We can see the mess through the open door. Blood everywhere. Bits of human bodies. A man’s head—maybe a priest’s—stuck on the tip of a spear set in the centre of the church. Eyelids ripped off, eyes gouged out, demonic symbols scrawled in blood across his forehead and cheeks.
“I’ve never seen demons do this,” Goll says, scratching the flesh over his own lost eye. “They usually strike and kill, make off with the bodies they want, leave the others just scattered around. This is different.”
“It’s like what we do with our enemies after a battle,” Fiachna agrees. “If you add this to the trap they built around the ring of stones, there’s only one conclusion. Tiernan was right—they’re becoming more intelligent.”
I feel sick when Fiachna says that. If the demons start plotting, scheming and fighting like humans, with their extra strength and powers they’re certain to crush us all within months.
We stand in the doorway a few moments more, studying the face of the dead man. Then we retreat, spirits dampened, and continue on our trek to Run Fast’s home, wondering if we’ll find similar scenes of chaos there.
Late in the evening. Worrying about the night ahead and where we’ll stop. It’s too much to hope to find another ring of magical stones. We’re tired from the march and lack of sleep. If we don’t find shelter soon, we’re in trouble.
All of a sudden, without warning, Run Fast darts ahead of us. He stops, looks back and beckons hastily. “Bumpy frogs!” he shouts. “Run fast!” Then he tears ahead, disappearing through the trees.
“Looks like our journey’s at an end,” Connla smiles. “I thought we’d have a much further march than that.”
“The gods must be looking down on us,” Goll grunts, then catches Connla’s arm as he goes to follow Run Fast. “Careful. Don’t forget why we’re here. These people are in trouble. There’s no telling what we’ll find. The demons might have them surrounded, like at the ring of stones.”
Connla hesitates, then takes a step back. “What do you suggest? Go in together or send a scout first?”
“Together,” Goll says after a second of thought. “To separate is to weaken. But everybody draw your weapons and tread carefully.”
When we’re all prepared, we advance cautiously, scanning the branches of the trees overhead and roots at our feet—sometimes worm-like demons disguise themselves as roots and snag unsuspecting passers-by.
A couple of minutes later we come to a clearing and find ourselves at the edge of a lake. A crannog has been built on an island in the middle of the water. A small, fenced fort, containing half a dozen huts. There’s a sentry post built above the gate, and from the marks beneath it and here on the shore, I think there was once a bridge connecting the island to the mainland. But that’s been demolished, probably because of the threat posed by demons. Now you can only get to it by swimming or in one of the curraghs tied up close to the fort’s gate.
“Hello!” Goll yells. Echoes, then silence.
Run Fast is hopping up and down, his face alight, reaching out to the crannog as though he can stretch across the lake and stroke the walls of the fence.
“Anybody there?” Goll shouts. When the silence holds, he adds, “We’ve come to help. Your boy told us you were in trouble. We’re here to…”
He draws to a halt, since it’s obvious nobody’s going to answer.
“It’s a ghost village,” Ronan says.
“We’re too late,” Connla sniffs.
“Maybe not,” Fiachna disagrees. “They might be sheltering underground, in a souterrain, where they can’t hear us.”
“You two seem to think people do nothing but cower underground,” Connla snorts, nodding at Fiachna and Orna. “Why don’t you just accept the simple truth that when nobody answers a call, it means they’re all dead?”
“I prefer to hope for the best,” Orna says stiffly, “even when I can see just as clearly as you that it’s unlikely.”
“Smoke bread,” Run Fast says bafflingly, leaning over so far that he almost topples into the lake.
“Right,” Goll says. “We haven’t come all this way to turn back now. If nothing else, the crannog offers a place to rest tonight.”
“Unless it’s been taken over by demons,” Connla says.
“Unless it’s been taken over by demons,” Goll agrees. “But we have to check. Lorcan, will you swim across and come back in a curragh for the rest of us?”
Lorcan’s the best swimmer in our tuath. Even when he was twelve years old, he could beat most grown men in a race. He steps forward now and studies the water, looking for demons. He can’t see any but that doesn’t mean it’s safe—they often hide down deep during the day, to avoid the rays of the sun.
