Free Bec by Darren Shan Page A

smiles at the boy, then clicks his fingers. Run Fast edges over to him like a dog to its master. Drust ruffles the boy’s untidy hair, his smile widening. “You did well, Bran,” he says.
    “Bran!” I gasp. “Is that his name? He never told us. We called him Run Fast because . . .” Drust looks at me calmly and I come to a halt. There’s no menace in his eyes, but no warmth either. He studies me in much the same way that I’ve studied dead demons in the past.
    “Yes,” the druid says in an accent not of this land. “It’s Bran. He didn’t tell you because he’s incapable of remembering names.” Drust speaks slowly, the words sounding strange on his lips. I don’t think our language is his own.
    “Is Bran from here,” Fiachna asks quietly, “or is he your apprentice?”
    Drust raises a mocking eyebrow. “You think I would take an idiot as an apprentice?”
    “He’s simple but blessed,” Fiachna replies. “He has speed and other powers not of normal men.”
    Drust nods. “Which is why I sent him for assistance. But, touched by magic as he is, Bran’s brain can never develop. He would be as useless to me as he was to his own people.” He pauses, then adds, “I doubt he came from here originally, but this is where I found him.”
    Drust releases Bran’s hair. The boy looks up at the druid, to see if he’s going to pet him again, then slides over to my side and sits beside me. I stroke the back of his hands absentmindedly while the conversation continues.
    “And you?” Goll asks. “Where are you from?”
    Drust points in an easterly direction.
    “Are you a Pict?” Connla asks. “Drust is a Pict’s name.”
    “I was, as a child, before I became a druid.”
    The Picts are an ancient people from across the great water to the east. I wasn’t aware that any still remained. They’re a dying race, killed or absorbed by stronger tribes. Drust must be one of the last of his kind.
    Before we can ask any more questions, Drust points at Goll and says, “Are you the leader of this band?”
    “No,” Goll replies. “We have no leader. But I’m the eldest, so I suppose I can speak for us.”
    Out of the corner of my eye I see Connla bristle — he probably looks upon himself as the rightful leader — but he doesn’t say anything.
    “Then I will address my words to you,” Drust says. “I’ll keep it simple. I am here to end the demon attacks. I need your help. You must come with me.”
    He stops as though those few sentences are explanation enough.
    The flesh around Goll’s single eye wrinkles. “You’ll need to tell us more than that, druid or no druid,” he murmurs. “To begin with, what happened here and where are Run F — I mean, Bran’s people?”
    “Demons.” Drust shrugs. “They’d been attacking long before I arrived. Bran’s tribe — the MacRoth — were exhausted, close to defeat. Shortly after I came, that defeat finally befell them.”
    “The demons killed everyone?” Goll asks, and Drust nods. “Then why not you?” He phrases it lightly, but it’s clearly a challenge. It’s unnatural for all to perish except this one stranger. What Goll’s really asking is did Drust betray the MacRoth — and will he betray us too?
    “They didn’t kill me because they couldn’t see me,” Drust says. “Just as your people couldn’t see me when they entered the hut where I was staying. I know masking spells that hide me from sight. If your girl priestess had been more experienced, she’d have seen through my shield. But she is not yet mistress of her arts.”
    “Why not hide the MacRoth too?” Orna asks angrily.
    Drust sniffs. “All magic has its limits. I have the power to mask a handful of people but not sixteen.”
    “If not sixteen, why not eight?” Lorcan growls. “Or four? Or even one?”
    “As your own magician — wet behind the ears as she is — can tell you, magic is draining. A masking spell for several people, maintained over a long period, would have tired