Darren Shan: Bec

“He’s telling the truth,” Fiachna says. “His people need help. Run Fast was the best they could send. So they sent him, probably in blind hope.”

“What of it?” Connla snorts. I can tell by the way he’s eyeing Run Fast that he doesn’t like him. “We need help too. Our plight’s as serious as theirs. What do they expect us to do—send our men to fight their battles, leaving our women and children at the mercy of the Fomorii?” He spits into the dust.

“He puts it harshly but there’s wisdom in what my son says,” Conn murmurs. “Alliances are one thing, but begging for help like slaves… asking us to go to their aid instead of coming to us…”

“Perhaps they can’t travel,” Goll says. “Many might be wounded or old.”

“In which case they’re not worth saving,” Connla laughs. Those who follow him laugh too— wolves copying the example of their pack leader.

“We should go,” Goll growls. “Or at least send an envoy. If we ignore their pleas, perhaps ours will also be ignored when we seek assistance.”

“Only the weak ask for help,” Connla says stiffly.

Goll smiles tightly and I sense what he’s going to say next—something along the lines of, “Well, it won’t be long before you ask then!”

Luckily Conn senses it too, and before Goll utters an insult which will demand payment in blood, the king says, “Even if we wanted to help, we don’t know where they are, and I don’t trust this empty-headed child to find his way back.”

“If the brehons were here, they could counsel us,” Fiachna says.

“Brehons!” Connla snorts. “Weren’t they the first to flee when the demons arose? Damn the brehons!”

There are mutters of agreement, even from those who don’t normally side with Connla. The law-making brehons deserted us when we most needed them and few are in the mood to forgive and forget.

The men continue debating, the women sitting silently behind them, their children sleeping or playing games. On the rampart the lookouts keep watch for demons.

Goll and Fiachna are of the opinion that we should send a small group with Run Fast to help his clan. “It’s no accident that he arrived on the same day as the MacCadan,” Goll argues. “Yesterday we couldn’t have let anyone go. But our ranks have been bolstered. It’s a sign.”

“Bolstered?” Connla almost shrieks, casting a scornful glance at the four men and three women of the MacCadan.

“Connla!” his father snaps, before the hot-headed warrior disgraces our guests. When he’s sure of his son’s silence, Conn leans forward, sipping coirm, thinking hard. Like any king, he dare not ignore a possible sign from the gods. But he’s not sure this is a sign. And in a situation such as this, there’s only one person he can turn to. “Bec?”

I was expecting his query, so I’m able to keep a calm face. I’ve had time to consider my answer. I believe we’re meant to go with Run Fast. That was what the vision meant. The spirit of my mother was telling me to follow this boy.

“We should help,” I whisper. Connla rolls his eyes but I ignore him. “We’re stronger now, thanks to the MacCadan. We can spare a few of our warriors. I believe Run Fast can find his way back to his people, and I think bad luck would befall us if we refused their plea.”

Conn nods slowly. “But who to send? I don’t want to command anyone to leave. Are there volunteers…?”

“Aye,” Goll says instantly. “Since I argued the case, I have to go.”

“I’ll go too,” Fiachna says quietly.

“You?” Conn frowns. “But you’re not a warrior.”

Fiachna holds up Run Fast’s knife. “This metal is unfamiliar to me. It’s tougher than our own, yet lighter. If I knew the secret of it, I could make better weapons.” He lowers the knife. “I’ll stay if you order it, but I want to go.”

“Very well,” Conn sighs. “But you’ll travel with a guard.” He looks around to choose a warrior to send with the smith. There are many to pick from, but he’s loath to send a husband or father. So it must be one of the younger warriors. As he studies them, his expression changes and a crafty look comes into his eyes. He points to Connla. “My son will protect you.”

Connla gawps at his father. Others are surprised too. This quest is a perilous one. The land is full of demons. The chances of survival are slim. Yet Conn’s telling his own flesh and blood to leave the safety of the rath and serve as guard to a smith. Most can’t see the wisdom of it.

But I can. Conn wants his son to succeed him. But Connla is largely untested in battle and not everyone respects him. If Conn died tonight, there would be several challengers to replace him and Connla might find powerful allies hard to come by. But if he completes this task and returns with a bloodied blade and tales of glory, that would change. This could be the making of him.

And if the quest goes poorly and he dies? Well, that will be the decision of the gods. You can’t fight your destiny.

While Connla blinks stupidly at his father, the teenage twins, Ronan and Lorcan rise. “We’ll go too,” Ronan says, brushing blood-red hair out of his eyes.

“We want to kill more demons,” Lorcan adds, tugging an earring, excited.

Conn growls unhappily. The twins are young but they’re two of our finest warriors. He doesn’t want to let them go but he can’t refuse without insulting them. In the end he nods reluctantly. “Any others?” he asks.

“Me,” a woman of the MacCadan says, taking a step forward. “Orna MacCadan. I’ll represent my clan, to repay you for your hospitality.” Orna is the female warrior I spotted earlier.

Conn smiles. “Our thanks. Now, if that’s all…” He looks for any final volunteers, making it clear by the way he asks that he thinks six is more than adequate.

But one last hand goes up. A tiny hand. Mine.

“I want to go too.”

Conn’s astonished. Everybody is.

“Bec,” Goll says, “this isn’t suitable for a child.”

“I’m not a child,” I retort. “I’m a priestess. Well, an apprentice priestess.”

“It will be dangerous,” Fiachna warns me. “This is a task for warriors.”

“You’re going,” I remind him, “but you’re no warrior.”

“I have to go in case there’s a smith in this village, who can teach me to make better weapons,” he says.

“Maybe I can learn something too,” I reply, then face Conn. “I need to do this. I sense failure if I don’t go. I’m not sure what good I can do—maybe none at all—but I believe I must travel with them.”

Conn shakes his head, troubled. “I can’t allow this. With Banba gone, you’re our only link to the ways of magic. We need you.”

“You need Fiachna too,” I cry, “but you’re letting him go.”

“Fiachna’s a man,” Conn says sternly. “He has the right to choose.”

“So do I,” I growl, then raise my voice and repeat it, with conviction this time. “So do I! We of magic live by our own rules. I was Banba’s charge, not yours. She lived here by choice, as do I—neither of us were of this clan. You had no power over her and you don’t have any over me. Since she’s dead, I’m my own guardian. I answer to a higher voice than any here and that voice tells me to go. If you hold me, it will be against my will and the will of the gods.”

Brave, provocative words, which Conn can’t ignore. Although I’m no more a real priestess than any of the cows in the fields, I’m closer to the ways of magic than anybody else in the rath. Nobody dares cross me on this.

“Very well,” Conn says angrily. “We’ve pledged an ex-king, our smith, two of our best warriors, a guest and my own son to this reckless cause—why not our young priestess too!”