On my own I couldn’t have done it. Ignoring Fiacha’s impatient cries, Cathal climbed close by me, helping me find my grip, murmuring advice and encouragement, keeping calm even though I was so painfully slow. We were almost at the top when the tone of the crow’s call changed and so did the light. Below us in the forest torches flared, and in the air above us there was a creaking sound, as of leathery wings, and a harsh cry that set terror in me. That call took me back to the raft and those things that had dived and slashed me. My eyes screwed themselves shut. My hand slipped and I clutched wildly at the rock face.

“Here.” Cathal’s hand came over mine, directing my fingers to a chink. “Grab hold and pull yourself up; there’s a foothold to the right. Ignore those things. The crow will see them off. You’re about two arm’s lengths from the top, Clodagh. You can do it.”

“Torches,” I muttered as I pulled myself up. “Down there.”

“One more stretch . . . Cursed creature!” Cathal swiped at a diving form with one hand while clinging on with the other. “That’s it, Clodagh. Lift your left foot about three hand spans and slightly to the left. Good. You should be able to grip the foliage at the top now, but don’t put all your weight on it . . . Good girl, you’ve done it.” He boosted me over the edge, where I sprawled in a heap. A battle was raging in the air above me, a screeching, creaking, flapping combat. It seemed unwise to look up. I heard Cathal hauling himself over the edge, and a moment later the noises ceased. As I sat up, a black feather floated down onto my lap.

I made myself look. In the dim light, I saw the crow perched on a low branch nearby, his wings a little tattered, his eyes as bright and shrewd as ever. There was no sign of his opponent. Or opponents. It seemed altogether likely that Fiacha was a warrior unparalleled, the same as Cathal, able to despatch several enemies with ease.

“Come on,” Cathal said. “We have a momentary advantage, but only that.”