"Where is everyone indeed," I echo Amlaidh's question and shove my sword back into my belt. The sea-smell rolls off him, taking my breath away. I rub my eyes. This is no dream. I wisht it were.

It all comes back to me, the rare old times. I raise my head proudly and stand tall. Bones crack from the effort. It feels good to move off the greybeards' bench and have my legs under me again. By habit, I take Amlaidh's measure at a glance, the breadth of his shoulders, how he carries himself, the Pictsy dagger at his waist. His dark hair and dark brat are slick with rain. A harp rides one broad shoulder, a fine thing!

Creidne gives a little whoop of joy in greeting, then trots off to fetch a fitting welcome. I hold out my fist. "Drink an' meat first!" We bang our knuckles together and then go straight to the long dusty table where the war band once liked to gather. Both of us sit down with our backs to the wall so's to watch the door. At that, I bare my teeth in a grin. Creidne skips back to us laden with trenchers. A feast begins.

"Last summer," I belch, after a few cups and a bowl of mutton, and then I stop, short of words to tell it. Amlaidh leans forward to hear. I clear my throat and start anew. "Too many died. A battle at Dun Ailinn ended the raiding season. Dobhar's death was 'venged by MacMorna's war hammer. The Rian was taken but brought home safe even if she's not come out of her hut since." Another swig of mead and a shrug. "There's no war chief now. No, Fenian wasn't slain. He's just gone off."

Creidne comes to fill our cups again. She smiles and says nothing. I sit back and pick my teeth with the eating knife to show I've said all I can say. The Sgàith warriors Amlaidh sent last year fought well and died, nearly every one, and the few that remained took to the forest. Am I a fool to see his arrival as our last hope?