With an angry snap, Tnúthgal broke aside the branches that barred his way. He muttered curses at the rain under his breath as it seeped through his cloak and trickled down his collar.

      Five men followed him. They were all that remained from the debacle at the crossroad, the rest of the cowards having fled. They'll see. I'll make Droma great again. We'll close our borders, drive out all the Foreigners and the migrants who drive down wages and steal jobs. I'll make the Gruin-men think twice about crossing the Gasirad. And the Lord-Drymyn will get in line, or I'll make him get in line. He and his men had spent a cold night in the wild, and a wet day tracking. Tnúthgal's mood was foul and angry.

      "My lord?"

      He turned back. One of the men pointed to the south, where a thin plume of white smoke was visible through the murk of the rain. Tnúthgal looked back at the vague track they'd been following. Hmm, yes. He nodded to the men and three of them took the lead as they moved off toward the smoke. The other two brought up his rear.

      It wasn't far, and they didn't even have pickets out. Tnúthgal and his men strode in unchallenged.

      The camp was a shambles. Filthy men shivered in the rain. One feeble cook-fire struggled against the rain. Wet pine wood sizzled and popped, with more smoke than heat. Nearly a score of emaciated women and children, bound with iron collars to trees and logs, dug at roots, grass, and into wood-bark to find food. Other women were being used for a variety of vile perversions.

      The appearance of six healthy, heavily-armed men in their camp brought several to their feet, weapons drawn.

      "Easy, mates," came a smarmy voice. Out from under the only sizable, well-patched canvas, Cael the Viper slithered. "That there is our benefactor. We wouldn't want to see him meet any unfortunate accidents." Cael dropped an elaborate and mocking bow. "Your Lordship, you honor us."

      Tnúthgal made an impolite reply. "Fetch us food, you thief."

      Cael adopted a look of hurt. "You wound me, my lord."

      "I wish." Tnúthgal pushed past him. "Food. Now. And make sure my men are well-attended."

      Cael's voice changed from mocking to dangerous. "You seem to misjudge who commands whom here, sir."

      Tnúthgal turned and put his blade to Cael's throat. "Have I?" He didn't bother to look at the bandits who gathered about them. His men took up positions around him and Cael, weapons drawn and ready. "Each of my men is worth three of yours. I'm worth nine. Do you really wish to try my patience?"

      Cael considered him for a moment, then put his hands in the air. "As you like it, my lord." He snapped fingers. "Food for our guests."

      Tnúthgal turned away and continued into Cael's tent. Cael rubbed at the bloody spot on his throat and followed. "Don't speak to me that way in front of my men."

      "My men," corrected Tnúthgal. "You've just been demoted." He looked about his ramshackle new command. "I'll want to see your maps and inventory." He made himself as comfortable as he could on a cushioned pile of furs. A girl slunk into the tent with a plate of food. He took it from her. "Stay," he commanded, snapping fingers. She sank to her knees. He looked up at Cael. "Maps and inventory." He snapped again. "Go."

      "These are my men—" Cael's voice held a hint of threat.

      Tnúthgal cut him off. "They were your men. You've done damn-all but waste time and money with them. That changes now." He took some of the fatty, rare-cooked meat in his fingers. Venison, he noted. He chewed at a piece of gristle. He could see Cael trying to figure the odds in his head. "Or do we have a problem, Cael?"

      The bandit chief seemed to come to some conclusion. "Maps we have. Inventory, we ain't. We got no one what can cipher."

      Tnúthgal sighed. "Fine. Bring the maps. Then get out."

      Cael fumbled around the tent and dropped a handful of vellum and parchment in front of him. "Maps." Then he left the tent.

      Tnúthgal looked at the girl. Maybe she was even old enough to be a woman. However old, she'd clearly been used, and not gently. Filthy rags hung from her trembling frame in tatters.

      He sucked and chewed at another string of meat. She kept her face down to the ground. He flicked idly through the papers with a greasy finger. Eowain likely will get to about there by tonight. He rubbed a finger at a spot on one map. And we're about here. He considered that with a night's rest and a quick march, he could get ahead of Eowain, but where? He turned over two more pages. Hmmm. That's looks promising.

