Chapter Thirteen
It was the best part of three days before Mor knew he was close to his village. Without the troop to follow, he’d had to make his own way and he was not skilled at all in travel. All the while he walked, he thought only of three things. No matter how tired, hungry, or thirsty he might be, in his mind he saw the witch killing all those men, the dead eyes of Ciaran by the cottage, and the idea of Tara coming to him when he got back home.
Now he found the river — the very one that had almost taken his life — and he knew where he was. He would be home before dark was fully settled. Now that he was so close, Mor it best he should make some plan as to how to kill Tristan. It should be easy enough to talk to him as the sole man to return from the troop’s ill-fated trip to Drogh
