The Hag's sad voice still echoes, over and over. "Where is everyone? There are rotting corpses around the cairns." The boundaries between dreams and waking dissolve while I rest with my head in Her lap. When I open my eyes again, the sun is bright and the Hag is gone.

I dreamt I was back at Magh Croimor. Or was I really there? My mother used to say she would sometimes travel in her dreams to wherever she wished most to go. I dreamt of the outlaw band. Saw each face. Heard each voice. Smelled their breath and their sweat. It was just as it was the last time I was there. A hare roasting on the fire. Passing a pouch of throat scorching drink among us. Boasting and laughter. Everything was the same.

Except they were all dead but me, Baine and Winter Mist.

When I realized that in the dream, the flesh fell from their faces and their skulls grinned though at me. I ran off and they gave chase. Much like they chased me and my mother out of Tara not so long ago. I remember it again now, it all comes back.

While I remember this dream, I climb down from the Hag's Throne and walk thoughtfully back to the cairns. At the front entrance, the ones whom She struck down on that terrible day still lie scattered and rotting. That's what they deserve for driving us into the barrows. I smile as I recall how I came out later and stripped the dead bodies of every weapon. Whatever remained was left for the ravens.

I see that by now the Hungry Ones have fed very well. Looking over the faceless mounds of stringy brown flesh and a flash of bone showing through here and there, I cannot recognize any of them. These were my companions once, whether I liked them or not. For a short time we were a family, a tribe. The Outlaws of Magh Croimor!

The Hag sounded so sad when she spoke of the rotting corpses around the cairns. The birds and animals and insects have done their best to clear it away. I decide to make Her a gift of what is left so that She is not so sad.

I shall make Her an army. From only the best of these remnants, I shall make Her a Fian of the Dead. They may serve a better purpose than ever they did in life.

I find that many pieces have been scattered or carried off by scavengers. Here's a skull that still has most of its long dark braids intact. I tuck the stray ends back into place. The ravens probably toyed with these tight braids to amuse themselves before going back to the softer, tastier bits.

"Ioain? Is it you?" I ask the skull. He was the silent one who only spoke when slobbering drunk, then would recite the most godawful poetry. I liked him. I give the skull a little shake. A shower of maggots falls out.

"Or is it you, Garon? How you liked to sneer at the women! Did you know they mocked you and made jokes about your curling lip? I have your sword now so sneer all you like!"

I set the skull aside and gather some bones. When I have a good number of fingerbones I string them together on thin strips of leather. They will make music for us when I hang them in the trees and they catch the wind. I stuff some of the reeking, ragged clothing with grass and prop the sacks up against a few of the stones. With the nicest heads on top, they will look like warriors keeping watch. I give back to them a few of the weapons I took.

By the time the sun goes down, I am surveying my work with great satisfaction. The Hag's Fian of Corpses is on guard. They will do my work for me and for Her whenever I hunt, drift, or sleep.

Then I hear footsteps. It is time to put the Fian to the test!