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us, breaks through the ranks of warriors as if they were reeds, and races around the rath. Seconds later he’s back, not panting, just smiling. “Run fast,” he says firmly.
    “Do you know where you’re from, Run Fast?” Goll asks, giving the boy a name since he can’t provide one himself. “Can you find your way back to your people?”
    For a moment the boy gawks at Goll. I don’t think he understands. But then he nods, looks to where the sun is setting, and points west. “Pig’s trotters,” he says thoughtfully. For a second I see my mother pointing that same way again, but this is just a memory, not another vision.
    Goll faces Conn. “We should bring him in. It’ll be dark soon. We can question him inside, though I doubt we’ll get much more out of him.”
    Conn hesitates, judging the possible danger to his people, then clicks his fingers and leaves the boy to his men, returning to the fireside with Tiernan to discuss this latest turn of events.
    Run Fast isn’t big but he has the appetite of a boar. He eats more than anyone at the feast but nobody minds. There’s something cheering about the boy. He makes us all feel good, even though he can’t talk properly, except to explode every so often with “Demons!” or “Come with!” or — his favorite — “Run fast!”
    As Goll predicted, Run Fast isn’t able to tell us any more about his clan, where he lives, or how great their need is. Under normal circumstances he’d be ignored. We’ve enough problems to cope with. But the mood of the rath is lighter than it’s been in a long while. The arrival of the MacCadan has sparked confidence. Even though the eleven are more of a burden than a blessing, they’ve given us hope. If survivors from other clans make their way here, perhaps we can build a great fort and a mighty army, keep the demons out forever. It’s wishful, crazy thinking, but we think it anyway. Banba used to say that the desperate and damned could build a mountain of hope out of a rat’s droppings.
    So we grant Run Fast more thought than we would have last night. The men debate his situation, where he’s from, how long it might have taken him to come here, why a fool was sent instead of another.
    “His speed is the obvious reason,” Goll says. “Better to send a hare with half a message than a snail with a full one.”
    “Or maybe the Fomorii sent him,” Tiernan counters, his bony, wrinkled fingers twitching with suspicion. “They could have conquered his clan, then muddled his senses and sent him to lure others into a trap.”
    “You afford them too much respect,” Conn says. “The Fomorii we’ve fought are mindless, dim-witted creatures.”
    “Aye,” Tiernan agrees. “So were ours to begin with. But they’ve changed. They’re getting more intelligent. We had a craftily hidden souterrain. One or two would find their way into it by accident every so often, but recently they attacked through it regularly, in time with those at the fence. They were thinking and planning clearly, more like humans in the way they battled.”
    Conn massages his chin thoughtfully. Our one great advantage over the demons — besides the fact they can only attack at night — is that we’re smarter than them. But if there are others, brighter than those we’ve encountered...
    “I don’t think it’s a trap,” Fiachna says quietly. He doesn’t normally say much, so everyone’s surprised to hear him speak. He’s been sitting next to Run Fast, examining the boy’s knife. “This boy doesn’t have the scent of demons on him. Am I right, Bec?”
    I nod immediately, delighted to be publicly noticed by Fiachna. “Not a bit of a scent,” I gush, rather more breathlessly than I meant.
    “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.