Chapter Twenty-Eight
First, there were whispers.
Then the pain.
It roared through Ronan’s head as he sat slumped on the ground. Ropes chafed against his wrists. He kept his eyes closed and listened to the voices going in and out around him.
“No sign of the others?” a gruff, accented voice said.
A woman’s voice with a matching accent replied, “No. They must have cut their losses and retreated.”
“Or they left for reinforcements,” said the first man.
The woman laughed. “For these men? Doubtful.”
Their conversation grew muffled along with fading footsteps.
As they left, Ronan cataloged his restraints.
Arms tied together behind his back. Ankles bound underneath him.
He couldn’t feel the weight of his sword at his hip, and as he moved his foot slightly, he noticed the absence of the dagger he kept in his boot.
His head ached as he tried to remember what had happened.
He, MacCraith, and Commander ó Dálaigh had been scouting, making sure it was safe to make camp.
The woods were thick this close to the border.
The shadows of the Diamhairs cast them in darkness as the sun set behind the mountain range.
With every step farther from the clearing, they were greeted with the chorus of the trees.
Insects chirping, the flutter of a bird’s wings, the soft coos of an owl. Nature undisturbed.
The three of them walked in a horizontal line.
The plan was for them to remain within eyesight of one another, but the dense brush made it nearly impossible for Ronan to keep track of the other two warriors.
He could only hear their faint footsteps on the mossy forest floor.
Ronan was on the far end of their line, keeping his eye on what was directly ahead and what lay to the east. He remained silent as they searched for any sign of life.
A footprint. Discarded items. The sound of distant voices.
After an hour of scouting, Ronan was almost content to say it was safe, when he noticed it. The silence. No birds. No insects.
He froze. And as he turned, his eyes caught the light flickering between leaves and vines.
Ronan lifted a hand to signal to the others to stop, but their footsteps continued. They couldn’t see.
In an instant, he was sure of three things.
They weren’t alone.
It wasn’t safe.
And he had no way of telling the others without giving away his position.
He started to edge away from the light, toward where ó Dálaigh should be. Before he could find him, his legs were swept out from under him.
He fell to the ground with a hard thud.
A person cloaked in shadows stood over him. The glimpse of light from beyond the trees reflected off cool steel as they swung. He rolled away before their sword could make contact.
“We’re under attack!” Ronan shouted. His location was already given up, but at least he could warn the others.
His attacker didn’t pause. Their sword swung down on Ronan again, and he quickly rolled back onto his feet. The blade missed him by an inch, but now he was standing. He reached for his own blade and began parrying his assailant’s blows.
From a distance, Ronan heard the clanging of metal against metal. ó Dálaigh and MacCraith. He wouldn’t be getting any help in this fight.
But he wouldn’t need it.
He pushed the attacker back, forcing them against a tree.
His next blows came at an angle, so the attacker couldn’t properly defend themself with their limited range of motion.
But at the last second, instead of cutting through their throat with his blade, he changed his grip and hit the side of their head with the blunt hilt. They went down immediately.
The sound of his breathing filled his ears, echoed by his racing heart. But that was all he heard.
There was no noise coming from the others fighting.
He had run through the brush, jumping over tree roots and dodging low-hanging branches. Just as he’d reached another clearing, he’d felt something crash into his head, and everything went black.
And now he was a prisoner. He let his eyes open ever so slightly, not ready to alert his captors that he was awake.
Through his blurry vision, he could make out a small camp. Tents gathered in a circle around a fire. While he couldn’t see the exact number, the tents would hold more enemies than he was prepared to fight. Although, tied up as he was, he wouldn’t be able to put up much of a fight against anyone.
Two figures made their way toward him. The voices he’d heard before. From their rounded steel helmets, he could tell they were Tinelannian.
They weren’t supposed to be this close to Caisleán. Was Kordislaen’s information wrong?
He closed his eyes as they approached.
“One thousand men isn’t enough,” said the man’s voice.
“It will be. If Bás follows through on his promise, we only need to worry about the warriors he hasn’t swayed. It will be primed for the taking,” replied the woman.
Bás? That name didn’t match any notable generals or chiefs. Ronan knew every prominent Tinelannian leader from his studies, yet he couldn’t recall this name.
It could be an Ionróiran commander. There was very little known about the seafaring invaders—Bás could easily be one of their leaders, working with Tinelann to take Scáilca.
The first voice huffed. “They said they want us moving out before the month’s end. After how this winter began, I don’t want to stay another night in the fucking Scáilcan tundra.”
“This forest is nothing worth complaining over, kid,” she scoffed. “You should see what my village was like after last winter. This war can’t come fast enough.”
The “kid” ignored her. “When will the other half of the troops arrive?”
“The general says they’ll be here soon.”
The warriors went quiet, and Ronan tried to remain still, but his mind raced at this information. More troops were coming. His hand twitched, wanting to feel the soft leather hilt of his blade. To fight his way out of here and bring this knowledge to Kordislaen.
If he was to escape, he’d need to think it through. Impulsivity and rash actions would lead only to his being injured or killed. He needed to be rational.
He peered through half-closed eyes, making sure no one was looking his way, before opening his eyes to take in his surroundings once more.
