Mesroeda had not been jesting when he said it would be a long hard ride. They didn’t stop except when it was absolutely necessary. Scamp was disappointed because he wanted to climb to Breslech Mór and search the ruins. The idea that the shades of dead warriors might be there, fascinated him. Instead as they rode past at a trot, he had to content himself with staring up the gorge full of twisted, dead trees at the dilapidated gatehouse and crumbling walls.

  “This fortress was once so majestic,” Mesroeda said wistfully. “Look at it now. Nothing but a pile of rubble and collapsed hopes.”

  Scamp was surprised by the words. The man sounded like he was thinking back to a time ages in the past, a time he’d witnessed rather than just heard about during firepit stories in hostels the kingdoms over. Of course, it was a foolish notion because Mesroeda was far too young to have been here when the fortress was thriving, which it must have done despite the evidence to the contrary. He said it was three hundred summers or more since anyone needed to defend the headland, so even the end of its heyday was too far in the past.

  “Alas, no time to visit.”

  Blessed by the moon or my name ain’t Scamp.

  Towards the end of the day, when the horses were labouring up a steep rise, Mesroeda grinned and said, “Nearly there. Just this hill to go.”

  Reaching the top of the rise, Scamp reined in his mount and stared agape. He had expected a headland with a community of tree huggers, maybe a little copse with houses mounted in the trees, maybe old men and women wandering around in white robes talking to the bushes and rocks with bemused expressions, a place he’d never seen before.

  This scene was not what he’d expected.

  The headland was one he knew well, even though he’d never been here. He knew the rocks, the Bull’s Head, the sound of crashing waves. He knew the sounds of cawing birds and the smell of the sea. He knew it all. Intimately. In the early evening shadows, the rocks were grey instead of the usual shades of brown, but that was the only difference. All he missed was the image of a half-dressed beauty standing in the door with a breeze flapping at her gossamer skirts and a demon with red eyes and a stave beckoning him to enter through the loathsome hole he could see in the rock face below the tower.

  “You were supposed to bring me to Scéine’s Cove,” he said to Mesroeda.

  “Yes. Scéine’s Cove,” the guard said, pointing at the tower and cackling.

  Cac on you.

  “That’s The Bull’s Head Rock. I know it from my dreams. It’s the entrance to Tech Duinn”

  “Nearly the same place. Scéine’s Cove is over that way a bit. But the druid lives here now,” Mes said, grinning so widely he was in danger of dislocating his jaw. “That, boy, is not only your destination but also your destiny.”

  Scamp frowned because the words seemed correct as if he’d always known the two places were one and the same. He hated this man and everything about him, but he was starting to think the guard was right.

  The Arena under Bull’s Head Rock was his destiny. The Arena and the portal to the Land of the Dead.

  What has the Champ’s First Warrior got to do with anything?

  Even as he asked himself the question, he realised he’d always known Mesroeda was in it up to and beyond his tic-haunted cheek. Upthog told him shape changers risked insanity. But then, if the guard was touched by Rhiannon, could Scamp believe what he’d said about destiny? On reflection, he knew he could. The Fáithe would say it had always been his destiny. As The Last Summoner, a title Marbh gave him in an early dream, it had been unavoidable. It never mattered who he was with or the direction he travelled; he would always have arrived at this destination, this destiny.

  Scamp turned to the two guards and nodded his head. He wasn’t sure whether he was admitting the words were true or just showing a little comradeliness. It didn’t matter because Mesroeda only had eyes for the hole under the horns standing as sentinels either side of the rock. He was staring at it with his grin and his tic, seeming to be in a state of euphoria. Mac Da Tho sat in his usual silence, frowning at the rock.

  Scamp watched the tic dancing on Mesroeda’s face and thought he could see the anticipation in the moonstruck features. Anticipation and something else. Wariness perhaps.

  For all his front, he’s frightened.

