I lie there for several seconds, eyes open, trying to put my finger on what has disturbed me. There is only steady breathing from the other side of the hut. I hesitate, then roll and lever myself one-armed to my feet. Peer out the window.
Moonlight coats the serene rolling hills. Distant treetops sway in a gentle breeze. Otherwise, there’s no movement out there. I shuffle across to the other window. Nothing there, either.
And yet there’s something. A sense, an unease I can’t shake. It’s not just an unsettled echo from the alupi earlier today. I’m sure of it.
I grab Cian’s staff. It’s the only weapon to hand. It again almost seems to pulse faintly, though it’s so subtle that I cannot help but wonder whether it is simply my imagination.
I shrug my cloak around my shoulders with a practiced flick, and slip out the door into the open air.
The night is ice against any portion of exposed skin; once the sun has gone down, the air here bites even worse than it did at Solivagus. I shiver and cautiously stalk the short perimeter of the hut. There’s nothing obviously amiss, nothing to excuse the steadily deepening feeling of dread that’s urging me to action.
I face the woods, and with an apprehensive shiver realise what’s bothering me.
There’s a second, slightly discordant pulse in my head now.
It’s different from the one coming from the staff in my hand. Just as hard to discern but this one is stronger, simply coming from much farther away. The last echoes of a distant shout, rather than a whisper. But I can still tell its rough direction.
I study the black of the tree line. Menace radiates from it. What I’m sensing feels much more remote, but …
“I know you’re out there,” I call softly.
Nothing for several seconds.
Then three men emerge from the shadows.
I’m not sure if I’m imagining it at first; the strangers look ghostly in the ethereal light, move noiselessly as they stalk toward me. Two are bare to the waist, blue whorls and lines covering their skin, hair slicked and spiked up. They are broad and muscular and each look as though they could deal with me without the long spears held loosely in their hands.
The third, trailing just behind, is garbed in white. His cloak flows out behind him. At first I think it is the ghost of Cian, but as he nears I can see he is solidly built and older, grey shot through his blond beard and shaggy hair. His staff is similar to the one I hold—carved into distinct, symbol-covered sections as well—but darker beneath the markings. Oak, I think, rather than rowan.
They’re not the source of whatever it is I’m sensing out there, though, I realise dimly. That’s still somewhere far behind them.
“Who are you?” I call the challenge loudly and clearly.
No answer. They keep coming, and from the expressions on their faces, they do not have friendly intent.
“Gráinne! Onchú!” I call the names urgently while not looking back toward the house, even as I take some wary steps of retreat. A few months ago, I might have backed myself here. But no matter how well I’ve recovered, no matter how well I’ve adapted to my injury, I know I am diminished. This is not a fight I can win.
There’s a sleepy call from inside, but any help will be too late, and Onchú and Gráinne will not be enough against warriors such as these. I need to give them time to get away. I step forward, positioning the staff roughly as I would a blade, letting the excess rest against my forearm. It’s unwieldy, unbalanced. The sort of weapon that requires two hands to be used with any skill. Still, my knowledge of how to generate power from my core remains relevant. There are techniques I can use here.
They won’t serve me well for long, though. Especially if these men know how to use those spears.
The druid’s eyes bulge as he sees what I’m doing. He points at me with fury, pace increasing. “On your knees,fealltóir na slí,” he snarls.
I don’t know the last words, but they’re definitely not a compliment.
The two warriors are less than ten feet away; they look angry too, but also confident. I take advantage. Reverse my slow backpedalling into a lightning dart forward, pivoting as I do so to bring the entire length of the staff around at the head of the bearded, lithe man on the left. My weeks of using farm implements one-handed pay off; there’s a surprised cry of pain as the wood whistles through the air and strikes him hard on the shoulder, his flinching back the only reason he avoids a cracked skull.
I keep moving past and twist, grinning fiercely at the surprised rage on their faces. Leading them away from the house again, willing Gráinne to see what is happening and grab the children and run. “Come and get me.” A children’s taunt I’ve heard more than enough to repeat.
There’s a growl from the man I hit. A look that promises violence on the blocky face of the other. Both grip their spears in a far more ready manner, this time.
The druid sees it too, snarls an instruction I don’t quite understand to them. Something about needing me for answers, I think. The warriors’ lips curl, but their stances alter.
They come forward as one. Quick and flowing and skilled. I fend off one strike, two, dance away, dodge a pursuing third.
I don’t see the fourth until my legs are being swept from beneath me. I hit the ground hard.
“Wait!” I vaguely hear Gráinne’s voice as I try unsuccessfully to roll, another strike glancing off my ear and causing the world to spin. The men don’t heed her; a foot finds my stomach and the air explodes from my lungs as I curl into a ball, desperately protecting myself. Another blow and then a weight across my body, my arm pinned. My hair, growing long now, is grabbed and my head slammed violently back into the ground. Again. Onchú’s voice is there too, protesting. Ignored.