The two warriors who were talking stood to the right of him, at the edge of his peripheral vision.
The woman was built like a boulder, muscular and tall.
Her dark hair fell behind her in a braid.
The man was smaller, leaner. He shifted on his feet with nervous energy.
She was right to call him a kid; he looked to be the age of a young recruit.
There was a chance Ronan could take them both on, if he could free himself and find his sword. But it wouldn’t be easy.
That was okay with him. If it was easy, it wouldn’t be fun.
To his left, MacCraith and Commander ó Dálaigh were tied up on the ground as well. ó Dálaigh was nearest to him, perhaps four feet away, with MacCraith an additional five feet beyond him. Only MacCraith’s eyes were open. Ronan tried not to worry about ó Dálaigh.
He tested his restraints, putting together a plan.
“You must be a fool if you think you’re going to win this,” he called out.
“Looks like somebody is awake and feeling brave. It’s about time.” The boy walked over to him, stopping less than a foot away. A smug grin twisted his face. “Now, say that again?”
Ronan tilted his head with what he hoped was a frustrating smirk. “I said, you must be a fool if you think you’re going to best General Kordislaen and take Scáilca.”
The boy laughed. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
As they spoke, the other warrior stayed in her position, occasionally glancing back at them but otherwise ignoring the exchange.
Ronan lowered his voice to a whisper. “I think I know more than you.”
“What was that?” The boy leaned closer to hear what Ronan was saying, and Ronan took his opportunity. He lifted his feet and swiped sideways at the boy’s knees.
He fell with a thud, and Ronan followed it up with a swift kick to his head. The kick wasn’t as strong as he would have liked, but it would keep him down for now.
The noise drew the attention of the other warrior.
As she rushed over to Ronan, he was fumbling through the boy’s weapon belt for his knife with his tied-up hands. As they closed around it, he felt himself being lifted by the arm to a standing position. Before she could take the knife from him, Ronan had already slashed through his bonds.
He swung the knife at her, an attack she quickly dodged. But her deflection gave him the space he wanted. Ducking, he quickly cut through the rope at his ankles.
The hiss of her blade through the air warned him of her attack before he saw it. He rolled, and her swing narrowly missed.
Free but armed only with a knife, Ronan faced the warrior. Without a second to pause, he rushed at her. If he gave her too much time, she might think to shout for help. And if their fight lasted too long, that alone would draw the attention of the other warriors in the camp.
They traded blows, Ronan’s defense weaker than he would have liked.
His every muscle and bone ached, and his head pounded with every movement.
The capture had caused more damage than he thought.
But he kept fighting. When he next sidestepped her sword, he swiped, slicing her eyebrow and drawing blood.
Scarlet red trickled down her face, into her eye, and she stumbled.
He didn’t stop. He lunged, and the blade pierced the skin by her collarbone. She collapsed beside the boy.
Ronan grabbed her sword in his free hand and ran to MacCraith. He slashed his hands loose and tossed him the knife to work on his feet. But when Ronan turned to the commander, his view was blocked.
Three Tinelannian warriors stood before him.
He took too long. And now they were caught.
There was no time for thought—he simply rushed at them.
Their weapons raised in defense, he found himself parrying with two of them. One thrust at him with a sword; the other swiped with an axe.
From the sound of ringing metal to his left, MacCraith must have taken on the third.
Going up against two opponents at once wasn’t ideal—especially while his body revolted against every movement—but Ronan pushed forward. He met their swings, only letting a few slip by. But a sharp pain in his thigh caused him to falter.
The axe had dug into his flesh, and screaming fire raced through him in its wake.
He couldn’t think—couldn’t move. And the sword came next.
He managed to turn at just the right moment, and what would have been a blow to his torso only scraped his side.
He elbowed the sword-wielding warrior in the face, knocking him off-kilter and causing him to fall.
Ronan then lunged at the man with the axe, cutting his throat with a swift slice.
His lungs screamed. Blood flowed down his leg. But this moment of reprieve ended before he could enjoy it. A shout to his left alerted him to MacCraith’s struggles with his opponent. Before he could move to help, another voice drew his attention.
ó Dálaigh stood before them. A sword pointed at his throat.
Ronan’s heart plummeted in his chest.
The metallic scraping of MacCraith’s fight beside him paused. He must have stopped as well. They could keep fighting, keep pushing back, but it wouldn’t take the blade away from ó Dálaigh’s neck. One wrong move, and their commander would die.
Ronan had thought they could all make it out of this. He realized now it was a naive wish.
His eyes followed the blade of the sword to the wielder.
A man stood behind ó Dálaigh, in a green cloak as dark as the trees around them. His blue eyes met Ronan’s . . . and Ronan was struck by their familiarity.
ó Connor.
“Put down your weapons,” the war chief ordered.
Ronan didn’t know what ó Connor was doing here, but he knew what he should do. He now had information that would be crucial for the coming war. Kordislaen would tell him to prioritize himself—the information—no matter the cost.
But that would sentence ó Dálaigh to death.
He tried to run through the scenarios, ways to bring them all home.
There had to be something.
Distracted by his desperate thoughts, he didn’t have time to dodge the fist coming for his temple. They collided with a crack. Another thud, and the world went dark once more.