  He thought back to Upthog’s words about how he was not allowing any grey into his image of a black-and-white world. So much of what she’d said to him had been meaningless when she said it. Now he was starting to see the sense. Now he could believe there was no good versus evil. Now he could accept everything was preordained and that the Fáithe had an insight into what would come. Now he could believe the world included grey as well as black-and-white.

  This place is nothing but grey, except for the door.

  He could see the blackness of the entrance in the rocks directly below the needle-like tower. There was no near-naked demon in gossamer skirts, but it was the same door he’d been loath to enter in his dreams. The same foreboding gripped his gut while he stared from the back of his horse. This time, though, it was accompanied by a growing sense of wonder.

  “Come. They are waiting,” Mesroeda said.

  The guards dug their heels in and galloped down the slope. Scamp was less enthusiastic and walked his horse down. It was strange how Mesroeda had coaxed him here but abandoned him as soon as they were in sight of the Bull’s Head.

  He thinks the pull is irresistible.

  Scamp thought the guard might be right. He could feel a temptation to enter tugging him down the slope, but he had not lost his loathing of the black hole. The contradiction made him dizzy, and he pulled on the reins to stop the horse. He sat and stared down the slope for a long time, his loathing pushing and temptation pulling. He was on the verge of accepting the push and riding away when the demon spoke to him, perhaps recognising his dilemma.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  “Come, Master, Bachorbladhra awaits.”

  Who is the Bachorbladhra?

  “The druid. He is in the roundhouse, there by the beach.”

  Ah. The sage. According to Upthog, my only hope.

  Scamp looked towards the beach and saw a dwelling nestled under the rocks of the headland smoke curling out from a hole in its thatch. Despite the smoke, he would never have seen it if the demon hadn’t told him.

  Is the éigeas real?

  “Yes, Master.”

  I thought Upthog was making him up.

  Feeling trepidation and a continuing sense of wonder, Scamp steered his mount towards the beach. He looked at the entrance to The Arena and saw Mesroeda and Mac had abandoned their horses and gone into the tunnel, so caught up in their excitement that they hadn’t noticed he wasn’t with them.

  Bábdíbir stayed with me.

  “You are my master, Master.”

  Scamp tried to stop himself from thinking that during their journey through the Western Wall, Mesroeda had been his master, master. It was hopeless but the demon ignored the thought. He found himself grinning, regardless of his situation’s seriousness, or perhaps because of it.

  “Come,” he said. “Let’s go and meet my fate.”

  When Scamp reached the roundhouse, he found a trough with a horse rail. Climbing down, he tied off the horse and attempted to rub some life back into his buttocks, realising he’d been in the saddle for hours. Hesitating beside the cowhide cover over the entrance, Scamp wondered what he would find within, if this would be the end of his journey, or if he would continue into the black tunnel two hundred paces from where he now stood. He could still feel the pull, like something had him on a rope and was tugging him towards the hole but maybe the éigeas would have some way to break the spell and free him from his fate.

  Biting his lip and steeling himself, Scamp threw open the cover and walked into the gloom beyond.

  ***

  It took several moments of standing in the doorway for Scamp’s eyes to adjust to the limited light. The only source of illumination was a round firepit in the room’s centre, pulsing with red peat and smoking profusely, which caused him to cough. The smell caused him to gag, and he wondered why anyone would burn peat when the Great Forest was so near.

  The room was sparsely furnished with a bed and a table. There was a seat on the opposite side of the pit, where a man was bent over, poking the peat blocks with a metal rod, causing sparks to fly and even more of a stench.

  He wore a brown cowl with the hood up, and Scamp could see nothing of his face.

  “You’re Myrddin?” he asked. “The éigeas?”

