Marbh was sitting in her cell contemplating the maggots. The cream-coloured little monsters had a life as meaningless as hers—putrid meat in one end, slime out the other. Incessant. Insistent. An existence that the Tuatha had forced on her–and her monsters—after the Master created her. Those waiting for the maggots to consume them and for their rebirth as slime serenaded her with their moans—the noise was unceasing.

  It was a punishment from some unknown source. Marbh had no idea why they were punishing her, for how long they had been doing it, nor how long it was to continue.

  How many millennia without a scourge? Innumerable millennia.

  Too long.

  Marbh was beginning to hate Dhuosnos for what was happening. But then, according to her Master, he wasn’t punishing her. After the failure of the Master’s children to free them from Tech Duinn. Dagda agreed with Danu to put more wards in place and make it ever more difficult for them to break free. The birth of a Summoner and the syphoning of Earth Power to build Dhuosnos’s strength were now controlled by the coven of witches.

  A coven that was destroyed by the Northern King.

  Despite that destruction, a new Summoner had been born—if they could believe Concaire—yet nothing was happening. Days had passed, and still, there was no news. Dhuosnos, it seemed, had become ineffectual, punctuated with his growing anger.

  Something is wrong. Is the giant’s anger a reason for fear?

  Thinking it through, she thought it probably wasn’t. Not yet. She would wait to be sure their Master was no longer strong enough to continue.

  Notwithstanding her decision, Marbh was far from happy.

  She had her throne on its dais, and if the scourge arrived, she would have immeasurable power—maybe enough to defeat Danu and ensure the cleansing didn’t end—enough to face the Tuatha and ensure she would never need to return to this dungeon. Still, none of that made her existence easier. The coming release felt more like a false promise with each passing hour—more like the Tuatha were toying with them.

  Despite her feelings for the witch, his calling them to the Arena had almost become a pleasant distraction. Almost. Marbh was starting to hate him with a frightening passion. The way he called them had become so offhand it was as if Dhuosnos had a higher regard for him than for the Four, his inner circle.

  She turned her mind to the recent visit of Concaire, the reason she sat watching the maggots writhe. She was trying to decide what she should do. Concaire, still flying free from his physical body in an attempt to find the Master’s nemesis, had returned to tell her what he overheard on the pier of Ceathru Rúa. He’d been waiting there for the boy—sure that wherever the Summoner was, his target would not be far behind—when the slaver arrived and spoke of his intentions to ride into the plains and capture Scamp and the woman.

  The man had been quite expressive when describing his plans and even lashed out when one of his men reminded him of their set task. According to their Master’s wishes, they were to delay the pair, nothing more.

  No harm was to come to the boy.

  Unfortunately, none of them mentioned who was ordering them. Concaire decided it was more important to protect the Summoner and visited his dreams—once again pretending to be Marbh—before flying to the Bull’s Head to ask her what they should do.

  She knew what she had to do but baulked at the idea.

  Whoever or whatever their enemy was, there could only be one reason to create delay: their weakness. The longer it took for the boy to arrive, the weaker Dhuosnos would become, as would the Four.

  Marbh sitting on her throne unmoving wasn’t helping. She delayed because the Master did not receive bad news well. Instead, he was apt to punish the messenger.

  He will receive this news less well if I tarry much longer.

  Standing, she went to the arena to find the witch who could talk with the Master, a necessity that did not improve her mood.

  “You need to speak to Dhuosnos,” she said when she found the man at his cauldron.

  Always at his cauldron.

  “Why?” he asked, without deigning to look at her.

  “Because the threat the Master suspected is real, and he needs to know.”

  ***

  The sun had recently risen.

  The eagle sat on a branch and stared at the carnage with the intensity only birds of prey possessed. He should have known he couldn’t trust Nechtan to do a simple job. He couldn’t make the same mistake again because Nechtan was face-first in his cart with a hole in the back of his neck where an arrow had once protruded.

  Aside from Nechtan, there were four mauled bodies in the glade and the carcass of a great bear, hacked mercilessly, no doubt by someone suffering from anger so brutal they were not in control.

  Nechtan.