      Cael returned with two men. Tnúthgal knew the first, a broad, squat man with a shocking thatch of red hair and a knotted beard. Toryn the Stout of Cailech. He limped, favored his lower left abdomen.

      Gored by the cattle he'd presumed to steal at Gluin Hill, Tnúthgal guessed.

      "My camp seems to be a hive of villainy tonight." Cael regarded Tnúthgal sourly. "You know each other, I presume?"

      "We do," he admitted.

      Toryn nodded. "I have my own grievance now against Eowain."

      "Aye. A matter of thirty cows, I'm told." He nodded to the bloody linens wrapped around the man's stomach. "You're fit to fight?"

      Toryn grunted. "Fit enough." He showed the exit wound on the other side. "Went clean through."

      A lucky man. "Billet your men wherever you may. I'll have no dissension in the ranks. Understood?"

      Toryn nodded, put a fist to his breast, and left.

      The other man was a wild-eyed fellow. He fidgeted around the tent, picking at things and putting them down. His hair was stringy and brown. He was thin enough to make only a mean feast for crows. Around his neck, a weasel was curled. Its head was up. Its beady, black eyes observed everything. Its whiskers twitched.

      Cael nodded. "This is Kúlkak. He claims to be a sorcerer. It's by his divination we've been able to track Eowain's progress."

      A chill went across Tnúthgal's damp, clammy skin. "Sorcery?" He stood and drew his dagger. "What nonsense is that?"

      Cael's voice was low, almost reverential. "It's true. He speaks to the Gods."

      Kúlkak's voice was reedy and girlish. "Not the Gods! No, not them." His eyes roamed without focus around the tent. There was something unhallowed about those eyes. Yellow-rimmed and oily, in the dim light of the tent, they seemed almost... reptilian.

      "The spirits. Spirits of wind and air, fire and water. Spirits of land and æther." He poked a finger at Tnúthgal's chest. "We know you, mighty lord. Know you well."

      Tnúthgal batted the bony finger aside and kept his dagger between them. He spat on the ground and held up three fingers to ward against evil. "What is it you think you know?"

      "You are wolf-king kin? Yes? Yes? When sixth time the Dragon flies, yes? Fly, Dragon, fly!"

      "Wolf-king kin? What in Annwn are you talking about?" Tnúthgal leaned away from the spittle that flew from the man's lips. "What is this, Cael? Have you adopted a mad-man?"

      "I tell you, he's a sorcerer."

      The man, Kúlkak, began to mutter and turn in a circle. "She-ga inim na Me!"

      Tnúthgal felt fear grip his throat. "What's he doing?"

      "Ku-shag-kesh na Zag-du, Ku-shag-kesh na Abul!"

      Cael's eyes went round. "Conjurin' demons!"

      "Du-ig-shu-úr-du Mur-Ig!"

      Tnúthgal shook his dagger at the man. "Stop it!" The girl at his feet scuttled away on hands and knees.

      "She-ga inim na Lagar na Me!"

      There was a sniff of something, like the air of a thunderstorm. The parchments and vellum rose up, as if caught in a whirlwind, and circled around in a widening gyre.

      Tnúthgal's stomach clenched with terror. "Stop it! Stop it!" The girl on her knees screamed and darted under the edge of the canvas and away.

      The maps dropped and the knife twisted from Tnúthgal's hand, turned twice in the air, then dropped and buried itself to the hilt in the ground.

      "Kàm!" Kúlkak's exclamation was girlish and shrill. Abruptly, the smell of thunder was gone.

      "I will help you." Gone was the wild look of a caged beast. Kúlkak's eyes were clear to him then, slitted like those of a lizard, and blinked at him impassively. "Ere Wolf-Moon light does wane, Curséd Wolf-King must be slain."

      Tnúthgal swallowed hard. "What in Annwn does that mean?"

      "I do not know," said Kúlkak. "But I will help you."

—33—

Look for the next installment in this Continuing Tale of The Matter of Manred: The Romance of Eowain.

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