Chapter Thirteen
Niamh’s yell moved Clía into action. She had no plan, only her sword and her desire not to see anyone die tonight.
She swiped at the creature, drawing its attention and blood. It turned to her with a deep roar. The hair on the back of her neck stood at the sound, which was death and anguish, nightmares made real.
Again, she swung. Relief coursed through her as she felt her sword make contact. But it wasn’t enough. The Sluagh swiftly struck with its claws.
Her side burned, just below her ribs. A cry escaped her as she clutched the wound with her free hand. The pain was sharp and turned her vision red, but the creature wasn’t done. It crept forward, now taking its time. Stalking injured prey. She limped backward until a tree met her back.
She was cornered.
The creature leaned in, baring its fangs. Its foul breath felt warm on her face. Clía’s sword was heavy in her hand as she stood frozen. Her breath came in uneven gasps. She could feel the blood dripping down from her wound.
She wouldn’t die like this.
Pain flared from where the creature had clawed at her. Ignoring it, she lifted her blade and, with a rushed thrust, stabbed at the closest thing she could. Again and again until the Sluagh fell to the ground.
When she looked up, Ronan was running straight at her.
During the fighting, Niamh must have moved to join Kían and ó Dálaigh on the other side of the clearing.
The moment they had a break from their attackers, the three disappeared, retreating into the trees.
Ronan reached Clía, handing her a half-empty pack and pulling her by her wrist. When her steps began to falter, his arm curled around her waist. The pressure only made her wound hurt more, but he continued dragging her forward, away from the Sluagh and into the trees.
Domhnall stood under the canopy with his sword out, chest heaving. Ronan passed her to him to support. She missed the familiarity of Domhnall’s arms, but she stepped out of them all the same.
“Keep running,” Ronan called, turning to hold back the Sluagh that followed them. “I’ll join you as soon as I can.”
One of the creature’s claws narrowly missed Ronan.
“Come on,” Domhnall urged Clía.
She steeled herself and began to run.
It was only a few moments later that she heard Ronan’s footsteps join them.
They darted through the forest, jumping over fallen trees and dodging vines, only to stop when they reached a wall of earth. Air rushed from Clía’s lungs in heavy bursts, her heart pounding fiercely in her chest. The pain in her side roared with every step.
She couldn’t hear the creatures. They were alone.
Ronan turned, taking in their surroundings. “Let’s keep going.”
“No, we need to find the rest of our group. Our best chance is to fight our way out of this forest together.” Domhnall’s voice shook slightly, but his eyes held a bright spark.
Ronan searched his pack, pulling out a tinderbox and lighting his lantern before throwing the bag back over his shoulder.
Clía’s eyes adjusted to the newfound light.
“If we turn back now, we risk getting killed before we can reach them. We should look for shelter and wait out the night. Once the sun rises, we can find them and make our way out of the Ghostwood.”
“They might be dead by then,” Domhnall argued.
Ronan met his glare head on. “Their safety is not my concern. ó Dálaigh is with them, and Niamh and Kían are smart. They’ll find shelter and hide out until the threat has passed. As we should be doing.”
Domhnall looked like he wanted to keep arguing, but he must have seen the resolve in Ronan’s face. He snapped his mouth shut and gave a tight nod.
The wind rustled branches. The trees grew sparse around them, and the glow of the moon cast the rocks and dirt in soft blues. The jagged wall behind them might offer some protection from threats, but they were still too unprotected.
An opening in the wall beside her caught Clía’s eye. With caution, she approached. It was a crevice in the cliffside, one that traveled through the rock, revealing a small, sloping passage just wide enough for someone to walk through.
“Look,” she called softly to Ronan and Domhnall. “Maybe this could lead us to somewhere with better shelter?”
Ronan’s eyes scanned the opening. “It can’t be more dangerous than staying here.”
The winding narrow path traveled farther into the rock than Clía had expected.
Eventually, the stone walls fell away beside them, and she could see above the tree line.
The path widened and plateaued, leaving them on an outlook.
The three of them stopped, taking in the dark sea of trees below.
Clía couldn’t tell where the Ghostwood ended and the night sky began.
In front of her, more rock and dirt, with a few trees spearing the landscape. The incline grew steeper. She had to crane her neck to see the peak of the mountain, only to find it obscured by clouds.
“Ronan, where’s your map?” she asked.