  The man continued to poke the fire, saying nothing for several moments. Eventually, he lifted his head and pushed the hood back from his face. What Scamp saw surprised him as much as anything had since his journey began. He had no idea what he’d been expecting but this regal face with a neatly trimmed beard and laughter lines as well as care lines was not it. The man’s golden eyes danced with mirth and kindliness. Apart from anything else, the man appeared far too young to be a sage. Scamp had always thought sagacity came with age; lots and lots of age.

  “You’re Myrddin?” he repeated.

  “That is one of the names I am known by. What did the demon call me?”

  “Bachorbladhra.”

  “Which is my true name. The name my lord gave me. Not many know it. You may call me Myrddin.”

  “Um, thank you,” Scamp said, unsure what his response should be.

  “Why are you here, Scamp?”

  “You know who I am?”

  “I have known of you since before you were born. I know everything about you except why you are here.”

  “Upthog said I should ask you for advice. Help, maybe.”

  “Was that not a ruse to get you to Bull’s Head Rock?” the kindly-faced man asked. How does he know that? “But I meant why are you here in my roundhouse? Do you not feel the pull of The Arena?”

  Scamp nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He watched the man gazing at him with his golden eyes and wondered, for the first time since entering the roundhouse, how anyone could appear so perfect and friendly. Too nice. Too kindly.

  “You have nothing to fear from me, Scamp.”

  “Are you really an éigeas? The last of the sages, Upthog said.”

  “Among other things, yes. So, why are you here?”

  “Bábdíbir told me you were waiting for me,” Scamp said, feeling his confusion mount.

  “Ah, yes. The demon was always a little on the foolish side—and small. Still, your pentagram allowed for no other to be sent.”

  “You know a lot.”

  “Well, yes, I do. But then, as Dhuosnos’s most loyal servant, I should know a lot, don’t you think?”

  “You told me you were an éigeas,” Scamp said, his shock at the news making him careless of his words.

  “I am, Scamp. Just because I am also a servant of Dhuosnos, it doesn’t mean I am not a sage. I am also a witch. In fact, despite being surrounded by pretenders and impostors, I am your witch. Together, we will bridge the Void and release the Scourge.”

  Scamp shook his head and tried to scream at the kindly-faced man that he had no interest in releasing the scourge, but he couldn’t. The words stuck in his craw and refused all his efforts to dislodge them.

  “I don’t want to release the Scourge,” he finally managed to say, his voice so low he only just heard the words.

  “Of course you do. You were born to it, Scamp. You and I will bridge the Void together and bring humankind’s fate down on their heads. Come, we should go to the Arena and call The Four.”

  Unable to decide on a different course, Scamp allowed Myrddin to steer him out of the roundhouse and towards the hole into the rock. He could not resist the kindly pressure from the witch’s hands as he took him by the shoulders and pushed him along. It was as if resisting would be refuting his destiny.

  As they neared the door, Scamp felt his heartbeat begin to flutter. He’d been scared of this entrance for as long as he could remember. Facing it now, as a real hole to only the Tuatha knew what destiny, didn’t make it any less frightening.

  “You, Scamp, of all people, have nothing to fear,” Myrddin said, sensing his trepidation.

  Entering maw, he saw a wide downward stair lit by sconces every few paces. The burning torches gave off light but no smoke or heat, which was strange. Their footfalls were also silent as if the dense air in the tunnel stifled all sound. He could feel the earlier pull much stronger on the stairs and was scared it would pull him off balance, and he would fall down the staircase and break his neck.

  So much for destiny, he thought and chuckled.

  “Something is funny?” Myrddin asked.

  “No. It’s my nerves, I think.”

  “Understandable, I suppose.”

  When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Scamp saw a long corridor and an archway. Little was visible beyond as if the arch was barring the light’s entrance into whatever was housed on the other side.

  His heartbeat was the fastest it had ever been as he walked down the corridor and under the arch.

  “There you are, Boy. We thought you’d got lost,” Mesroeda said.

  Scamp looked over his shoulder to see what Myrddin would do, but the éigeas had vanished as if the archway had swallowed him.