  There was no sign of the Summoner or the woman. The horses were gone. There must have been horses, not least because there was a cart. Nechtan hadn’t been the type to walk and even less the type to pull a cart behind him. His servant had ignored his instructions to delay the boy’s travel south for whatever reason, his first real setback.

  Ruffling his black and gold feathers, he started to preen them. If he were to stay aloft long enough to find the boy, they would need to be in excellent condition.

  I must do everything myself, he thought as he spread his wings and flew into the red-splashed sky.

  ***

  They’d ridden through the night.

  There was no protection from the glare on the open plains of Talamh Thorthúil. The sun rose as a white-hot splash in the eastern sky and then glided slowly above them, getting hotter as it moved. As well as the heat, the string of horses kicked up swarms of insects as they walked through the grass, making his discomfort almost unbearable.

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  “Tuatha-forsaken bugs,” he said, not for the first time.

  “Ye’ll get used to it,” Upthog said.

  “You’ll get used to it,” Scamp mimicked, too low for her to hear.

  He was sitting stiffly upright in his saddle, one hand fighting a losing battle against the living clouds, the other out front, reins gripped so tightly the knuckles were white, and wondering what the plains would be like in summer. The idea of sitting on a horse had been far easier than its reality, but he thought that in milder weather, it would be less so. Scamp knew he was as inept at riding as he felt, made worse by squirming arse cheeks and a slippery saddle. Even with Upthog leading his mount as the front horse in a string, he was rigid with the fear of falling off. He wasn’t afraid of pain or hurt as much as appearing foolish.

  What a pain in the hole.

  Scamp’s arse felt like his Ma had been paddling it with her rug beater, which had never happened, he remembered with a shake of his head. He had good memories of her chasing him around Caer Scál, trying and failing to beat him because he’d been up to something. In contrast to his Dah’s beatings, she never managed to connect with the paddle, and her angry shouts would invariably become laughter at his ducking and weaving.

  “Miss you, Mah,” he said.

  “What? Can’t hear ye.” Upthog said.

  “Nothing. I was speaking my thoughts.”

  “Ah. That explains yer creased face, so it does.”

  “Maybe so,” he said, knowing his expression wasn’t caused by thinking aloud or discomfort. Indeed, his sweaty arse ached, but his mind was on Bábdíbir. Well, more on what the demon represented. With Bábdíbir, he was no longer just a mischief-maker who liked lighting fires—he was more, much more.

  Scamp saw evidence of it in Nechtan’s fear. Fear the man tried to avoid by simply ignoring its cause. It was as if the slaver were too afraid to admit the existence of Bábdíbir. When he climbed into the back of the cart, bloody sword dripping, and denied what had happened, Scamp felt a surge of something—a buzz like lightning striking—power he now realised. And it was his power. Nechtan had been a strong man, far too strong for Scamp to face alone. Yet, the slaver felt the need to deny what had occurred—not once, but several times—waving his sword about and naming the bear as the killer. Scamp remembered a feeling of power in Caer Droma, which was nothing compared to the power he felt riding across Talamh Thorthúil. A power that he had to thank his demon for providing, or maybe Dhuosnos.

  Where are you, Bábdíbir? he wondered.

  “I am here, sitting behind you, Master.”

  “What the cac?” Scamp yelled, nearly falling off his horse. As they had when he met Marbh or Concaire, the words pressed into his mind, causing pressure behind his eyes and scaring him with their intensity.

  “What’s up with you?” Upthog asked.

  “Sorry, nearly fell off the horse. Hate this riding thing.”

  “Ye’ll get used to it. Try and relax. It’ll help.”

  You can hear my thoughts?

  “Yes, Master. When you called me, you forged a bond. I have been able to see inside your mind when I am close.”

  Realising what the demon meant by a bond, he thought, I can see into your mind, too?

  “Yes, Master.”

  Then why haven’t I?

  “You have been feeling me but did not recognise the feelings for what they were.”

  Scamp nodded as he thought, Why can’t I see you?

  “I am cloaked.”

  What does it mean, cloaked?

  “When I concentrate, Master, no one can see me. I have slipped. You saw me in the mountains and above the sea vessel.”

  In the rocks of Mag nAí. The kite?

