“Lugh,” Armel says.
The tightness in his voice draws my attention away from the sight of Keiran’s short muzzle rooting through the second victim’s guts. “Huh?”
“We need him back,” Armel says. He tilts his head toward the Northerners, who watch Keiran with a mixture of terror and disbelief. This isn’t pretty magick. It’s unnatural. It isn’t part of their world and seeing Keiran use it now must sow doubts about his loyalty to Mother.
I hand off my spear to Drest, who takes it without a word. From his horse, Kermode calls a warning to me, but I wave him off. Keiran’s not some mindless beast, but they don’t know that. I need to show them that, even like this, Keiran is the leader they need. He’s doing this to protect, not harm, us. “Keir,” I call.
He lifts his head and his ears swivel forward. His nose and muzzle are caked in gore, but I ignore it and move closer, hand outstretched. He gives a deep huff and takes a lumbering step forward, butting his wide head against my hand, and nearly knocking me off balance with his weight.
“They’re gone,” I tell him. “You scared them off. We’re safe.”
He moves even closer, nuzzling against my side, and I stretch my arms wide around his huge neck and shoulders. I dig my fingers tightly into his fur, hugging him to me and wishing I could take away the pain he’ll suffer after transforming back.
“I’m safe,” I whisper. “You can stop now.”
He looses a groan so deep it vibrates through me into the earth, but a moment later, he’s in my arms. Cybel reaches us first. He’s undone his cloak and wraps it around Keiran, protecting him from the cold. Drest and Armel join us a moment later with Dubh in tow. They rummage through Keiran’s saddlebags and pull out a change of clothes. Normally I would demand some distance and privacy; Keiran’s only ever trusted me to help him in this state. With the Sluagh watching though, speed is more important that routine. I stand in front of Keiran and keep him steady while Drest and Armel dress him. Once he’s covered, they retrieve his weapons and collect his cloak from the ground. He’s aware enough to help us with these last pieces, shifting so his sling of knives settles into its normal place across his chest and back, and reaching down to check for his axes on his belt. I make sure the cloak falls without bunching and that the brooch’s clasp is tight before I reach up and hold his face in my hands, checking him carefully for any of the worst signs of the transformation’s sickness.
“Hi,” I say quietly.
His hand reaches up and settles at the back of my neck, pressing gingerly at the base of my skull while he checks me for injuries too. “Hi,” he replies. The word is ragged, as if forming the syllables is difficult and he leans forward to press his forehead to mine. He closes his eyes and takes a long, deep inhalation. “Tired,” he mumbles.
“I know,” I whisper. “But we’ve got to keep going. It’s not safe here.”
“I’ll be fine. You go. Need you safe.”
“They’re after you, Keir, not me. They’re looking for—” I trail off, lost to a sudden flash of inspiration. Goddess, Goodfellow’s men know we’re all traveling together. They’ll be looking for a large party of people. They’ll be tracking a group. They probably wouldn’t even notice if a pair of riders slipped away from the rest, especially if several pairs went out at once as scouts to warn their people.
How could I protect him out here though? We’d be in enemy territory, racing to get to safety far in the North before we’re discovered. There’s no knowing where Goodfellow’s strongholds are, or where his seat of power is located. He’s killed all challengers so no one could learn such things and—
He’s killed all challengers. Murdered them and left impressions of his actions across the Wylds. He’s left us shades.
Before the Assembly, those shades led us through these lands, determined to foil Goodfellow’s ascension to power. With their help, I could avoid Goodfellow’s scouts or any troops he sent out to try to quell rebellions as rumors spread. Keiran and I could sneak into the Northern Realms before anyone knew where we were. We could gather our forces and join Mother at the sídhe to prepare for Goodfellow’s attack. We could find a way to survive this after all.
“Lugh?” Keiran murmurs. His lips brush over my skin and I wish we had a moment to stop and breathe, but we don’t.
I give him a gentle shake, trying to coax him out of his post-transformation stupor. “Remember when you said you’d trust me, no questions asked?”
He stiffens. “Yes.”
“Well, I have an idea,” I whisper, “but you’re not going to like it.”
“When do I ever like your ideas?”
“Keir—”
“No questions, Lugh. I promised. Start talking.”
* * *
It shouldn’t have worked. The huscarls had been hesitant when I shared my plan with them, but they agreed anyway. There were no better options. Two disguised decoys from Resnik’s group left with the Hunt, riding Liath and Dubh to add another layer of authenticity to the trick. They’ll head into the worst of the Wylds, hopefully drawing away the majority of Goodfellow’s zealots, before swinging north to join the rest of us. I pray to the Goddess they survive and try to focus on the heartening fact that they’ll be protected by the Hunt. A few hours after they vanished into the forest, scouts from each territory were sent out at the same time Keiran and I left on a pair of borrowed horses. Whoever was left to watch us let us slip through their lines. It seemed our escape to the North would go smoothly.
Now, days later, our last hopes for escape have died in this narrow valley.
The meadow below is already filled with tents and campfires. The Sluagh wandering about wear Chayka’s crest. She must have sent word for her troops to try to block off any last escape routes out of the lands surrounding Krigsmöte. From the scent of roasting mutton and the sight of smoke rising in thin plumes from the burned crofter’s cottage on the edge of the meadow, this g
roup must have beat us here by less than a day.
“There’s too many to fight,” Keiran murmurs.