He handed over the worn paper that he had used to lead them to Whitspell with no argument.
The Ghostwood was relatively uncharted—the map showed only the general shape of the forest, where it cradled against the mountain range that made up Scáilca’s northeastern border. She traced the lines with her finger.
“These are the Diamhair Mountains.” Her voice was quiet, more for herself than anyone else.
“We can’t be here,” Ronan said, firm.
Domhnall took the paper from her hands, looking it over himself before turning to Ronan. Excitement lined his eyes. “But we are. And we’re going deeper.”
“Are you an idiot?” Ronan’s whisper was as damning as a yell.
Domhnall didn’t seem to care. “Often—it’s part of my charm. However, in this situation, logic is on my side.”
Clía’s gaze bounced between the two men.
Ronan was deathly still. “Please, tell me how.”
Domhnall gestured to the map. The mountains curved down the map in a Y, splitting Tinelann, Scáilca, and álainndore.
The Ghostwood clustered against them, where the two upper branches of the mountain range met and became one.
There, the three kingdoms were close enough to touch, if not for the natural divide.
“If I’m right”—he pointed at the northeastern edge of the Ghostwood—“we are here. Tinelann should be north of us, and álainndore due east. Redhallow would only be half a day’s journey from here.”
“And you want to travel there?” Ronan asked.
Domhnall shook his head. “We wouldn’t need to go that far. If our intelligence was right, we might be able to find evidence of treaty violations in the mountains.”
“Except, in order to find them, we’d be violating the treaty ourselves,” Clía reminded him. All this talk of preventing war would be useless if they started one in the process.
“Not if we have the approval of the other kingdoms,” Domhnall said, slipping back into the role of prince as if it were a warm cloak.
“Our investigation proposal was approved by Liricnoc and Oileánster weeks ago. Naturally, Tinelann’s approval doesn’t matter since it’s them we’re investigating—all we needed was álainndore to agree.
If we enter the mountains with the Princess of álainndore? Politically, we’re in the clear.”
Clía found herself looking at the cliffs once more.
Down that path, she might find answers. A way to protect her kingdom.
“I’m in.”
“You’re injured,” Ronan countered.
Without thinking, Clía covered the wound on her side, as if to hide it from him. Since their escape, the ache of the injury had turned dull and the bleeding had stopped. “I’m fine. Besides, a chance like this won’t happen again. I’m not letting a scrape stop me.”
Ronan pulled her hand away, revealing her ripped bodice and the puncture marks left behind by the Sluagh’s claws. He arched a brow. “A scrape?”
She smacked his arm away and reached into her pack, grateful Ronan had had the foresight to grab it in the chaos.
She took out some bandages and her canteen.
“It’s not deep. I’ll be fine.” While the water soothed Clía’s skin as she splashed it over the wound, the peace was quickly forgotten as she wrapped the bandage tightly around her torso.
She kept her face stoic as burning pain radiated from the wound, and secured the dressing. “Happy?”
“That isn’t properly cleaned,” Ronan started.
Domhnall looked like he wanted to agree, but one glare from Clía and he shook his head. “This might be our only chance to follow this lead. We can’t waste time on wounds.”
“Besides, we don’t have many other options, and us staying here won’t heal it,” Clía added. “We should go now.”
Ronan looked between the two of them. The fight was lost.
“If either of you die, I refuse to take the blame,” he muttered.
Together, they took their first steps onto the terrain of the forbidden mountain range.
The rocks didn’t shake when her boot met the ground. No army came to meet them; no god struck them down. One could believe these mountains were the same as any other.
Almost.
It was said that when the Treibh Anam came to Inismian, they formed the Diamhair Mountains so that they could view their new home from the peaks.
With the moon shining down on them, Clía could understand why the gods would favor such a place.
Something seemed to hum in the air. Anticipation? Fear? Magic?
She didn’t know.
There was an electricity to the space around them. An unfamiliar and unnatural edge, similar to the Ghostwood but softer, almost comforting. As they walked, Clía wondered if she was stepping where the gods once stood.
They continued past trees and rocks that hadn’t seen humans for centuries, until Clía could see the horizon behind her. Until the chill of the mountain air numbed her fingers and nose.
The ground began to plateau, and Domhnall stopped.
“Over there,” he said, pointing to the valley below them. A dark shape stood out against the flat landscape around it.
A tent.
Domhnall began climbing down toward it.