Stupid, thought Finn as he stalked through the woods back toward the site of the massacre. He was angry at Quinlan and Derrick for running off, at Connelly for not coming with him, and at himself for once more being the one to hunker down to do “the right thing.” We can’t just let our clan die out.

The whole way back to the camp Finn kept his senses open to Dau’s guidance. He didn’t take the Paddocks to be the type to hang around the scene of their crime, but then again he hadn’t taken them to be the type to arrange an organized massacre either. Things had obviously been changing.

No surprises awaited him back at the battlefield. The ground was littered with bodies cold and stiff. There lay wagons on their sides, wheels destroyed and contents spilling out. As he picked through the wreckage he kept an eye open for any hidden attackers. The place was a silent graveyard.

When he finally came across Quinlan she was sitting beside her family’s overturned wagon and staring at nothing, tear tracks etched on the dust on her cheeks. Derrick was with her, slowly picking through the stores of food spilled across the ground from the carts that had carried them, throwing away anything spoiled by blood or fire or animals and saving the rest in a pack he’d found among the wreckage. Finn said nothing. They needed to return to Croston, but it seemed they were safe for now. Besides, he had some business of his own to take care of now that he was here.

Finn found the old druid’s body slumped against the side of a cart, several arrows sticking out of him and a great gash across his chest. Scorch marks seared the cart on either side of him. The man’s name had been Owen Keene. He’d been Finn’s father and mother, the only reason he’d been able to survive as a cripple among the Portaiden En’ric. According to Keene, his real father had been a rider. One day while on his horse his father had the misfortune of destroying a pixie ring. The pixies were cruel in their punishment and drove him murderously mad. The other villagers attempted to subdue him but he had been a strong man and so, they had thought, required strong restraint. They accidentally killed him but not before he had hacked Finn’s mother to pieces and cut off Finn’s leg below the knee. After that, becoming a druid was Finn’s only real option. Keene had raised him.

Finn wiped the tears from his eyes and sat muttering prayers of blessing for Keene’s soul for what seemed like an eternity to Derrick. The boy understood something of Keene’s pain for he had lost his family as well in the massacre, but his own tears had already been cried and the pallor of death that hung over their surroundings was starting to make him nervous. They needed to get to Croston before the constant undercurrent of fear drove them into the ground. He coughed loudly but Finn seemed to be in a trance.

“Finn,” said Derrick.

Finn finally got to his feet, moving slowly. He stretched and gave his late mentor one last look before turning around.

“We need to get to Croston,” said Derrick.

Finn glared at him and then jumped into the cart and began rummaging through its contents. He emerged a second later with a pack slung over his shoulder.

“Hey, I got a lot of food for us,” said Derrick, trying to break the awkward silence.

“We would already be safe in Croston with plenty of fresh food and good company by now,” said Finn.

Derrick studied the ground. Finn didn’t feel as angry as he was making himself out to be, but Derrick needed to learn to be more careful and it was his job as acting druid to be the conscience of what was left of his clan. He sighed. This was going to be a long journey, even if it was only two days walk.

“Where’s Connelly?” Said Quinlan.

“Probably in Croston already,” Finn lied. Connelly had been following him nearly the whole time. He shifted his pack to his other shoulder and they began walking back towards Croston.

Connelly sat cross-legged on the edge of the forest surrounding the settlement at Croston. He took another swig of the cider he’d gotten from the tavern of the Flaming Bear. It was piss-poor compared to the stuff he’d been used to in Portaiden, but then again he’d only ever gone to the best places there. The Slumbering Dragon had been his favorite; mostly because that was one of the only places he hadn’t been kicked out of. He would have to scope out the taverns in this town later when he had time. As it was he’d barely been able beat Finn back to Croston settlement. He didn’t want him knowing he’d been following him the whole way. It would be embarrassing.

He watched as the En’ric of Croston went about their business. He’d always been struck by the similarities between the settlements and the towns that they invariably bordered. If you divided a town down the center you would usually get two halves that could not function on their own. There would be something on one half that the other half needed and visa-versa. If you divided a settlement from its town however, the two could go on functioning as if nothing were wrong. The settlements were simply reflections of the towns. Ironic, thought Connelly, that two places so similar would find themselves at such odds.

Time passed and just as Connelly was starting to notice his feet going numb there was a commotion on the edge of the settlement. Connelly stood up and almost fell over. Regaining his balance, he craned his neck to see what was going on. He caught a glimpse of Finn and the others. Finally, he thought. He stepped out of the forest and strode straight through the settlement, ignoring the people that stopped to stare at him. He was pretty sure it was the hair that did it: the long bright red locks that reached to the middle of his back marked him as a rider in training. His size and the scars on his arms marked him as one that probably should have advanced a long time ago. He’d gotten past the shame by now.