Without saying anything, Lorcan undresses quickly, then dives in and strikes powerfully for the crannog. We watch nervously, Ronan having notched an arrow to his bow, ready to fire instantly if his brother comes under attack.
Lorcan makes it to the crannog unhindered and pulls himself out, pausing only to offer up a quick prayer of thanks to the gods. He brushes water from his stubbly hair—it comes off in rusty red drops, coloured by the blood caked into his scalp. Then he unties a leather-framed curragh and rows across to where we’re waiting, hard strokes, one eye on the setting sun.
Lorcan, Goll, Run Fast and Orna cross first. Then Lorcan rows back to pick up Ronan, Fiachna, Connla and me. At the gate I test the air for the scent of demons. It’s clear. I don’t think there are monsters in the village but I can’t be certain.
“Will we try the gate or go over the fence?” Goll asks.
“The gate’s open,” Fiachna says.
Goll squints, then chuckles. “I was never the sharpest with two eyes, but with only one…” He looks around. “We’ll go in fast. Any sign of trouble, retreat to the gate. Based on what we’re facing, we’ll decide then whether to fight or flee.”
Deep breath. Weapons drawn. A signal from Goll. In.
* * * * *
No demons. No people either. Just a few chickens and lots of blood. While we stand a few paces inside the gate, Run Fast chases after the chickens, laughing. They squawk and flap away from him. With his speed he could catch them easily, but he’s only playing with them.
“Do you think they’re all dead?” Orna asks, eyes narrow, nose wrinkled against the stench of fresh blood.
“Unless they’re hiding,” Goll grunts.
“We should check the huts,” Fiachna says.
“Aye.” Goll points at Ronan, Fiachna, Connla and me. “You four go right. The rest of us will go left. We’ll meet in the middle if all’s clear.”
“What about Run Fast?” I ask.
Goll looks at the boy chasing the chickens. “I don’t think he’d be much help.”
We set off quickly, each of us aware of the rapidly setting sun. It’s almost the time of the Fomorii.
The first hut. Holes have been torn in the walls, so it’s easy to peer in. Floor caked in drying blood but otherwise empty. No trapdoor or hiding place. We push on.
The second hut’s smaller than the first. A tiny entrance. No holes in the walls. Dark pools of shadows. We stick our heads through the doorway, allowing our eyes to adjust to the gloom. Objects gradually swim into sight. Pots, a small table, a broken chair. Rugs on the floor—there could be a souterrain beneath. We slide in, Ronan first, me last, looking up for winged demons hanging from the thatch. The men search beneath the rugs—nothing. They file out. I’m bringing up the rear, almost through the door, when something breathes behind me.
“Beccccccc…”
I stop… turn… eyes wide… heart beating fast. I stare into the shadows. I can’t see anything but I know I’m not alone. I want to duck out of the door or call for help but I can’t. My tongue is frozen, not with fear, but magic.
Long, terrifying seconds pass. Then, in a blur, claws dart out of the darkness… a twisted face… fiery eyes… a savage mouth filled with rows of teeth… the demon grabs me!
DRUST
>
Instant reaction—magic. I don’t waste time screaming. I bark a spell, my lips moving quicker than ever before. My hands heat up. Then, instead of wrenching my arms away, which is what the demon expects, I grab its claws tightly and try to scorch them to scraps.
It doesn’t work. As my hands glow, the claws grasping me glow too. Brighter and brighter, the pair of us, a contest. For several seconds we are locked together, no words, my gaze fixed on my hands and the claws. Then I start noticing details—not claws but hands. Smooth flesh, eight fingers, two thumbs. Dark flesh but not demon dark—human dark.
I bring my eyes up but I can’t see my attacker’s face because of the magical glow. A swift inner debate. Then I let the power drain from me. The light dies away. Shadows reform. It takes my eyes a while to adjust but when they do I see that I was right—it’s a man, not a monster. And he’s smiling.
