I find it hard to believe, but I’ll have to take his word for it. My body aches, yet the flight already seems a distant memory. Safety and warmth and a full stomach are combining to make my eyelids impossibly heavy.
“You should sleep,” observes Cian. When I nod wearily, he says something to our host, who leads me to a pile of furs in the corner. Beds don’t exist in this country, apparently, I note mournfully. Nor bedrooms.
It’s a soft, lumpy mattress. The chatter between Cian and the others continues only a few feet away. I barely notice once I lie down. I’m asleep within moments.
SHOUTS WAKE ME.
I scramble awkwardly to my feet, muscles groaning in protest. I can hear tension in the voices outside. The two young children are still in the hut, looking frightened, but there’s no sign of their parents or Cian. Early morning sun streams through the clearing clouds and in the east-facing window. I’ve been asleep for a couple of hours at most.
“What’s happening?” I ask the boy in a low voice, despite knowing he won’t understand. Before he can answer, the door bangs open, making both children cry out and me flinch.
Cian strides in, a staff in either hand. His eyes are clearing from black to their bright blue. “They are coming.”
“King Fiachra’s men?”
“And Ruarc’s. Too close to run,” the redheaded man adds soberly when I glance toward the door. “But help is on its way.”
“What can I do?”
He studies me. “Tá súil agam leis na déithe go bhfuil Ostius ceart. If you are truly the strongest of the three, perhaps …” It’s an absent, thoughtful mutter, mostly to himself, even as he remembers halfway through to speak Vetusian for my benefit. Then he comes to some sort of frustrated decision. “No. Stay in here, and keep this for me. Run if you must. I will delay them.”
I fumble the rowan staff he tosses me, force back my confusion at his musing and acquiesce; with my arm, and not knowing the language, there’s nothing much I could do anyway. Cian whirls and exits, looking determined. I creep to the window.
What must be most of the village has gathered behind Cian, who has taken up position on the road and is facing eastward, the staff of ash in hand. It’s mostly women and older men with him. None are armed with more than clubs or scythes. If they’re a farming community, it’s possible the men who greeted us earlier have already left for the day.
Beyond in the distance, a dozen warriors on horseback approach, the rising sun behind them. No spiked hair or blue paint, but the deliberate intensity of their movement, the way their eyes scan the way ahead, leaves no doubt that they’re hunting.
It’s not them that causes me to freeze, though.
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end as I make out the three large wolfhounds prowling in front of the entourage. The same ones as from Dun Bhailcnoc, I think. They’re not being led, nor do they appear to be following a scent. Yet they form a perfectly spaced line along the road in front of the warriors. Loping toward the village in silent unison as they lead the group.
I shiver, sliding down out of sight again, Cian’s staff across my lap. Thinking furiously.
“Naimhde,” murmurs the curly-haired boy who has been peeking out beside me. There’s more fascination in his serious green eyes than fear. When I glance at him questioningly, he points in the direction of the oncoming warriors insistently. “Naimhde ag teacht.”
I smile reassuringly at him and pat him on the shoulder, as if I understand completely. Dogs. Enemies. Danger. He could be remarking on the fact the rain has stopped, for all I know.
How does Cian intend to delay them? The people out there only marginally outnumber the warriors, and certainly will be no match for them. It will takeminutes, if that, to search these simple abodes. Perhaps he’s going to face them directly and use Will. Perhaps he’s going to try and make some sort of deal, or invoke some of this druidic privilege he seems so confident in.
I just have to hope he knows what he’s doing, because even if I had two arms, his staff would be no weapon against the spears and blades coming toward us.
I hurry to the next window for a better vantage, careful not to attract attention. Cian is watching calmly as the men and their dogs draw closer. I recognise none of them. Foremost is a massive, dark-haired man. His silver torc gleams as it encircles an impossibly muscular neck. He looks almost comical atop a roan horse which, while larger than any of his companions’, still appears pony-like beneath him.
“Níor chóir duit a bheith anseo, Mel ap Mor,” calls Cian sternly as the party reaches the first of the houses. “Tá tú ag briseadh an chonartha.” If I had to guess, telling them to turn around.
The dogs stop. All three of the animals watch Cian with motionless, unsettling intensity. Behind them the men pull to a halt as well, and their leader dismounts. “Cá bhfuil sé?” Flat and insistent. He has a long blade strapped to his waist. Almost a broadsword.
“Cas timpeall, Mel ap Mor.”
“Cá bhfuil sé?” The warrior walks calmly forward. The pointedly repeated question indicating he’s ignoring whatever cautioning Cian is giving him. His men are still mounted, but splitting off. Spreading out.
Cian sees it but stands his ground, unafraid. “Ní ghortóidh sé seo ach Fiachra.” Gently chiding.
“Cá bhfuil sé?” The dark-haired warrior stands in front of Cian now. Dwarfs him.
The druid is forced to peer up to meet his gaze, yet there’s no questioning the confident authority in his posture. “Ní féidir leat—”
A flash of steel. The ash staff is cleaved in two and clattering to the ground, Cian’s severed head rolling next to it as red blood sprays. There’s a breath where no one moves.