Quietly he slipped back into his group just behind Finn. They were standing just outside of a tent, where a large crowd had begun to gather around the group. He said nothing and pretended that Quinlan and Derrick weren’t giving him sidelong glances every five seconds. So help me, he thought, if Finn wouldn’t give me hell for it, I’d destroy them right here and now.

Before them stood a man dressed as a druid, with various herbs and plants hanging about his neck and a thick robe wrapped around him. His heavily tattooed arms were the only limbs visible in the sea of cloth he wore. His red, short-cropped hair, however, marked him as a rider. His skin was leathery and his face was crossed with deep-worn lines. A stoic air with an undercurrent of constant stress hung about him like the stench of death in the slaughter yards. The group introduced themselves to him.

“My name,” he said, “is Keene.”

“You are a rider?” Said Derrick.

Keene nodded. “I am. Our druid and his apprentice were both killed.”

“Killed?” Said Finn.

“Yes.” Keene looked past the small group of survivors and then refocused his attention on Finn. “Come, let us walk.” He gave another look at the group standing behind the survivors, this one to ensure that none besides the survivors followed him.

They began following the man into the woods, towards the mountain that loomed overhead. En’ric settlements were always at the foot of a mountain. It was from a mountain that their goddess was born and in the mountains that their goddess lived. It was this elemental bond that made Ena and Dau such a good match for each other.

Keene stopped walking. He held his breath for a moment and muttered something too quiet for any of them to hear, and then he nodded. “We are alone,” he said.

“The druid and his apprentice were killed?” Finn said.

“Yes, they were. On their way to make an appeal to Ena, to bring us back our dragons. We found the pair with arrows stuck through them. The only way to kill a druid… to take him by surprise.” The old Rider shook his head sadly.

“Mistheists…” said Finn under his breath. Keene nodded.

“So now I am druid,” he continued after a moment. “I am the only Rider left in this village old enough to remember when Ena lent us her mounts.”

“Without a druid, a tribe is lost,” said Finn, understanding.

“Yes, and so it was,” said Keene. “There was nobody to arbitrate, nobody to enforce law. I was made druid. I know nothing of druidry, but I was made druid.”

He shrugged. “It was only practical.”

Finn nodded, though the idea of a druid without training clearly made him uncomfortable.

“This is why you live in a tent and not the caves,” said Finn.

“Yes. Though I tell the tribe it is because I want to be closer to the people, to the common people.” He gave a sharp laugh.

“But why are you here,” said Keene. “To bring us trouble with your tales of death?”

“No,” said Finn, taken aback. “No… I-”

Keene cut him off with a laugh, suddenly amiable. “Don’t worry. I was once like you. I rushed into everything, in the name of good, in the name of right… in the name of the goddess. We were given brains, Finn. We should use them. What do you think will happen when your story gets spread around the tribe? What will the reaction be?”

“Well,” said Finn, “I suppose some will want to fight… though others, perhaps the majority, will want to run…”

“Exactly. It will be chaos, wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose…”

“I have all the authority of a druid,” said Keene, “but none of the power. If this were not so things would be different. We could tell them openly and I could command them openly. As it is I merely rule at their pleasure. I am a druid in name only.”

Finn frowned but nodded. “This is not as I had hoped.”

“This is,” said Keene, looking off into the distance, “as none of us would have hoped.”

There was an awkward silence. Connelly stared at his shoes. Quinlan moved closer to Derrick and Derrick moved away. Finn broke with Keene’s unwavering gaze.

“Alright druid,” said Derrick, “what do you suppose we should do?”

The rider-druid sighed. “We must control the rumors. You should not have spoken so quickly,” he said, looking pointedly at Finn. The druid’s apprentice turned red and looked away in shame.

“Our story,” said Keene, “will be that a gang of mistheists attacked your tribe while you were in the trance of Faele na Maravh. This part is true. They killed three of your number, but the rest survived. The purpose of your trip to our tribe was simply to make sure that we were not attacked too. This is all. Such a story will be believed, will fit with the rumors, and will prevent panic from spreading. You will leave by way of the path you came.”

Connelly seemed pleased with this.

“However,” the druid continued, “you will go to Croston instead. There is an En’ric living there named Liam. He was expelled from our tribe a number of years ago. He was the druid’s apprentice before the one that was killed. You will go with him to Mount Arian to appeal to Ena.”

Connelly seemed less pleased with this.

“It is true that we are in danger,” said Keene, “and we must protect ourselves. However, this must be done in secret. This is practical. Do you understand?”

Finn nodded slowly. “It seems you are right,” he said. “Why was this Liam expelled from the village? Why must he accompany us to awaken Ena?”

“His power is much greater than that of any druid’s apprentice,” said Keene, brushing aside Finn’s hubris. “Perhaps greater than even most druids. As to his expulsion…” he hesitated for a moment… “there are some things which ought not be brought to light.”

It was decided that the druid was probably right, though none in the party of survivors liked it. That evening they left the tribe, going back the way they came and then looping back around to arrive in Croston. Finn was silent nearly the whole way.