foul in the air. “Come on!” Fiachna screams. We fly forward at his call, rushing to the stones, readying ourselves for battle.
We spill past the stones, into the middle of the ring. The stones won’t provide much cover but they’ll make it slightly harder for the demons to get at us and buy us a few seconds. They won’t make a real difference, but you’ve always got to live in hope. Before you die at the hands of a Fomorii.
Lorcan jumps onto a stone that fell on its side many years ago. He waves his sword over his head, screaming a challenge at the demons that are emerging from the cover of the trees. Dozens of twisted, hideous monsters. One has the body of a bear but the head of a hawk. Another looks like a wolf but its inner organs hang from its limbs. Claws, fangs, blood-red eyes. Nightmares everywhere I look.
The demons advance slowly. I assume they’re relishing the moment, prolonging it, toying with us. But then they stop and howl with anger.
As we stare at the demons beating the ground with their fists, or tearing it with their claws, cursing us in their own garbled language, Run Fast steps up behind me, lays a hand on my shoulder, and says with a confident little smile, “Worm pups.”
The Old magic is too strong for the demons. They can’t come within striking distance of the stones. A few try, over the course of the night, making darting runs, heads low, howling their defiance. Each comes crashing to a halt or is thrown back as if they’d run into a wall.
I wish we knew the magic of the Old Creatures. We could build stone rings like this around every fort. Make the land safe again. But those secrets are long lost. Banba often spoke of the ancient magicians but she knew little about them, except for the tales and legends that she herself was taught as a child.
When we’ve finished laughing and cheering, we examine the stone circle in greater detail and what we find dampens our newly elated spirits. Bones. Some are from animals but most are human, stacked carefully in the center, arranged so that the heads point west, in the direction of the setting sun. The sun guides the dead to the Otherworld, and if bodies aren’t cremated, they’re usually laid out facing the path of the ever-moving orb.
The bones are more recent than the stones. Many are still dotted with scraps of flesh and hair.
“They must have been brought here after death,” Orna says. “To keep the Fomorii from bringing them back to life.”
“Perhaps,” Fiachna says. “But why not just burn them?”
“Maybe the bodies are part of the magic,” Ronan suggests. “The stones might need the power of the newly dead.”
“Even if they did,” Goll says, “what purpose would it serve? Why drag bodies here just to keep demons from overrunning a ring of stones?”
The mystery puzzles us through the night — nobody can sleep with all the screams of the demons — but it’s solved early in the morning. As the sun rises, the demons retreat. But they only withdraw as far as the trees that encircle the ring. There, under the shade of the rough shelter, they stop and leer viciously at us, pounding the earth with a terrible, steady, threatening rhythm.
“They worked on the trees,” I say, a sick feeling in my stomach. “The people in this area must have sought the protection of the stones every night. It made the demons mad.
Then they had an idea. They built a shelter in the trees around the circle. When it was finished, they let the people in one night, then stood guard the next day, trapping them. There was no way out. They died here, slowly, of starvation and thirst.”
“Most of the bodies don’t have weapons,” Goll sighs. “They probably got so used to coming here, they grew lazy. Didn’t bother with weapons, since they were safe within the ring. They couldn’t even try to fight their way to freedom.”
“And now we’re trapped too,” Connla says bitterly, shooting me a dirty look.
“It’s not Bec’s fault,” Fiachna snaps. “We’d be dead already if not for her.”
“Aye,” Connla admits grudgingly. “But I’d rather have died fighting in the open than of hunger and thirst, trapped like a fox in its den.”
“You can die anytime you like,” Goll says. “The demons are waiting. Go pick a fight with them if you want to die quickly.”
“Maybe I’ll pick a fight with you instead,” Connla snarls.
“Men are so childish,” Orna snaps before the insults escalate. “Instead of being grateful for this extra day, you’re bitter and scrap with each other like dogs.”
“What do we have to be grateful for?” Connla shouts. “We’re surrounded! We’ll die like the others who lie here and our bones will rot slowly, unburied, ignored by the gods.”
“Not necessarily,” Orna disagrees. “The demons haven’t built a wide shelter. And we’re not weaponless. If we break through their ranks, they won’t be able to chase after us.”
