“But the pain?” Goll enquires.

“Not so bad,” Fiachna says. “It was worse in the night. The fire’s turned to ice. It still hurts but I can bear it.”

“Very well.” Goll salutes the blacksmith. Lorcan salutes too and so does Connla, though his salute is quick and disinterested.

Drust spreads his hands over Fiachna. “I will pray for your spirit. And, if we succeed, I’ll tell people of your bravery and the debt they owe you.”

“Thank you.” Fiachna coughs, then shudders.

I kneel beside him. A few weeks ago I would have fought not to cry. But now I let tears flow freely. I don’t care how I’m supposed to behave. I’ll miss Fiachna dreadfully and I want him to know that.

“I could… if there’s anything… I wish…” I can’t find suitable words. In the end I abandon speech, throw my arms around Fiachna and kiss him fully, a kiss between a woman and a man. It’s the first time I’ve ever kissed someone this way. It will also probably be the last.

Fiachna smiles when I break the embrace. “I had my eye on you for a few years, Little One. If you hadn’t been a priestess…” He touches my left cheek with cold, trembling fingers. “Perhaps in the Otherworld?”

“I’ll pray for it,” I sob, then rise and stumble away, wiping tears from my cheeks, not looking back for fear I’d crumble completely and beg to stay with him. There’s no time for that. He must die by himself on this miserable day if we are to press on and prevent many more from dying soon after.

I hear Lorcan ask, “Do you need a weapon?”

Fiachna replies, “No. I have my knife. If I’m not dead by nightfall, and the demons come, that will take care of the job.”

Then I’m gone. The others soon come after me—Connla among them, although I half-expected him to part from us here—our ranks lessened by the fall of yet one more much-loved friend.

An hour later. Jogging steadily. Silent, thoughts heavy, wondering if Fiachna has succumbed to the disease yet or is still clinging on. Then noises from the far side of a hill. Like the growing sound of thunder, only coming from the ground, not the sky. We look around, puzzled. Then Connla gasps, “Horses!”

Moments later they appear, galloping over the hill, seven of them. Six are bareback. On the seventh, a rider—Bran! He laughs as the horses surge around us and come to a stop. He hops off and beams, pointing to the steeds. “Bubbly,” he says proudly. “Run fast!”

“I don’t believe it!” Goll howls with delight.

“Will the spells work on them?” I ask Drust quickly.

“Aye.” He smiles softly with wonder. “And they can run much quicker than we could. We’ll be able to rest them every few hours and still make great time.”

“Enough?” I ask. “Will we get to the tunnel before…?”

“Possibly,” Drust says. “But let’s not waste precious minutes talking about it. Mount up!”

As Goll puts me atop one of the smaller horses—I’ve never been on one before, so I’m nervous—and the other men mount theirs, Bran looks for Fiachna.

“Drust,” I call, then nod backwards. “Could we…?”

“There’s no point,” Drust says as kindly as he can. “Whether he dies on the ground or on horseback, he’ll surely die, if he hasn’t already.”

I think about that and how hard it would be to bid Fiachna farewell a second time. I nod sadly, shedding a few-fresh tears.

“Do you want a horse?” Goll grunts at Connla.

The arrogant warrior stares back haughtily. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I thought, from what you said earlier, you might have other plans. You don’t need a horse to get to the coast or hunt for a boat.”

Connla sneers. “I never said I was leaving. I simply said it would be the wise thing for the rest of you to do. I’m not one for running away from a challenge.” And, with Goll staring at him in disbelief, he leaps up on one of the horse’s backs and sits there regally, looking calmer and more relaxed than any of us.

Drust works his spell—I help, once he’s demonstrated on the first horse—and moments later we’re off. The seventh, riderless horse runs along behind us, but we’re going too fast for it, sped along by magic. It soon gives up and turns aside to head back wherever it came from, leaving us to charge across the land ahead of even the jealous wind.

We move so fast, it’s as though we’re not really part of the world. The horses push on at tremendous speeds without appearing to tire. It’s only when we stop at Drust’s command that they sweat and pant, trembling from exhaustion. We rub them down to warm them, find water for the beasts to drink and let them graze for a while. The others are keen to continue but Drust says we mustn’t rush the horses.

“I’m keeping a close eye on the time,” he snaps, irritated at being questioned. “This is my quest. I’m the one who knows what we can and can’t do, when to race and when to rest.”

While the horses are grazing, the druid approaches me. “I want you to ride beside me when we remount,” he says. “I’m going to teach you the spells needed to close the tunnel.”

“Why? I thought you were going to cast them.”

“I am. But if anything should happen to me…”

“The Old Creatures said it would only work if a magician or priestess was sacrificed.”

Drust sighs. “Aye. But if the worst comes to the worst, you might as well try it on one of the others. Cast the spell—it’s complicated but I think you’ll be able to master it—then pick someone for sacrifice…” He hesitates, gaze flickering over my friends. It comes to rest on Bran.

“No,” I say instantly.

“He’s a kind of magician,” Drust says. “Of the four, he’d be most suitable. You’d stand a better chance with him than—”

“No,” I say again. “Goll or Lorcan would give their lives willingly—maybe even Connla, though I doubt it—but Bran wouldn’t understand. He couldn’t make a choice. I won’t kill someone who doesn’t know what’s being asked of him.”

“I’m not so sure he wouldn’t understand,” Drust murmurs. “But if he didn’t, wouldn’t that be for the best? You could do it quickly, mercifully. He needn’t even know what’s happening.”

I shake my head stubbornly. “If I have to, I’ll ask one of the others. But I won’t murder Bran.”

“Even knowing the consequences if we fail?” Drust asks menacingly.

“Even then,” I mutter. “There are certain things we should never do. Otherwise we’ll become like the demons—mere monsters, best suited to the dark.”

Drust shrugs sourly. “As you wish. If luck is with us, it won’t come to that. But I thought I’d make you aware of your options. Just in case.”

He rises and shouts at Bran to gather the horses—though they obey us when we’re on their backs, they revert to creatures of the wild when left to graze and only Bran can get close to them. Soon we’re off, racing through a forest, Drust riding beside me, teaching me the spells which will hopefully destroy the tunnel between this world and the Demonata’s.

We rest several times over the course of the day. The third time, one of the horses collapses and dies. I ride with Bran after that, my hands loose around his waist. I can tell he enjoys having me behind him by the way he tilts his head back to nuzzle my cheek.

We stop for nightfall. This time Lorcan and Goll don’t question Drust’s judgement, but it’s plain from their worried expressions that they think we should press on. Drust sees this, and though he scowls, he takes the time to reassure them. “We made excellent progress today. If we rest the horses tonight, we can push them hard tomorrow and arrive at the tunnel by afternoon. If we continued now, they’d die before dawn, leaving us to walk—we wouldn’t make it on time.”

Many demons pass us during the night, snuffling and snorting, more than I’ve ever seen before. It must be because we’re so close to the tunnel through which they cross. It’s hard masking the horses from the demons, but Bran gathered them in a small circle before dusk and dozes in the middle of them, waking whenever one stirs, shushing them, keeping them motionless.