Deglan could see Bwenyth Tor in the distance, maybe a day’s walk from where he sat. The hill was as high and brooding as it ever was, the blackened ruins of stonework still visible on its crest. The green had not yet managed to reclaim the entire Tor, Deglan noted bitterly. Some things will not allow themselves to be forgotten. He squinted hard at the rocky debris which he knew to be the remnants of walls, battlements and towers, wishing he could wipe his thumb across the vista and clear them away for good. There had been so few folk left in those days. Not enough able bodies to bury the dead, much less the broken reminders of war. Kederic and Brogan should meet in the shadows of that place and allow those with longer memories to talk some sense into them. Or beat their soft, mortal heads against the stones.

He should not have gotten angry, Deglan knew, but Faabar knew better then to bait him so. He would make the salve for Faabar’s horns when he got back to his burrow and look in on him tonight as he said he would. Everything would be fine, and neither of them would need to discuss the matter further. They had seen Summer together and fought the coming of Autumn side by side. Some friends need no apologies.

Deglan pushed his hands back against the boulder and shoved himself upright. The day was getting on and there was nothing like a good view to get a person looking inward for longer than was healthy.

“You are just wasting time, you fat sack,” he told Bulge-Eye.

He took one final look off the rise and was turning to climb into the saddle when something caught his eye in the fields below. Movement, at first, was all he saw. He peered harder and shaded his eyes from the glare. It was a good ways off, Deglan estimated. Possibly halfway between his perch and the Tor, but he was certain it was headed in his direction and maybe a little more to the east. It was big, too. Deglan would have had difficulty seeing even Faabar at this distance and the fomori was taller than the largest man in the village by a full head. There was something unsettling about the way it crossed the fields. Its movements were too regular, too steady. Tireless. Wrong.

Coming from the Tor. Towards him…and a bit to the east.

“Buggery and spit!”

Deglan heeled hard into Bulge-Eye’s sides, turning him down the hill. The toad made the descent in half a dozen long hops, switch-backing down the slope. Deglan decided to forgo the road and cut back across the fields, alerting any herdsmen or farmers he found along the way. Word would spread quicker that way.