“That won’t be easy,” Ronan says, studying the lie of the land. “There’s a lot of space between this ring and the trees. We can’t surprise them. They’ll see us coming and converge at that point.”
“So we separate.” Orna shrugs. “We pair off and dart at them from a few directions at once. I doubt if everyone will make it through but some of us should.”
“The strongest,” Fiachna notes softly, looking at Run Fast and me. “What about the smaller ones?”
“We’ll take our chances,” I say stiffly, not happy with Fiachna for slighting me. I’m no warrior, but I know how to fight and I’m not afraid to die. I want to be treated equally, not as a helpless child.
“If we’re going to try that, we need to do it soon,” Goll says. “If we can put a full day’s march between us and these monsters, they’ll never catch up. But if we leave it until later, they’ll just wait until dark and give chase again.”
“I don’t see that we’ve any choice,” Lorcan says. “Hit hard, run fast, and —”
“Run fast!” Run Fast shouts. We smile at him but he doesn’t see the humor in it. “Run fast!” he yells again. “Run fast!”
“Easy,” Goll says, reaching out a hand to soothe the agitated boy.
Run Fast ducks away from Goll. “Run fast!” he insists. Then, before we can stop him, he darts past the safety of the stones and races towards the trees — and the demons.
“Run Fast!” I scream. “Come back!”
He ignores my cry but draws to a halt short of the trees. The demons in that area have bunched together, snarling and drooling, reaching out towards Run Fast, each wanting to be the first to snag him and feast on his flesh.
Run Fast dodges the hands, paws, and claws of the demons, then starts to...to... No! I can’t believe it. But yes — he starts to dance!
It’s crazy. Incredible. Ridiculous. But he dances anyway. It’s not a graceful dance, or a dance of magic or power. He just hops from foot to foot, clapping his hands, waving them around, grunting a series of off-key tunes.
The demons go wild, infuriated by the display. Run Fast is taunting them, dancing around within their reach, mocking them. They fall over one another in their fury, clutching, grasping, desperate to drag him down and put an end to his insolence. Some even step out of the shade of the trees and lunge at him, risking the burning rays of the sun.
Run Fast dodges them all, leaps here, darts there, dancing all the time. He sets off on a circuit, the demons following him. He comes within range of those who’ve been standing their ground, keeping an eye or three on the rest of us. As he passes, they lose interest in everything but the dancing boy and join with the rest of their inhuman clan, giving chase, lashing out, spitting poison.
Within minutes every demon is focused on Run Fast, stumbling after him, clashing with each other, fighting among themselves. Demons are never the most logical of creatures. Now they’ve lost their senses entirely and only care about destroying this dancing thorn in their side. They’ve forgotten the rest of us.
“I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it,” Goll says, stunned, watching the show with a wide, incredulous eye.
“Loo
k at how he dances away from them,” Fiachna murmurs. “He slides through their fingers like smoke.”
“There’s more to the fool than we thought,” Connla says, a hint of disapproval in his expression. He doesn’t like surprises, even when they work to his advantage.
“Come on,” Orna says. “He’s created a gap for us to slip through. Let’s not waste it by giving the demons time to regain their senses.”
“What about Run Fast?” I ask.
“He’ll be fine,” Goll laughs. “He’ll catch us up later. I think it would take more than all the demons of the land to snare that boy!”
I don’t like the thought of leaving Run Fast behind. I study him as he continues to dance around the rim of the circle, teasing and tormenting the demons. As I’m watching, I notice that one of the demons isn’t chasing Run Fast. It’s standing by itself, ignoring the commotion, gaze fixed on the ring of stones...on us. I can’t see very well, but it looks to be a pale red color and curiously lumpy, as though made of wet clay. And it’s not standing on the ground — it’s floating.
There’s something especially disturbing about this Fomorii. It’s not like any other demon I’ve seen. But before I can move forward for a closer look, Goll slaps my back and points me in the opposite direction, where the trees stand unguarded. “Run like the wind, Little One,” he says. “And for Neit’s sake, don’t stop or look back!”
