay close to me.”

  With the words, she strode off along the top of the dune, keeping the unkempt fields and their gruesome fruit on her right. Scamp followed. He kept turning to the sky over the sea, wanting to catch sight of the kite, hoping the bird’s majesty would alter the reality of Talamh Thorthúil. Mag nAí was barren, but it was barren because of rocks and gorse, not because those who normally till it had been struck down with pestilence.

  Tuatha, but I miss me Ma.

  Realising he’d never admitted to missing his mother, Scamp paused. The emotion came as a shock. He thought he missed Caer Scál after a couple of days, but he was beginning to realise it had been his Ma all along.

  “Come on, boy,” Upthog called over her shoulder.

  “Won’t Kathvar’s people be in Ceathru Rúa?” he asked after trotting to catch her.

  “Aye, they will. It’s why I’m gonna leave ye in the woods of Doilbhe.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’re expecting a woman and a boy. Unless Kathvar is watching, if I go alone, they won’t recognise me as the woman they’re hunting. Ye can wait in the woods. Ye’ll be safe enough.”

  “What if he is there and they catch you?”

  “That’s a risk we must take. We can’t cross two kingdoms without supplies.”

  “How far is it to Scéine’d Cove?”

  “I would say sixty leagues or more. And that as the dragon would fly. Dragons won’t have to deal with Balor’s Canyon or The Great Forest.”

  “Balor has a canyon?”

  “It’s where the Fomorians are said to live. Deep underground—under the mountains of the Western Wall.”

  Scamp frowned, wondering if that was where The Point of Death would be.

  “And this éigeas, Myrddin, is the only one who can help?”

  Instead of answering, Upthog stared at him in the way that made mush of his spine.

  Eventually, she said, “Are ye ever gonna trust me, boy?”

  Probably not. Specially if you keep lying to me.

  Scamp shrugged and said, “It’s a simple question.”

  “I already said Myrddin knows all the old lore. He’ll know what ye need to do.”

  “There must be others who know that stuff?”

  “Aye, of course. Trouble is, they’re followers of Kathvar.”

  Kathvar, the witch you hate and want to see dead.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “Seems everyone’s a follower of Kathvar’ cept us.”

  “More or less,” Upthog said as she started to walk again.

  Scamp followed, wondering what would happen if they caught her in Ceathru Rúa. Maybe he could find someplace close to settle and wait for the end. Eventually, the scourges would happen, and he could return home and hug his Ma.

  And do what? Eat what? And that’s supposing I survive–Mah survives.

  With those thoughts, another reality struck him between the eyes like a miniature war hammer. As the last Summoner, he would have nowhere to hide. They wouldn’t leave him alone: he had to see the story through to whatever its conclusion would be. It didn’t matter how much he hated the part he was to play; the Fáithe had chosen him to fill a role, and he would fill it. Watching her back, the bow across it in its usual place, he realised he would never find a more potent ally.

  “How far’s Ceathru Rúa?” he asked, once again trotting to catch up.

  “Three leagues, give or take. See that smudge?” Scamp nodded. “Those are the woods of Doilbhe. Settlement’s the other side.”

  By the time they reached the woods, evening was beginning to fall. They hadn’t spoken much more during the walk. Scamp’s feet were sore, and his calves ached. He was glad to be sitting on a tree stump in a small clearing, rubbing his feet and hoping Upthog had decided to stop.

  “We’ll camp here. We can have a fire. No one’s gonna bother with us with all the teidhm about.”

  “A fire. Thank the Tuatha for assisting us,” Scamp said, grinning.

  “Very funny, boy. Ye light it. I’ve to find a bush.”

  A short time later, a fire was blazing, night had fallen, and Upthog was stirring a steaming cauldron of oats and mutton. Although younger, she reminded him of his mother, whistling between her teeth as she worked. She was stronger than his Ma, physically and in her head. Still, he was keen to grab hold of any similarity he could, anything to make him feel at home, if only for a moment.

  “You sound happy,” he said.

  “No. Not happy. Just glad we’ve the chance for a night’s peace, a good meal, and some sleep. Seems like ever since ye arrived at the roundhouse, there’s been nought but trouble.”

  “Aye. Ain’t that as true as it gets.”