“Good,” the man says. “You have magic—a bit anyway—and common sense. You’ll do.” Then he brushes past me, out of the hut, and summons the others with a far-reaching call.
“You can stop searching. It’s safe. There are no demons here. Now come and find out why I sent the boy to fetch you.”
The stranger’s name is Drust and—as we immediately see by his long blue tunic and shaved, tattooed head—he’s a druid. After calling us together and telling us his name, Drust doesn’t speak for a long time. Instead, he builds a fire and casts a spell to prevent smoke and contain the glow within the crannog, so as not to attract demons. After a while he takes hot rocks from the fire—with his bare fingers—and places them in a pit filled with water. When the water is the right heat, he drops in chunks of meat wrapped in straw.
We sit silently, eyeing Drust suspiciously, waiting for him to speak. I’ve never seen a druid before. Wandering men of minor magic, yes, but never one of the legendary seers. His tattoos are amazing. They’re a map of the stars, but they move like the stars do, slowly revolving across his scalp.
When the meat is cooking to Drust’s satisfaction, he stands before us and runs a calculating eye over the group, one by one, judging. His eye seems to rest longest on me but maybe I just imagine that.
We’re all tense. We have tremendous respect for druids, but we fear them too. They’re human, but something else as well, powerful, with rules and ways of their own. We’ve heard tales of how they sacrifice children to the gods, breed with demons, build mountains, level raths and divert the course of rivers.
Finally, Drust looks at Run Fast. He smiles at the boy, then clicks his fingers. Run Fast edges over to him like a dog to its master. Drust ruffles the boy’s untidy hair, his smile widening. “You did well, Bran,” he says.
“Bran!” I gasp. “Is that his name? He never told us. We called him Run Fast because…” Drust looks at me calmly and I come to a halt. There’s no menace in his eyes, but no warmth either. He studies me in much the same way that I’ve studied dead demons in the past.
“Yes,” the druid says in an accent not of this land. “It’s Bran. He didn’t tell you because he’s incapable of remembering names.” Drust speaks slowly, the words sounding strange on his lips. I don’t think our language is his own.
“Is Bran from here,” Fiachna asks quietly, “or is he your apprentice?”
Drust raises a mocking eyebrow. “You think I would take an idiot as an apprentice?”
“He’s simple but blessed,” Fiachna replies. “He has speed and other powers not of normal men.”
Drust nods. “Which is why I sent him for assistance. But, touched by magic as he is, Bran’s brain can never develop. He would be as useless to me as he was to his own people.” He pauses, then adds, “I doubt he came from here originally but this is where I found him.”
Drust releases Bran’s hair. The boy looks up at the druid, to see if he’s going to pet him again, then slides over to my side and sits beside me. I stroke the back of his hands absent-mindedly while the conversation continues.
“And you?” Goll asks. “Where are you from?”
Drust points in an easterly direction.
“Are you a Pict?” Connla asks. “Drust is a Pict’s name.”
“I was, as a child, before I became a druid.”
The Picts are an ancient people from across the great water to the east. I wasn’t aware that any still remained. They’re a dying race, killed or absorbed by stronger tribes. Drust must be one of the last of his kind.
Before we can ask any more questions, Drust points at Goll and says, “Are you the leader of this band?”
“No,” Goll replies. “We have no leader. But I’m the eldest, so I suppose I can speak for us.”
Out of the corner of my eye I see Connla bristle—he probably looks upon himself as the rightful leader—but he doesn’t say anything.
“Then I will address my words to you,” Drust says. “I’ll keep it simple. I am here to end the demon attacks. I need your help. You must come with me.”
He stops as though those few sentences are explanation enough.
The flesh around Goll’s single eye wrinkles. “You’ll need to tell us more than that, druid or no druid,” he murmurs. “To begin with, what happened here and where are Run F—I mean, Bran’s people?”
“Demons.” Drust shrugs. “They’d been attacking long before I arrived. Bran’s tribe—the MacRoth—were exhausted, close to defeat. Shortly after I came, that defeat finally befell them.”