Then, before I can draw his attention to the floating demon, he barks an order and we’re breaking for freedom, heads down, feet kicking up clouds of dust. In the heat of the moment all thoughts, except those of escape, slip from my head and blow away on the cool morning breeze.
The Crannog
RUN Fast joins us nearly an hour later. I thought he’d be quicker than that, and was worrying, thinking about going back for him. When he appears, I see why he was so long — he stopped to pick flowers and weave a necklace out of them. “Turnips!” he shouts happily, waving the necklace at us.
There’s a big group cheer and we surround him, laughing, hugging, exclaiming at the same time —
“That was amazing!”
“I’ve never seen anything like it!”
“You must be a son of the gods!”
“The demons thought they had us dead but they didn’t count on Run Fast!”
Run Fast smiles hazily, unsure of what all the fuss is about. In his head, I don’t think leading demons on a merry chase counts for much. He’s far prouder of the necklace of flowers.
When we’re through congratulating Run Fast, we set off again, anxious to cover as much ground as we can before nightfall. It’s a showery day and we’re soon soaked. But that’s a minor inconvenience. We’ll take any amount of soakings after our unexpected escape from the demons.
Early afternoon. I’ve been discussing the ring of stones with Fiachna, wondering how old it was, who built it, what its original purpose might have been.
“A pity they didn’t have ogham stones back then,” Fiachna says. “They could have told us who they were and lived on through their writing.”
“Can you read ogham?” I ask.
“A bit. I learned it from a bard who couldn’t pay me for my work. Can you?”
“No. Banba didn’t like ogham. She said magic shouldn’t be recorded, that history should be kept alive by word of mouth.”
“Perhaps,” Fiachna says. “But many stories are lost forever that way. I think . . .” He stops, eyes narrowing. “Connla!” he calls — the young would-be king has been leading for the last couple of hours. When Connla looks back, Fiachna points to a spot off to the right. “A large, strange hut. I think it’s a church.”
Everyone gathers around us. I can see the tip of the building now that Fiachna’s pointed it out. It’s not like any I’ve seen before but I’ve heard of its type. A Christian church. I didn’t know they’d built any this close to our tuath.
We advance on the church. My insides are tight. It’s a feeling I always get when I hear of the upstart religion. Christians are new to our land, but already it’s hard to imagine a time when they weren’t here. They’ve spread as fast as rabbits, bringing their churches and unnatural ways into tuath after tuath, converting everyone they encounter. I’ve never met a Christian, but from what I’ve heard they’re powerful and persuasive, with no tolerance for other ways of thinking. They believe all people should follow their faith, that no gods are real except their own.
The threat of Christians was a major worry for us before the Fomorii came. Even though we were far removed from any of the infected tuatha, we knew we couldn’t hope to avoid them forever. From what we heard, they’d converted all of the north and east. It was only a matter of time before their priests came — maybe their high priest, Padraig, would come himself — and then...
Would they convert us too? Would Conn grant them his backing, as so many other kings had, and order us to follow their ways, abandon our gods, adopt their customs? It didn’t seem possible. Our religion is old. Our gods are sacred, as real to us as our ancestors. We lead our lives based on ancient, just laws, handed down from father to son, mother to daughter. How could we turn away from all that within a matter of days and become another people entirely?
I’d have said it was impossible, except I know from the reports that it isn’t. While the Christians don’t have our understanding and control of magic, they have strange powers of their own. They’ve come from far across the world, winning over most of those they met along the way. Common sense suggested we’d be no different, no more immune to their persuasive spells than any other clan.
We thought Christianity was the worst disaster that could befall us. Then the demons attacked and we realized there were far greater enemies in the world than the followers of the god they call Christ.
Creeping up to the door of the church. I sense power within. A dark, throbbing, painful power. It gives me a headache. This church doesn’t have the natural feel of our own holy places. It’s a building of power but not magic.
We stop at the door of the church, unwilling to enter in case demons are inside. I thought a church would be protected from the Fomorii, like the ring of stones. But as powerful as they are, Christians lack the skills of the Old Creatures, because it’s obvious this church has been attacked and demons have been at play.
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 center 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 farther 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 passersby.
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.