  “Get some sleep after cleaning yer plate,” she said after he’d finished eating. “Tomorrow is set to be a long day. I’ll leave ye here. I shouldn’t be gone long, but it’s never straightforward. Especially if I try to buy horses.”

  “So, don’t try.”

  “Ye any idea how far sixty leagues is? Or how much food we’ll need to get us there?” Scamp shook his head. “Get some sleep. I’ll wake ye when it’s your turn to watch.”

  “I thought we’d be safe.”

  “Aye. Safe to a degree, but not that safe.”

  ***

  The needle-like tower was there. The sea was rough again, spray battering the rocks and the tower’s stones. He could hear the waves rather than see them because it was night. The man with the staff, the one Marbh said was Concaire, wasn’t there. Only Marbh—in the flimsy dress that barely hid her body—stood at the entrance to the tower, beckoning him closer with a waving hand. She was all he could see in the darkness, as if something was lighting her dress with moonlight.

  Scamp didn’t move. He’d seen her work on the plains of Talamh Thorthúil and would no more approach her than he would one of the Mid-kingdomers suffering outside their grubby tents.

  You have nothing to fear from me, Scamp.

  “I saw the death–no, that is to say, I smelt the death you created.”

  Not I, Scamp. The plague you witnessed on the plains is the result of humankind’s obsession with war and conquest. Unless humankind turns away from–

  “Why should we,” Scamp interrupted. “We’re not slaves.”

  It’s not a question of slavery, but of Creator and created. My master created me, and so I serve him. But it is also behaviour that is necessary for continued existence. Disregard for the rules of Nature—or the Creator, if you like—is destroying the world. War and conquest always result in pestilence and death. The Four as we are is no coincidence. Concaire: conquest; árchù: war; Plasgorta; pestilence. And then, last of all, Marbh, me, death. I represent the end.

  Scamp shrugged, unsure what she was doing, standing in the doorway to The Point of Death, giving him lessons. But then, he supposed, The Four would be his teachers at some time. If the éigeas, Myrddin, didn’t know how to escape the Fáithe, someone would need to teach Scamp how to free the giant.

  Rotting bodies is where the pestilence begins; leaving the dead lying where they died creates more death. The kings are all keen on battle but not on cleaning the mess of it afterwards. Anyway, that is not why I called you here, Scamp.

  “No. Why did you call me here?”

  Nechtan is coming. He is nearly on you. You must wake and warn the woman.

  “How do you know this? How did you know about Upthog? Why didn’t you warn me before?”

  None was close enough before. Now, Concaire is near and watching. A force is working against you, and Concaire is searching for it: he heard Nechtan ordering his men into the plains and why. Nechtan’s men were waiting for the ship to dock in Camas Clochaí.

  “Why didn’t he follow us to Muirbheach?”

  After asking the question, Scamp remembered the slaver had been banished to the hold. Nechtan probably didn’t realise they had left the ship until they didn’t get off in Ceathru Rúa.

  He is coming. Vengeance is uppermost on his mind. He intends to sell you and the woman in the markets of East Kingdom, but not before he has some fun. Quickly, now.

  Scamp could feel the dream start to recede. He supposed if he had admitted to himself that The Four were real and the scourges were coming, that Dhuosnos should be released, then he might as well take her visitations as true. Dreams are messages, Upthog had told him. This, then, was a message he would rather not have received.

  If you need to, use your demon.

  He heard as if from a great distance.

  “I don’t have a demon.”

  You do. It’s called Bábdíbir. Call it by name. Bábdíbir.

  As her words echoed through his mind, he thought he heard a horse whinny.

  ***

  Scamp noticed several things at once as the fog of sleep left him. The fire was still blazing and giving off plenty of light, which meant he’d not been asleep long; Upthog seemed to be asleep on the other side of the fire instead of standing watch, and the woods were silent. It was not the silence that comes from humans sleeping—which is not really silence at all—but total silence, the type to make a boy’s teeth ache. Scamp knew from his years spent alone at night in the forests around Caer Scál that woods are never truly silent. Only one thing would change that: the presence of something that would cause the forest animals to flee or hide.

  “Upthog, wake up,” he said.

  She turned her head, and he gasped. Someone had gagged her. Seeing the gag, he noticed her hands were also tied.

  “Ah, look, lads, sweet cheeks has woken up,” Nechtan said from behind him, just as the horse whinnied again.