Chapter Twenty-Nine #2
This isn’t the time to be distracted by jewels, Clía!
With a twist of her wrist, she disarmed the taller of the two soldiers and knocked him unconscious with the pommel of her sword.
The second man charged forward, but he was tired.
His lunges and swipes were slower, and she was able to slip through his guard.
Her blade sunk into his side. She pulled it out quickly, letting him fall to the ground.
A relief-filled laugh bubbled in her chest, but it was smothered by a groan to her left.
ó Dálaigh fell to the ground, dark blood gushing from a wound in his chest. His hand came to the opening as if to hold himself together. His opponent raised her blade once more, to finish him off, but Clía leaped in the way, sword first.
It wasn’t the best position to block—her elbow ached from the poor form. Yet she didn’t flinch as the warrior prepared to strike again. She stepped in, keeping her away from her comrade on the ground.
Clía attacked with fury, determined to give the enemy an injury matching ó Dálaigh’s. Determined to see her fall. The Tinelannian didn’t last long. Clía was humming with strength and relished the smooth slice of her blade through the warrior’s neck. Another threat gone.
She turned back and knelt beside Commander ó Dálaigh.
Camhaoir fell to her side, hitting the ground with a soft thud. With it, the rush of battle faded, leaving a cold, bitter reality in its wake.
ó Dálaigh’s eyes were closed, and his chest rattled with his raspy attempts to draw breath.
The dim moonlight hid the horrors of the injury.
Blood pooled around him, staining the dirt.
He didn’t have long. Despite what she knew in her mind and soul, she tried to save him.
The blood was warm between her fingers as she applied pressure to his chest.
“Stay with me,” she muttered, ignoring the tears trailing through the dirt and blood on her cheeks.
ó Dálaigh didn’t respond.
There were no sounds coming from him. No whispering breath. No relentless pounding of his heart.
He was quiet.
She stayed quiet with him. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, and she reached to wipe it away.
He didn’t deserve this indignity. To die on the hard winter ground in some unknown forest. He’d had only a small blade, and so many injuries, but he fought anyway. And that was his mistake. Maybe if he had run, he would have made it.
But he hadn’t. And now he was dead at her feet.
Ronan’s hand landed on her shoulder. “Come on, we need to get out of here.” His voice was barely a whisper, but surrounded by the dead, it traveled down her spine like a shout.
All the awoken Tinelannians in the clearing were killed, and while there were probably only a few remaining in the tents, it was too dangerous for them to linger. They were weakened with injury and exhaustion, and they had already lost someone.
Despite those facts, when Ronan grabbed her arm, she still couldn’t move.
“Clía, we need to leave. Now. There’s something you need to—”
“I’m afraid you won’t be leaving just yet,” a familiar voice said.
She whipped around, unable to believe her ears.
ó Connor stood between them and the woods. Another warrior armed with an axe stood at his side. “Take care of that one.” He nodded to Niamh. “I’ll handle these two.”
He pulled his sword out from under his cloak.
“ó Connor?” Her voice was as frail as she suddenly felt. “What’s . . . What are you doing?”
Ronan pulled her behind him as they both stumbled to their feet. His sword was ready when ó Connor struck.
Clía felt like she was in dream, her mind struggling to make sense of what was happening. There had to be some explanation. Some reason. He wouldn’t betray álainndore like this. He wouldn’t betray her.
She was frozen, watching the two most important people in her life face off against each other. Each clash of their blades was another crack in her heart. She grabbed Camhaoir, but she didn’t know what she planned to do with it.
Until Ronan shouted. One of ó Connor’s blows made contact, the blade piercing Ronan’s thigh, right above his other wound. He didn’t fall, only stumbled back to regain his footing. And when ó Connor went to strike again, Clía was there.
Her sword met his, and she felt that strength surge through her. Her training came back. Wear him down. Wait for an opening.
“You’ve learned well,” he said, something akin to pride in his voice.
She kept fighting.
“We don’t have to do this.” He spoke as if this were another game of fidchell. As if Ronan wasn’t bleeding behind her. “I don’t want to hurt you. You weren’t supposed to be a part of this. Let me finish what I must, and you’ll live, Clía. I promise you that.”
