Both druids look at the boat and those boarding it. Only a couple remain on the shore now, untying the ropes which hold the boat in place. It’s unlike any boat I’ve ever seen, long and narrow, tall poles sprouting from the middle to hold large sails. It’s hard to see how it stays afloat.
“What of your companions?” the druid asks, looking around, his gaze coming to rest on me. “Do they seek sanctuary with us? There are a few places left. If they wish to take their chances, we can give them berth.”
Drust glances at me, then speaks to the others. “If you want to go, I won’t stop you. But I might have need of you in the days and nights to come. Remember—if I fail, your people will pay the price.”
“Tir na n’Og,” Goll whispers, his good eye sparkling as he studies the boat. “To go there now… to live forever, having come this close to death…”
“It would be a just reward for an honest life,” Fiachna says softly. “You should go, old friend.”
Goll’s lips part. He breathes out the word, “Aye.” But then his face hardens and he barks a laugh. “No. Tir na n’Og’s for the beautiful and magical—not an ugly old warhorse like me! Anyway, what would I do there for all eternity? Play hurling with giants?” He turns and winks. “Ten years ago, maybe. But I’d feel like a fool if I went now. And what if they find nothing but sea? I’ve been on those waves before—and never as sick in all my life!”
“Anybody else?” the druid asks politely. He’s still looking at me, a small frown creasing his forehead.
“I would give much to hunt in the fabled forests of Tir na n’Og,” Lorcan sighs dreamily. “But I can’t abandon my clan, not until the demons have been defeated or I lie dead. Next year, if we succeed, I’ll return and ask for passage then.”
Goll nudges Connla playfully. “How about you, young king? We know how vain you are. In Tir na n’Og you’d keep your looks and never grow old.”
Connla sneers. “Give up a kingship here to be a peasant there? I think not!”
“You sound very certain of your kingship,” Goll murmurs. “Do you know something we don’t?”
Connla flushes. “Of course not. I was just… I mean…” He coughs and glares at Goll. “I don’t have to explain myself to the likes of you!”
“Peace,” the druid says before the pair start to argue in earnest. “If you do not wish to travel with us, I must take my leave. Night is almost upon us and we mean to depart before the demons attack—they come here often, the braver monsters, in search of rich pickings.”
“We have delayed you too long already, brother,” Drust says, bowing. “Go, and may the grace of the gods go with you.”
“Our thanks—and may the gods bless you in your honourable quest,” the druid says. He returns the bow, nods at the rest of us, then makes his way to the boat. The creatures holding the ropes untie the last of them as he approaches. By the time he reaches the shoreline the ropes have been cast off and the boat is drifting away from the land. The druid increases his pace and jumps to the deck of the boat, propelling himself through the air with magic. He waves to us before settling down and facing the bow, which points like an arrow straight at the setting sun.
We watch as the boat moves off, sails rising smoothly, catching a magical wind. The boat shoots ahead at an incredible speed, leaving hardly any wake, a speck on the horizon within minutes, then—to my eyes at least—gone.
There’s a long, thoughtful silence. All eyes are on the dimming sun, scanning the point where sea meets sky, straining for one final glimpse of the boat and its cargo of giants and fairies.
Then Goll shatters the mood by clapping Drust on the back. “So, druid,” he drawls, “where shall we cast for tonight? Your friends are safe from the demons and undead at sea, but we’re somewhat exposed out here, aye?”
Drust looks around, blank-eyed for a second. Then he focuses. “Aye. It would not do if we were caught in the open. We will be safe further down the coast—there is a place protected by rare Old Magic—but we must move fast if we are to get there before night.”
“Can’t we stop and cast a masking spell?” I ask.
“No,” Drust says, starting forward, faster than he’d been walking earlier. “You heard the warning—demons come here.”
“Demons are everywhere,” Fiachna says.
“Aye,” Drust agrees. “But only the brave go where beings of magic congregate. And a brave demon is usually a powerful demon. I wouldn’t trust our spells to hide us from their gaze. Now march and save your breath—if we fail to make our destination in time, you might need to fight tonight, and the monsters you lock arms with will be fiercer and harder to kill than any you’ve faced before.”
