“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 nonstop, 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 inquires 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 judgment 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 that 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, be wildered, 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 awhile.”
“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.”
“But the pain?” Goll inquires.
“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 backward. “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 horses’ 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.
W
E 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 that 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 judgment, 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.