  “Yes.”

  “If ye don’t relax, yer face is apt to stick like that,” Upthog said.

  “You sound like my Mah.”

  “I’ve not seen ye concentrate so much before. Are ye well?”

  Scamp thought about how best to answer. It wasn’t that he didn’t want her to know the demon was near; she already knew—Bábdíbir had saved them both from Nechtan’s plans. No, he felt uncomfortable about her knowing they could talk without her hearing. He knew that would make him feel uncomfortable.

  “It’s this riding. I need to concentrate, or I’m like to fall off this horse.” Upthog’s frown implied she didn’t believe him.

  Does she already know I’m talking to Bábdíbir?

  “She can guess. She knows much about demon lore, I think.”

  “Ye know yer tongue’s sticking out the corner of yer mouth?”

  “Aye. I get that from my Mah.”

  Why didn’t I see you in the granary? Did you appear cloaked?

  “No. You had your eyes closed. I hid behind the barrels before you opened them.”

  Why? Why didn’t you tell me you were there? There was a long delay before Bábdíbir answered. Scamp was starting to wonder if the demon would answer.

  “I was ashamed to be so small.”

  Did you kill the guards at the granary?

  “No, Master.”

  Do you know who it was?

  “No, Master.”

  How small are you?

  “At this moment, sitting behind, my horns reach the middle of your back.”

  You have horns?

  “Yes, Master. Two on my forehead, one beside the other. Not long as yet.”

  Are you always small?

  “No. I am small for a demon, but in Tech Duinn, I am bigger. I came to you this size because that is all the pentagram would bear. I am growing. The further south we travel, the bigger I will become.”

  Scamp could feel excitement growing in the pit of his gut. He hoped they would meet Kathvar somewhere. He supposed it wasn’t beyond the possible. The witch had run, and where else could he run but south? Witches were condemned in North Kingdom. Volt had even hunted them in the other four kingdoms, so perhaps there was nowhere to run for the likes of Kathvar. Still, Scamp hoped to meet him at some stage. With a demon to do his bidding, that future meeting would be much more satisfactory than past ones.

  And you’ll follow my every command?

  “Yes, Master. Dhuosnos instructed me.”

  So, are you Dhuosnos’s or mine?

  “Yes, Master.”

  Which is it?

  “Dhuosnos instructed me.”

  Scamp frowned in frustration. He tried to hide the emotion when he saw Upthog giving him puzzled glances. And something else was causing him to worry. She told him in the Sea Wolf that witches once controlled demons. He suddenly remembered his suspicions while being questioned in Caer Droma. He’d thought her to be a witch.

  “How long is it until we get to Dún Ailinne?” he asked.

  “Thirty or more leagues. Should take about four or five days. Could do it faster, but I want these horses good enough to sell when we get there.”

  “Why would you sell the horses?”

  “We need to cross The Great Forest. To do that, we’ll need to hire a Fianna. The forest is the domain of the lawless.”

  Did you send the bees, Bábdíbir?

  “Yes, Master.”

  And the bear?

  “Yes, Master.”

  Why didn’t you die when the bear died?

  “I controlled the bear’s mind. I did not become the bear.”

  “We’ve been in the saddle all night. We’ll make camp,” Upthog said, stopping the horses and swinging from her saddle. “The day is becoming too hot. We’ll stay until evening, eat and get some rest.”

  Scamp did his best not to fall off the horse. In the end, he half fell and half clambered down. He knew he would appear stupid while doing it, but at least he didn’t fall on his arse like an eejit.

  “You want me to do anything?” he asked.

  “Light a fire, would ye? There’s smokeless wood in the last horse’s saddlebags.”

  “You think we’re being followed?”

  Upthog shielded her eyes and looked back the way they’d come before shrugging. “No. Don’t reckon. Thing is, during a famine, people change. Those normally peaceful can become animals. Attacking travellers isn’t uncommon. Better a smokeless fire than unwelcome visitors.”

  “You talk as if you have experience of it.”

  “Aye. One thing’s sure in an unsure world, boy. Ye’d be surprised what experience I have.”

  “You must be wary of this one. She is not what she seems.”

  I think that’s something I already knew.