THE GEIS
The day is in its final stages when we come to a cliff high above the sea. We’ve been climbing for the last half hour, out of sight of the waves. Now we stop, stunned by the new view. The cliff drops straight beneath us, as though the land had been cut away with a godly knife. I take an instant step back, terrified I’m going to fall. Most of the others retreat instinctively too.
But Drust isn’t afraid. He breaks into a smile and points towards a row of cliffs, jutting out into the sea like gigantic fingers. It’s amazing scenery. Even Goll hasn’t seen anything like this—he was further north when he came to the coast as a young man. We gawp, astonished.
“There,” Drust says. “The third Jutland from the end—that’s where we’re going.” He looks at the sun, then the land around us. “We should be fine. Demons don’t like the throb of Old Magic and usually avoid it. But let’s not tarry, just in case.”
We push on, moving downhill now, following the coastline. Seagulls are settling in their nests for the night, cawing and screeching. Some rabbits watch us from a safe distance. Even further beyond the rabbits, a small, rugged pony grazes alone. I can’t see it lasting long by itself out here in the demon-pillaged wilds.
At the foot of the dip there’s hard, level ground. It’s possible to crawl forward on your stomach and look down directly over the edge of the cliff. Drust doesn’t pause—he’s not interested in the view, intent on reaching the third jut of land—but the rest of us can’t resist the opportunity to gaze upon the sea from such a spectacular viewpoint. Lying on our stomachs, we wriggle forward to the end of the world and a sight that surpasses any I ever dreamt about in the past.
Unbelievable. With my chin resting over the edge, and the rest of my body hugging the cliff edge for dear life, it’s as if I’m suspended in mid-air, looking down at the sea as a bird or god must. I see the heads of seagulls nestled in the rock. The white of the waves as they batter the base of the cliff, visible even in the dim light of the advanced dusk. The rolling, crashing sounds. The scent of birds and salt.
The urge to throw myself over the edge is strong. To die so beautifully, so perfectly… to fly for a handful of seconds… become part of the sea, dashed against the rocks until I’m nothing, then swept away to the Otherworld in the company of fish, mermaids and all the other creatures of the deep…
I ignore the suicidal urge, but it’s difficult. I suppose people who live along the shore grow hardened to this call of the sea. But it’s dangerous for land-dwellers like us. When I look up, I see misty expressions on the faces of the others, which prove I’m not alone in my desire to cast myself off.
But there’s something else in those expressions which I feel too—triumph. Though I’m tempted by the call of the sea, I resist. It can’t claim me. In a way I’m stronger than the waves and I feel good about that. Smug, even.
We remain lying on the ledge for what seems a long time but is probably no more than a few minutes. Connla’s the first to crawl back and stand up when he’s a safe distance from the edge, where the wind can’t catch him and whip him over. Ronan rises next, but closer to the edge than Connla, not afraid of the whirling, whistling wind.
The pair head after Drust. A minute later Goll follows and that’s the signal for the rest of us to retreat. Bran’s the last to leave
, laughing as he gazes down, pointing at seagulls and waving as though he knows them. I call to him to come with us but he doesn’t move. Annoyed—I’ve now had my fill of the sea—I double back, grab his legs and reel him in.
“Come on,” I snap as he tries to squirm back to the edge. “We have to follow the others. It’s not safe here.”
“Eggs boiled leaf,” Bran says, nodding to show that he agrees. But he looks at the edge one last time, regretfully, before rising, linking his hand with mine and jogging after Lorcan at the rear of the main pack.
We’ve almost caught up with Lorcan when the demons attack. They burst out of the earth like savage worms, a dozen or more. Multi-limbed. Many have several heads. Claws like branches on a tree. Mouths full of fangs. Gibbering and howling—familiar demon sounds.
Most attack the main group of Fiachna, Lorcan and Goll. A few go for Ronan and Connla. One lumbers after Drust, far ahead on his own. And one surges at Bran and me.