“And be a traitor to my kingdom? Watch my friends die?” she spat. “I’d rather you kill me.”
He laughed. “Stubborn as always.”
When she blocked him next, she couldn’t stop the word from passing her lips. “Why?”
Why are you doing this? What are they offering you? What could be worth this pain?
“How much longer do you think the kingdom will survive under your parents’ rule?
They’ve drained the coffers with their lavish spending, and they’ve alienated their allies.
They don’t even care to know what goes on in álainndore, let alone tend to it.
” He scowled. “Your parents have neglected their kingdom, their throne. By what rights should they keep it?”
Her eyes widened. “Chief Barra’s death. The rumors of spies. You’ve been helping Tinelann . . .” Her voice cracked.
“Change must come. This war was coming to us no matter what we did, but with them, I can ensure álainndore survives in some form. I’m doing this for us.”
Her next strike missed as she struggled to stay focused.
He was right that her parents had failed as rulers.
Since arriving at Caisleán, her eyes had been opened to so much, revealing her parents’ apathy and self-interest in a glaring light.
They weren’t fit for the throne. But having a mutual enemy—gods, were her parents enemies?
—didn’t make Tinelann and Ionróir worthy allies.
They didn’t care about the well-being of her kingdom; they had larger goals in mind.
She thought of Ronan, and the Ionróiran raid that had killed his mother.
The ones who would be hurt most by this war wouldn’t be the king and queen; it would be the álainndoran people.
The warriors whose lives would be lost and the commoners whose villages would be invaded.
The children who would lose their parents.
There had to be another way.
She shook her head. “This isn’t how to fix their mistakes. All you’ve done here is betray your kingdom. Your family.” She pushed Camhaoir against him. “I won’t let you win.”
“You won’t have a choice.”
She knew she could outlast him. He had more experience, but she was younger. He’d grown complacent, while her training was fresh.
She could win this fight. If she wanted.
She heard Ronan behind her. In her peripheral vision, she saw him edge his way around them.
ó Connor pulled back, and she saw it. The opening. A chance to end this.
She hesitated.
When ó Connor’s blade came at her again, she wasn’t prepared. She felt it slice into her, a trail of fire on her arm.
“Clía!” Ronan shouted, plan forgotten as he thrust his sword at ó Connor.
But the chief was prepared. He blocked, then swung the side of his blade at Ronan’s head. Not the killing blow he might have intended but damning all the same.
Ronan went down. Clía felt her heart drop with him.
He wasn’t moving.
ó Connor lifted his blade, ready to make the kill.
She threw herself between them. Her forearm blocked his attack. His weight screamed against her as she tried to hold his arm back from plunging the sword into Ronan. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—let him die.
She stayed focused on the hand holding the blade, struggling toward Ronan. Toward her. The same hand that wiped her tears and helped her up from countless falls when she was a child.
The dirt was cold under her. She kept the pressure on his arm, using both of her hands now. She was injured and tired. And he knew it. Looking up at his face, she saw only weary resignation beneath unwavering resolve as he pushed.
In a last-ditch effort, she pitched her body forward, freeing her leg from under her to swipe at his. He stumbled backward, putting space between them. Just enough. She could already see him looking for the angle, preparing for the final blow—when she swung.
The swish of her blade cutting through the air was all she could hear.
Camhaoir made contact, sinking into his chest.
“Clía?” ó Connor choked out.
What had she done?
He looked at her with a question she didn’t know how to answer. A hurt she felt echo in her heart a thousand times over. She tried and failed to harden herself against it.
His blood coated her sword, her sleeves, her hands.
She’d stabbed him.
She hadn’t meant to.
She just needed to save Ronan.
ó Connor fell.
The man who helped raise her when her parents were too busy. Who was patient. Encouraging. Kind when others weren’t. Her family.
He was on his knees before her.
For a moment, she forgot everything.
She was a child again. Young and broken.
“I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “Oh gods. I’m sorry, I—I didn’t mean to.”
She reached for him, palms open. She didn’t know why. To help him? To beg forgiveness? To offer him the comfort he always offered her?
When ó Connor hit the ground, the raspy sound of his breath had already stopped. And Clía sat there, helpless beside him, staring at the blood that flowed onto his green cloak.