on its head, takes aim, then buries a knife deep in its brain. The dog-spider stiffens, whines one last time, then dies. Ronan withdraws his knife and wipes it clean on his long hair. His natural red hair is stained an even darker shade from the blood of demons. Lorcan’s stubble is blood-caked too. They never wash.
Ronan looks at me and grins. “Nice work.” Then he runs with Lorcan to where Conn and his companions are attempting to drive the demons back from the fence.
I take stock. Goll’s section is secure — the demons are re-treating. The boar-shaped Fomorii has been pushed back over the fence. It’s clinging to the poles, but its fellow demons aren’t supporting it. When Ronan and Lorcan hit, blades turning the air hot, it screams shrilly, then launches itself backward, defeated. Connla — Conn’s son — fires a spear after the demon. He yells triumphantly — it must have been a hit. Connla picks up another spear. Aims. Then lowers it.
They’re retreating. We’ve survived.
Before anyone has a chance to draw breath, there’s a roar of rage and loss. It comes from near the back of the rath — Amargen, Ninian’s father. He’s cradling the dead boy in his arms. He had five children once. Ninian was the last. The others — and his wife — were all killed by demons.
Conn hurries across the rampart towards Amargen, to offer what words of comfort he can. Before Conn reaches him, Amargen leaps to his feet, eyes mad, and races for the chariot that our prize warriors used when going to fight. It’s been sitting idle for over a year, since the demon attacks began. Conn sees what Amargen intends and leaps from the rampart, roaring, “No!”
Amargen stops, draws his sword, and points it at Conn. “I’ll kill anyone who tries to stop me.”
No bluff in the threat. Conn knows he’ll have to fight the crazed warrior to stop him. He sizes up the situation, then decides it’s better to let Amargen go. He shakes his head and turns away. Waves to those near the gate to open it.
Amargen quickly hooks the chariot — a cart really, nothing like the grand, golden chariots favored by champions in the legends — up to a horse. It’s the last of our horses, a bony, exhausted excuse for an animal. He lashes the horse’s hindquarters with the blunt face of his blade and it takes off at a startled gallop. Racing through the open gate, Amargen chases the demons and roars a challenge. I hear their excited snorts as they stop and turn to face him.
The gate closes. A few of the people on the rampart watch silently, sadly, as Amargen fights the demons in the open. Most turn their faces away. Moments later — human screams. A man’s. Terrible, but nothing new. I say a silent prayer for Amargen, then turn my attention to the wounded, hurrying to the rampart to see who needs my help. The fighting’s over. Time for healing. Time for magic. Time for Bec.
Refugees
N O clouds. The clearest day in a long time. Good for healing. I take power from the sun. It flows through me, from my fingers to the wounded. I use medicine, pastes, and potions where they’re all that’s needed. Magic on those with more serious injuries — Scota and a few others who were struck by the Fomorii’s fire-blood.
The warriors are tired, their sleep disturbed. They’ll rest later, but most are too edgy to return to their huts straight-away. It takes an hour or two for the battle lust to pass. They’re drinking coirm and eating bread, discussing the battle and the demons.
I’m fine. I had a full night’s sleep, only coming on watch a short while before the attack. That’s my regular pattern on nights when there isn’t an early assault.
Having tended to the seriously wounded, I wander around the rath, in case I’ve missed anybody. I used to think the ring fort was huge, ten huts contained within the circular wall, plenty of space for everyone. Now it feels as tight as a noose. More huts have been built over the last year, to shelter