I reach inside and draw upon my magic, forgetting in the heat of the moment that it’s the magic of the Demonata, unable to worry about what I might unleash. Lips moving quickly, I fill my hands with fire, then blow flames at the demon, which has two heads—one of a bear, one a fox. The demon screams and falls. Bran laughs and leaps over the flailing demon, then leaps back again, playing with it as if it was a skipping rope of fire.
Drust’s demon is almost upon him when he flicks his right hand, casting a spell. The demon flies over the druid’s head, then off the cliff, falling to its death on the rocks beneath, hollering hatefully all the way down.
The others are battling, swords and axes flashing, hacking at demon flesh. Drust starts back to help, then pauses and stares inland. I follow the direction of his gaze and spot a figure in the distance, hovering above the earth. There’s no mistaking him, even in this poor light—Lord Loss. Something that looks like a dog is jumping up and down beside him.
Drust hesitates, then races along the cliff, heading for the Jutland where he said we’d be safe, leaving the rest of us to fight and, if we lose, perish.
I curse the druid, then wade in to where Lorcan, Goll and Fiachna are struggling with the demons. The ground around them is slippery with blood, littered with demon limbs, chunks of flesh, even a head or two. But still the demons press on, driving the warriors and smith towards the edge of the cliff, seeking to push them over.
I touch the back of a leathery demon about twice my height. It looks down at me and laughs. I say a word and the nails of my fingers instantly lengthen, digging deep into the monster, piercing its skin, bones, inner organs. The hellish creature chokes, blood gurgling up its throat. My nails burst out the far side of its body. I say another word and jerk my hand away, snapping free of the nails, leaving them buried within. The demon collapses, shudders, then goes still.
Another of the demonic pack sees what I’ve done. It screeches and hurls itself at me. No time for magic. I drop to my back, stick my legs up and halt the demon’s charge with my feet. It swipes at me with a clawed hand. Barely misses my eyes. I point at its face. Words leap from my tongue and its head explodes, splattering me with blood and bits of bone and brain.
Rising, turning to deal with a third demon, I hear a human scream from further away. No time to check it out. A bull-headed demon is on top of Fiachna. It’s bitten a chunk out of his left shoulder and is trying to latch on to his throat. I dive at it, grab its mouth, put my face close to its pink, cracked lips and breathe out.
A mist flies into the demon’s mouth. It coughs, tries to snarl at me but can’t. Because the mist has thickened and clogged its throat. It can’t breathe. Some demons don’t need to breathe but this one does. It falls away, scratching at its neck, eyes bulging as it suffocates.
Goll and Lorcan force the final demon over the cliff, pushing it off, only just avoiding a lashing tendril which threatens to drag them over with it. They glance around, make sure we’ve dealt with all the monsters, then rush off to help Ronan and Connla. Bran and I follow just behind.
When Goll and Lorcan stop short I fear the worst. But running up, readying myself to cast more spells, I see the demons fleeing, Connla standing proudly by the cliff’s edge, sword raised, bellowing colourful curses after the monsters. We approach uncertainly. Connla beams at us, his blade grey and green with demon blood. “Cowards!” he laughs. “They didn’t have the guts to fight! I ran them off! Did you see how fast they—”
“Ronan,” Lorcan interrupts, scanning the area. “Where’s my brother?”
Connla sighs. “They forced him over.”
Lorcan stares at Connla, then walks to the edge of the cliff and looks down. The rest of us hang our heads, the joy of victory already forgotten. There’s a lump in my throat that makes breathing almost as hard as it must have been for the demon I choked to death. I flash on images of Ronan fighting, hunting, laughing, flicking blood from his long, curly hair as he raced from the pack of demons who first pursued us. He would have wanted to die this way, fighting, but that doesn’t make his loss any easier for me to bear.
“He fought bravely,” Connla says. He probably means to comfort Lorcan but he sounds patronising, as though talking to a child.
“Did he fall before or after the demons ran?” Goll asks.
“Before, of course,” Connla frowns. “They forced him over. He was close to the edge. He never stood a chance.”
