I laugh at myself, misgivings vanishing. It probably wasn’t Bran I heard when I was coming back, only a wild animal.

And even if it was him, what of it? We’ve nothing to fear from Bran. What harm could a poor, innocent, muddled boy like him do?

Drust addresses us early in the morning. He says the location of the tunnel has been revealed to him but doesn’t mention the fact that I have to be sacrificed to close it. Then he outlines our main problem.

“The tunnel lies to the east of your village,” he says. “A march of at least a week, probably longer. But we only have two days and nights. Then the demon masters will break through and we’re finished. It will be too late to repair the damage.”

“Then we’ve lost,” Goll says softly. “We came too late.”

“Probably,” Drust agrees. “But we have to try. We’ll push on as quickly as we can. Run in bursts. Use boats or rafts on rivers and streams where possible. And pray to the gods that the demons encounter some unexpected delay.”

“What about magic?” Fiachna asks. “Can’t you use that to make us go quicker?” He’s had a hard night. The demon poison from the bite has spread and the whole of his upper body is an ugly purple colour. He has the shakes and is sweating badly. I tried to cure him, without success. I asked Drust if he could help but he said this wasn’t something he had any knowledge of.

“There are spells which would allow us to run much faster,” Drust says. “But they’re incredibly tiring. They’d let us push our bodies to their limits, but we could easily pass those limits without knowing and drop dead. If it was a matter of a day or two’s march, I’d risk it. But the distance is too great. When we’re closer, we’ll gamble. But not now.”

“What if you cast the spell on only a few of us?” Lorcan asks. “We could provide rides for the rest of you.”

Drust blinks. “Use you as horses?” he says, astonished.

“Why not?” the teenager shrugs. “We’ll die anyway if the demons break through. Bec and Bran are too small, and Fiachna’s in no shape to carry anyone, but the rest of us could—”

“Not me!” Connla barks. “I’m not running myself dead for that damn druid!”

“You’d rather perish at the hands of demons?” Goll asks coolly.

“I won’t—” Connla starts to shout, then stops and growls. “I mean, I’d rather take my chances with the monsters. I trust them more than this one. You know where you stand with demons.”

“You’re a fool,” Goll says bluntly, then faces Drust. “Even without our young king, Lorcan and I could carry you and Bec. And Bran could keep up, the speed he runs at. It means leaving Fiachna behind, but he’ll probably die soon anyway.” He grins bleakly at Fiachna. “Sorry for being so blunt.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Fiachna wheezes, grinning back.

“Maybe Lorcan doesn’t want to carry me,” I say quietly, recalling his outburst the night before.

Lorcan grumbles something, then raises his voice but keeps his eyes lowered. “I was upset about losing Ronan. I reacted savagely and said things I didn’t mean. I beg your pardon.”

“You don’t need to,” I smile.

Lorcan looks up, returns my smile, then squints at Drust. “Well? Will it work?”

“I’m not sure,” Drust says and does some quick calculations. “We could cover maybe half the distance in a day if we did it your way—but only if you ran non-stop, which would certainly mean your deaths.”

“Never mind that,” Goll snorts. “If we get you halfway, it leaves you with a three- or four-day march. If you walk by night as well as day…”

“We still won’t be quick enough,” Drust mutters. “Bec and I could use magic to run faster after you died, but we’d have to rest often, to arrive fit enough to cast our spells. It would take at least two days, making three in total. The demon masters will have crossed by then.”

“But we’ve more hope this way,” Lorcan notes. “So we’ll have to chance it. Aye?”

“If you’re willing to make that sacrifice,” Drust says slowly, “then… aye.”

“You’re mad,” Connla sneers. “You’ll kill yourselves for nothing instead of doing the wise thing.”

“And what’s that?” Goll enquires with all the sweetness of a bat’s bite.

Connla points west. “We’re on the coast, fools! Find a boat. Set sail. Get out of here before the demons slaughter you all.”

Goll shakes his head. “I never had a high opinion of you but I wouldn’t have expected this. Flee when there’s a chance to save those we left behind? Run when there’s a war to be fought? I don’t believe you’re of our people. I think Conn reared a changeling.”

“Is that so?” Connla growls, drawing his sword. “Well, watch closely, old man, while this changeling rips your guts out and—”

“Run fast!”

The shout jolts us all. Bran roared it at the top of his voice, which is louder than anyone expected. Lorcan, who was closest to him, has covered his ears with his hands and is grimacing.

The strange boy from the crannog is glaring at us, hands on hips. “Run fast,” he repeats, stiffly this time, looking from one of us to the other like a brehon passing judgement on a pack of bickering complainants. Then he points at the scraggly pony in the distance—it survived the night—and says, in a tone which brooks no argument, “Bubbly!”

Then he takes off, running as swiftly as he can, becoming a fast-moving speck within seconds. We stare after Bran, bewildered, then at each other. The heat of the moment has dwindled away and those who were arguing look embarrassed.

“Where do you think he’s going?” Fiachna asks of no one in particular.

“That boy’s a mystery even to himself,” Drust answers, then sighs and looks at Lorcan and Goll. “But we can’t wait here to wonder about him. If we’re to set off as agreed, it’s best we start now. If both of you are still sure…”

Goll and Lorcan nod. Drust beckons them forward. I see his lips move as he begins to cast a spell.

“Wait.” I step between the warriors and Drust, my eyes on the far-off form of Bran. “I think we should leave it a while.”

“Bec, I know you care about us…” Goll begins but I shake my head.

“It’s not that. I think Bran has a plan. He can help us.”

“How?” Drust frowns. “By being bubbly?”

“I don’t know. But my instinct tells me we should wait. We can march but we shouldn’t cast any spells. Not until we see what Bran’s up to.”

“And if he’s up to nothing?” Drust asks. “If he’s simply running around for the sake of it, or because we upset him? If he never returns?”

“I can’t answer that. I don’t know. I just think it would be a mistake to use our magic now.”

Drust studies me in silence, troubled. The others are staring at me too, but it’s clear from their expressions that they’ll leave this decision to the druid.

“So be it,” Drust huffs, then laughs. “I must be as mad as the boy, but I’ll go with your instinct. We’ll leave the magic for a while. I’m not setting a time limit but if I start to feel he’s a lost cause, that’s that. Agreed?”

I nod reluctantly and mutter a quick prayer under my breath that I’m not wrong about the brain-addled Bran.

We make good early progress, me riding piggyback on Lorcan. But Fiachna finds it hard to keep the pace. It’s clear we’ll have to leave him behind soon, to die alone in the wilderness. My heart weeps at the thought, as I remember my childish dreams of putting magic behind me and becoming his wife. But dreams are dreams and reality’s reality. Few, if any, of us are going to survive the next few days. We can’t be foolish about this. If Fiachna can’t keep up, he must be abandoned.

As I’m thinking that, Fiachna stumbles—Goll has been half-supporting him—then slumps to the ground and rests, massaging his neck, which is pure purple. “I’m finished,” he says quietly. “Leave me.”

“We could… if you want…” Goll mumbles, touching the hilt of his sword.

“No.” Fiachna smiles weakly. “I’d rather lie here, watch the clouds drift across the sky and die in my own, natural time. It’s peaceful.”