Chapter Twelve
Ronan didn’t let them stop until night fully fell. Every extra minute in the Ghostwood was a risk he didn’t want to take.
“Here,” he said, after finding a small clearing in the trees. It wasn’t big, but it was defendable. “Let’s make camp. We’ll move again at dawn.”
Domhnall lit a fire, and everyone else moved to set up their bedrolls.
Niamh tied the bulky bag with the onchú’s head to her belt, causing it to sag. When Ronan sent her a curious look, she glared back. “I’m not losing the one thing the general asked us to bring back.”
Ronan nodded. Her dedication was his mirror.
“Clía and I will take first watch,” Kían said once everything was unpacked. Ronan didn’t argue—he did promise the lísoir they could pick that night’s rotations. “Domhnall, you get second watch with ó Faoláin. Niamh, you will be with me for the last round.”
There were no complaints, either from agreement or exhaustion, Ronan couldn’t tell.
He slipped into his bedroll and let sleep take him.
Kían’s voice brought him back. “Ronan. You’re up.”
Ronan nodded, forcing himself awake with a sigh. There was never enough time to sleep.
He gathered his sword and found a nice tree to lean against. The soft glow of the fire illuminated Domhnall as he picked a spot a few feet away. The clearing gave them a small sliver of sky, and he could see the moon where it hovered directly above them.
“You’ve been spending time with Clía.” Domhnall’s voice was a whisper, to not wake the others. “I saw you slip away with her yesterday morning.”
The insinuation was not lost on Ronan. He rolled his eyes. “I’m helping her with her training.”
“Because that’s a smart idea,” Domhnall scoffed.
“I think you lost your right to care what she does when you broke off your betrothal arrangements on your father’s word,” Ronan said, irritated by his friend’s attitude.
“He sees Clía as weak. Malleable.” Domhnall’s stare shifted to fix itself on the dirt. “I’ve known her all my life. She is—was my friend. The first I ever made. He would have crushed her beneath his hands.”
“Wait. What? You mean he didn’t ask you to break the agreement?” Ronan stared at Domhnall.
Domhnall’s head fell back against the tree. “Am I a horrible person?”
Ronan thought about it. “You broke her heart, prevented a treaty that could have benefited both kingdoms, and no doubt earned the ire of your father. I suppose the question of your horribleness would depend on your actual reason.”
“She would have been eaten alive in the Scáilcan court. I was protecting her.”
“Without giving her a say?” Anger burned in him, unfamiliar and unexplained. “Doesn’t she deserve a voice in deciding what’s best for her future?”
Domhnall’s reply was cut off by a noise breaking through the night. The flapping of wings. Louder and stronger than a bird’s.
Ronan bolted up, his heart pounding in his chest.
“The fire. We didn’t think,” Domhnall cursed. “Smother it!”
They rushed to douse the flames, drowning it until only smoke remained.
The skies were dark and still. All the same, Ronan’s hand drifted toward his sword.
“Was it—”
Ronan interrupted the prince. “Don’t say it. If the fire didn’t attract them, uttering the word will only seal our fate.”
They both quieted. Listening.
“I don’t hear anything anymore,” Domhnall whispered. “Do you think we’re safe?”
“We’re in the Ghostwood. There’s no such thing,” Ronan said, backing into the camp. He nudged Clía lightly with his foot. “Get up. Now.”
She sat up, eyes bleary. “What’s going on?”
He didn’t answer, moving on to ó Dálaigh. Domhnall followed his example, waking up Kían and Niamh, careful to stay quiet.
Their eyes fell on Domhnall’s tense shoulders and Ronan’s hand on his sword.
Niamh was the first to grab her weapon and roll to her feet, but the others followed suit quickly. Even ó Dálaigh armed himself. Kordislaen might have ordered him not to intervene in the test, but he would still fight for his life.
Silence suffocated them as they waited.
Wind swished through the trees. Ronan unsheathed his sword.
He heard it again. Flapping in the distance but growing closer. He dug his heels into the dirt, bending his knees, ready . . .
The sound grew to a roar. A mass of shadows crept over their clearing, blocking out the moon.
And then they descended.
Dusty wings and sharp claws fell on them. Ronan swiped with his blade, hitting whatever he could.
The Sluagh. The host of wandering dead.
They were creatures of nightmares, shadow, and death. Not quite man, not quite bird. They had no hair or feathers, only leathery skin and pointed ears. Claws that dug into flesh, and fangs that could rip out your throat.
The nightmarish beasts traveled Inismian, looking for souls to take, but Ronan wouldn’t go easily, and he wouldn’t let any of his group be taken.
Ronan dodged one of the creature’s blade-sharp talons. He thrust out his sword, slicing into its neck. Black liquid poured out as the Sluagh fell. Across the clearing, Domhnall fell back, two Sluagh drawing closer to him. Ronan sprinted to his friend.
“Need help?” He skidded in front of Domhnall and engaged one of the creatures.
Domhnall’s sword slashed beside him. “I could have handled it.”
“Of course,” he said. “Like you had that fight with the training captain handled back in Suanriogh.”
“That was two years ago—isn’t it time to move on?” Domhnall sighed, cutting through one Sluagh’s gut. It collapsed onto the ground, and Ronan made short work of the other.
He scanned the clearing, looking for where else he could help, when something stirred at his feet. A claw, twitching. The creature he had just killed began to move, its wounds stitching back together.
Of course. You couldn’t kill the dead.
“We need to retreat!” Ronan shouted, grabbing Domhnall’s arms and dragging him from the Sluagh, who were working to rise to their feet once more.
Kordislaen had told him to protect the royals. He needed to get them out of here.
A scream pierced the air. Niamh. She stumbled back, cornered by a Sluagh, her sword useless on the ground behind it.
There was a flash of gold as Clía ran to her side.