“Yet they left you alone?” Goll doesn’t phrase it as a challenge but it’s hard not to interpret it as such. “They killed Ronan, then ran?”
“They saw I wasn’t such an easy touch,” Connla snorts. “They got lucky with Ronan, but when they tangled with me and realised they were out of their depth, they ran for their miserable, demonic lives.” Connla’s face hardens and he looks at each of us in turn. “You don’t seem too pleased,” he mutters darkly.
“It’s strange,” Fiachna says uneasily. “Demons don’t fight that way. To catch a person in the open… outnumbering him… night just beginning… then running off…”
“What are you—” Connla starts to roar.
“Enough,” Lorcan stops him—and the rest of us too. He turns from the edge of the cliff, face strained but resigned. “Ronan’s dead. That’s the end of it. I don’t care why the demons ran. There will be no arguments, not at a time like this.”
Goll and Fiachna look down uncomfortably. Connla too.
“He didn’t die through any fault of his own,” Connla says. “They took him by surprise. It was just bad luck that he was so close to the edge. I would have saved him if I could.”
Lorcan nods slowly. “Luck will always turn against a warrior in the end. You have nothing to answer for.” He looks off into the distance, to where Drust is still running, closing in on the Jutland. A light flares in Lorcan’s eyes. “That coward, on the other hand…”
He sets off after Drust at top speed. I share a worried look with the rest of the group, then hurry after him, afraid of what will happen if he catches up with the druid in this dark mood.
Drust has reached the Jutland by the time we get to him. A long stretch of cliff sticking out into the sea, grass growing thickly along the top, blowing ever easterly from the winds coming in from the west. He’s sitting in a spot in the middle of the Jutland, hunched over against the wind, his chess set on the grass in front of him, studying the figures.
“You!” Lorcan shouts, striding up to the druid. Drust doesn’t look up at the furious teenager. “You abandoned us and left us to the demons! What do you have to say in defence of yourself?”
No answer. Drust is fully focused on the chess game.
Lorcan’s axe is in his left hand. He raises it, his youthful face twisted with hatred. I want to stop him but I dare not interfere. And, to be honest, part of me loathes Drust for running out on us and wants to see him punished.
Connla roars a warning and reaches for his knife, to intervene, but before he can, Drust says quietly, “You cannot harm me here. You will suffer if you try.”
> “Suffer this!” Lorcan screams and brings his axe down.
The head of the axe melts. The handle turns into a shaft of fire. Lorcan yells with pain and drops it. I blink dumbly—this is the work of magic, but it didn’t come from Drust. It seemed to come from the earth itself.
“Violence is not permitted here,” Drust says and he looks up. “If you try that again, you’ll die.”
Lorcan snatches for his sword with his unharmed right hand. Stops and curses. Kicks the smouldering remains of his axe and turns away, disgusted.
Drust looks around at us, meeting our accusing gazes without any hint of shame. “Lord Loss orchestrated the attack. He set the demons in place, knowing we must pass this way. I thought it was an ambush, so I fled for my life, as I was duty bound to. I see now it was merely a cruel game but I was not to know that at the time. I acted correctly.”
“What are you talking about?” Goll snarls. “Ronan died. It was no game.”
Drust shakes his head. “If it had been a real ambush, they’d have jumped me. Having trailed us this far and listened to our conversations, Lord Loss must know what our plan is. If he truly wished to stop us at this point, he’d have killed me. The rest of you don’t matter. That was why I ran. I couldn’t let myself fall, not this close to the end.”
“Fancy words, but it boils down to the same thing—cowardice,” Fiachna says.
“You may call it that if you wish,” Drust says coolly. “But I told you from the start that your lives meant nothing to me. You’ve helped me come this far, and so served a noble purpose. I’m grateful for that but it makes you no less insignificant in the greater scheme of things.”
Goll laughs bitterly. “I bet you didn’t have many friends when you were a child!”
“Druids don’t need friends,” Drust replies, then regards his chess set again.
[Demonata 04] - Bec Page 12