“The demons killed everyone?” Goll asks and Drust nods. “Then why not you?” He phrases it lightly, but it’s clearly a challenge. It’s unnatural for all to perish except this one stranger. What Goll’s really asking is did Drust betray the MacRoth—and will he betray us too?
“They didn’t kill me because they couldn’t see me,” Drust says. “Just as your people couldn’t see me when they entered the hut where I was staying. I know masking spells which hide me from sight. If your girl priestess had been more experienced, she’d have seen through my shield. But she is not yet mistress of her arts.”
“Why not hide the MacRoth too?” Orna asks angrily.
Drust sniffs. “All magic has its limits. I have the power to mask a handful of people but not sixteen.”
“If not sixteen, why not eight?” Lorcan growls. “Or four? Or even one?”
“As your own magician—wet behind the ears as she is—can tell you, magic is draining. A masking spell for several people, maintained over a long period, would have tired me. I need to be at my most powerful if I’m to save all from the threat of the Demonata.”
“Demonata?” Ronan frowns. He’s been keeping one hand on his bow, ready to swing it round and fire off an arrow if Drust makes any untoward moves. “Do you mean the Fomorii?”
“They’re not Fomorii,” Drust snorts. “The Fomorii were brutish humans with just a hint of the demonic about them. The Demonata come directly from what you call the Otherworld. Their powers are pure. They cannot be fought and defeated by human means. Only by magic.”
“I think many of the demons we’ve killed would disagree with that,” Connla smirks.
“Familiars,” Drust retorts. “Weak, mindless creatures. They’ve come ahead of their masters, like rats ahead of a mighty plague. When the true Demonata arrive your weapons will be useless.”
Our features tighten. We’d guessed that more intelligent, stronger demons were coming, but not that we wouldn’t be able to kill them. If this is true, it means the end of all we’ve ever known and cared about.
Drust cocks an eyebrow, inviting further questions, making it clear that such queries are a waste of his time. Goll pushes on anyway. “So you stood by and let these Demonata kill the MacRoth. We’ll return to that, but first tell us—”
“We won’t,” Drust interrupts. “The MacRoth meant nothing to me, just as you mean nothing to me. My aim is to save this land. If sixteen—or sixty, or six hundred—have to die, so be it. The MacRoth would have perished whether I was here or not. Since their living or dying had no impact on my quest, I kept ou
t of their affairs, just as I’ll keep out of yours if I decide you are of no use to me either.”
Goll’s face whitens with anger but he controls his temper and instead of shouting, he hisses a question. “Tell us how we can be of use. If you’re so powerful, what are we here for? We came to help people in distress, not a damn druid who has no need of us.”
“But I do have need of you,” Drust says evenly. “I have travelled far to stem the tide of demons at its source. Such travels are perilous, even for one of my powers. I cannot complete my quest alone. When I set out, months ago, it was with several companions, all of whom fell in the course of our journey. I need new warriors to replace them.”
“Us?” Connla laughs. “You think we’ll fight and die for you?
“If you have any sense,” Drust says. “The Demonata are your problem. They cannot cross the sea to my land. You and your people are the ones who will suffer if I fail.”
“We can fight the demons ourselves,” Lorcan says stiffly. “We don’t need help from the likes of you.”
Drust laughs. His laughter offends us all, but before we can react, he speaks quickly. “You haven’t fought the masters yet, only their minions. The demons you’ve faced—along with the pitiful undead—are merely the first wave. A tunnel has opened between this land and the Otherworld. It will allow demons to enter our realm freely. It’s a small tunnel but it’s growing. As it grows, larger, smarter, stronger demons will cross. They can roam the land by day as well as night. And, as I’ve already told you, they can only be killed by magic.”
He stops. Our faces are ashen. Nobody can speak, not even the hot-headed Connla. When Drust has measured the impact of his words, he continues. “The druids won’t come to your aid. This island had already passed beyond our control—the Christians drove us out. The view of most druids is that it makes no difference whether Christians or demons rule here. In fact many would prefer the Demonata—they hate Christians even more than demons.”
[Demonata 04] - Bec Page 6