Darren Shan: Bec

Later. The gate of the rath is open. The cows and sheep have been led out to graze. Demons can only come at night, gods be thanked. If they could attack by day as well, we’d never be able to graze our animals or tend our crops.

I go for a walk. I like to get out of the ring fort when my duties allow, stretch my legs, breathe fresh air. I stroll to a small hill beyond the rath, from the top of which I’m able to look all the way across Sionan’s river to the taller hills on the far side. Many of the men have been to those hills, to hunt or fight. I’d love to climb the peaks and see what the world looks like from them. But it’s a journey of many days and nights. No chance of doing that while the demons are attacking. And for all we know, the demons will always be on the attack.

I feel lonely at times like these. Desperate. I wish Banba was here. She was more powerful than me and had the gift of prophecy. She died last winter, killed by a demon. Got too close to the fighting. Struck by a Fomorii with tusks instead of arms. It took her two nights and days to die. I haven’t learnt any new magic since then. I’ve worked on the spells that I know, to keep in shape, but it’s hard without a teacher. I make mistakes. I feel my magic getting weaker, when it should be growing every day.

“Where will it end, Banba?” I mutter, eyes on the distant hills. “Will the demons keep coming until they kill us all? Are they going to take over the world?”

Silence. A breeze stirs the branches of the nearby trees. I study the moving limbs, in case I can read a sign there. But it just seems to be an ordinary wind—not the Otherworldly voice of Banba.

After a while I bid farewell to the hills and return to the rath. There’s work to be done. The world might be going up in flames, but we have to carry on as normal. We can’t let the demons think they’ve got the beating of us. We dare not let them know how close we are to collapse.

After a quick meal of bread soaked in milk, I start on my regular chores. Weaving comes first today. I’m a skilled weaver. My small fingers dart like eels across the loom. I’m the fastest in the rath. My work isn’t the best, but it’s not bad.

Next I fetch honey from the hives. The bees were Banba’s. She brought them with her when she settled in the rath many years ago. They’re my responsibility now. I was scared of them when I was younger, but not any more.

Nectan returns from a fishing trip. He slaps two large trout down in front of me and tells me to clean them. Nectan’s a slave, captured abroad when he was a boy. Goll won him in a fight with another clan’s king. He’s as much a part of our rath now as anyone, a free man in all but name.

I enjoy cleaning fish. Some women hate it, because of the smell, but I don’t mind. Also, I like reading their guts for signs and omens, or secrets from my past. I haven’t divined anything from a fish’s insides yet but I live in hope.

The women grind wheat in stone querns, to make bread or porridge. Some work on the roofs of the huts, thatching and mending holes. I’d love to build a hut from scratch, draw a circle on the ground and raise it up level by level. There’s something magical about building. Banba told me that all unnatural things—clothes, huts, weapons—are the result of magic. Without magic, she said, men and woman would be animals, like all the other beasts.

Most of the men are sleeping, but a few are cleaning their blades and still discussing the night’s battle. It was one of our easier nights. The attack was short-lived and the demons were few in number. Some reckon that’s a sign that the Fomorii are dying out and returning to the Otherworld. But they’re dreamers. This war with the demons is a long way from over. I don’t need fish guts to tell me that!

Fiachna is working by himself, straightening crooked swords, fixing new handles to axes, sharpening knives. We’re the only clan in the tuath with a smith of its own. That was Goll’s doing when he was king. Most smiths wander from clan to clan, picking up work where they find it. Goll figured that if we paid a smith to settle, folk from nearby raths, cathairs and crannogs would come to us when their weapons and tools needed repairing, rather than wait for a smith to pass by. He was right. Our rath became an important focal point of the tuath—until the attacks began. The demons put paid to a lot of normal routines. Nobody travels now, unless it’s to flee the Fomorii.

When I get a chance, I walk over to where Fiachna is hammering away at a particularly stubborn blade. I watch him silently, playing with a lock of my short red hair, smiling shyly. I like Fiachna. He’s shorter than most men, and slim, which is odd for a smith. But he’s very skilled. Stronger than he looks. He swings heavy hammers and weapons with ease. If I could marry, I’d like to marry Fiachna. If nothing else, we’re suited in size. Maybe it’s because of the name Goll gave me, or perhaps it’s coincidence, but I’m one of the smallest girls in the rath.

But it’s not just his size. I like his kind nature and gentle face. He has a short beard—dark-blond, like his hair—which doesn’t hide his smile. Most of the men have beards so thick you can’t see their mouths, so you never know if they’re smiling or frowning.

I often dream of being Fiachna’s wife, bearing his young, fighting demons by his side. But it won’t happen. I’m almost of marrying age—my blood came a couple of years ago, earlier than in most girls—but I can never wed. Magic and marriage don’t mix. Priestesses and druids lose their power if they love.

Sometimes it makes me sad, thinking about not being able to marry. I find myself wishing I could be normal, that the magic would fade from me, leaving me free to wed like other girls my age. But those are selfish thoughts and I try hard to drive them away. My people need my magic. It’s not the strongest in the world and I’m in dire need of a teacher to direct me. But it’s better than having no magician in the rath at all.

Fiachna looks up and catches me staring. He smiles, but not in a teasing way, not like Connla would smirk if he saw me looking at him. “You did well with the bees last night,” Fiachna says in his soft, lilting voice, more like a fairy’s than a human’s.

I feel my face turn red. “It wasn’t much,” I mutter, sticking my big right toe out over the lip of its sandal and stubbing the ground.

“You’re getting stronger,” Fiachna says. “You’ll be a powerful priestess soon.”

We both know that’s a lie but I love him for saying it. I give a big smile, like a baby having its tummy tickled. Then Cera calls me and tells me to give her a hand dyeing wool. “Do you want me to help you with the weapons?” I quickly ask Fiachna, hoping for an excuse to stay with him. “I can bless the blades. Put magic in them. Make them stronger.”

Fiachna shakes his head. “There’s no need. I’m almost finished. I’ll work on farming tools in the afternoon.”

“Oh.” I try not to let my disappointment show. “Well, if you need me, call.”

Fiachna nods. “Thank you, Bec. I will.”

Simple words, but as I dip strands of wool in a vat full of blue dye, they ring inside my skull for ages, making me smile.

In the afternoon, while the men are stirring in their sleep and the women are working on the evening meal, a lookout yells a warning. “Figures to the north!”

The rath comes on instant alert. Demons have never attacked this early—there’s at least two hours of daylight left—but we’ve learnt not to take anything for granted. Men are out of their huts and reaching for weapons within seconds. Female warriors throw away their looms, combs, tools and pots, and hurry to the rampart. Those outside the rath are summoned in. They come hastily, anxiously driving the animals ahead of them.