Chapter Thirty
When Ronan came to, his lungs burned with breath, his head pounding and sore.
But he was alive.
The rush of battle had faded, and he took in what was before him. Niamh was making her way to MacCraith, leaving the body of the Tinelannian woman on the ground behind her.
And Clía was on the ground a few feet away. She knelt beside a collapsed form, her shoulders heaving. ó Connor. Camhaoir buried in his still chest.
“Clía?” he called. “Are you okay?”
No answer. She didn’t even move.
He rushed over to her. The ground below them was coated in blood. “Are you hurt?” His eyes frantically scanned her body, searching for any sign of injury. The only wound he could see was a cut on her arm—it was angry and red, but thankfully not deep.
Finally, she looked up at him, tear-filled eyes meeting his, and his heart squeezed at the sight. “I—I killed him.” He ached to hold her, shield her from the pain.
“You saved me.” His hand found her shoulder, keeping her gaze on him. Away from the body. “I need to know—did he hurt you?”
“I’m okay,” she said, but it was empty.
Ronan knew shock, and how it could quiet pain. He needed to see if she could stand. Move. They wouldn’t survive another fight.
“We’re going to get up now, all right?” He gently held her elbow and helped her to rise. His thigh throbbed where he was injured.
A soft trill of voices sounded from the distance. Ronan looked to Niamh, but she already had an unconscious MacCraith over her shoulder. One member of their group was still unaccounted for.
“Where’s Dornáin?”
“He was in the woods, supposed to be our backup.” Clía took a shaky breath. “I think he was what got the attention of the other guard.”
Dornáin never joined the fight, which meant he had either circled back to camp or, more likely, died. Ronan could only hope that he’d led the guard far enough away to buy them time before falling.
“We need to go,” Ronan whispered to Clía.
She blinked. “What about—” He followed her gaze to ó Dálaigh’s body. Then to ó Connor’s.
“We can’t carry them. Not when Niamh is carrying MacCraith and my leg . . .” His pain was enough to handle on a good day; he wouldn’t be able to manage carrying someone with the added burn in his thigh.
He hated the idea of leaving ó Dálaigh behind.
He was a valiant warrior who deserved to be laid to rest properly.
With ó Connor, his feelings were more complicated.
If it wasn’t for the man’s bond with Clía, if he didn’t know how much this was going to hurt her, he would be almost glad to let him rot.
Clía shook her head, and in that moment, Ronan could see the woman he trained with. A resolute soldier.
She looked between the two men on the ground, decision made. “I’ll carry ó Dálaigh.”
“He’s twice your size,” Ronan countered.
She pulled her sword out of ó Connor’s chest. It slid out with a sickening noise. She didn’t bother to wipe the blade before handing it to Ronan.
“I’ll need both my hands,” she whispered.
He held her weapon as she struggled to lift their commander onto her shoulders. Her knees trembled under his weight, but she stood.
She stumbled into the woods with ó Dálaigh’s body, not looking back at the one on the ground. Ronan exchanged a worried glance with Niamh before following.
Their return to base wasn’t quick or triumphant. Every step was a struggle. Pain flared with each subtle movement, each bend of his knee. Clía stumbled. Twice, she fell. But she kept walking, and Ronan kept in step behind her.
“Let me help,” he offered, after her first fall.
She shook her head. “I can do this.”
After that, they walked in silence.
This was their second mission with ó Dálaigh, yet Ronan didn’t even know where he was from. If he had people who would mourn him. The realization shamed him.
They didn’t reach their camp until a streak of red was visible on the horizon.
Dornáin wasn’t waiting for them.
Another loss to mourn.
They left behind everything that they didn’t absolutely need, and with no sleep or rest, they began the journey back to Caisleán.
***
THE CASTLE WAS CLOAKED IN SHADOWS BY THE TIME THEY returned.
Ronan’s every muscle was fighting against him.
Throughout their journey, his body begged him to take a break, to stop, but he couldn’t.
There was no time. As he rode, he did an inventory of all his injuries.
Bruises, cuts, and scrapes on his arms and legs.
A broken nose. The wounds in his thigh might require stitches, but they wouldn’t hold him back too much.
His pain was worse than before, his injuries compounding the normal aches that streaked through him. But he couldn’t do anything about it except keep moving forward.
The horses were dropped off at the stable, and Ronan helped Clía unstrap ó Dálaigh’s body from his steed. They struggled for a moment before getting the assistance of the stable hands. One sent word to Kordislaen of their arrival.
The boy returned as they finished untacking the horses. “The general will be waiting for you in the usual place.”
Clía didn’t move away from where ó Dálaigh’s limp form lay on the ground.
“We’ll make sure he’s taken care of,” the stable hand added.
Niamh led their way to the meeting room, with MacCraith close on her heels. He had awoken on the journey back but had remained largely silent. Ronan trudged into the castle with Clía, steps slowed by fatigue.
They had been gone only two days, but Caisleán had been transformed into something almost unrecognizable.
Missions must have returned or been called back, and possibly reinforcements sent for as well, because warriors marched through the halls of the castle, faces both familiar and foreign.
They rushed from room to room, carrying papers and swords, leaving a sense of urgency in their wake.
The meeting room was occupied when they limped in. Kordislaen sat in his usual position, surrounded by Caisleán’s highest-ranking soldiers.
Ronan fell into the nearest chair. He tried to sit up straight—to look the part of the dignified warrior—but the aches in his bones called his bluff.
The other warriors watched the four of them with a mournful respect. Admiring, and understanding.
There were no greetings. Ronan wasn’t sure what they were discussing before his arrival, but the air around them was tense. Domhnall and Kían sat on the other side of the table, shock and concern in their eyes as they took in the group.
Kordislaen stood. “I understand Commander ó Dálaigh has been killed, and Dornáin is gone as well.”
“Yes, sir.” Clía’s voice was raspy from lack of use. On their journey back, she hadn’t spoken a word to him or anyone else. Ronan knew she was struggling—he wished he knew how to comfort her. All he could do was watch as she turned in on herself.
“Did you gather the information you were sent for?”
Clía’s eyes met his, and Ronan saw one way he could help her.
She didn’t need to be the one to share the tale.
“We collected some knowledge that might be useful. However, when our position was compromised, and with losing two men so early on, we decided not to risk the information we gained. It was a strategic retreat.”
He waited for Kordislaen to reprimand them for failing in their mission. But his resulting silence was almost worse. He sat shaking his head, then finally spoke. “I understand. Debrief us on what happened.”
Ronan began by telling him of their uneventful journey to the forest, then explained how they were overrun when they split to prepare camp.
“They knew we would be there. As we went to sweep the forest, they were ready for us. We didn’t stand a chance.
They managed to knock us all out before taking us back to their camp.
Our escape attempts there only got us more of a beating.
Thankfully, Clía, Niamh, and Dornáin came to our rescue.
” He left out ó Connor’s involvement for the moment.
There were too many people in the room, and they had already suffered one betrayal. He wasn’t sure whom they could trust.
“And how did you free them from the enemy camp?” Kordislaen asked, focus returning to Clía.
“We were suspicious when they took longer than expected to scout the area,” Niamh replied, demanding Kordislaen see her.
“Dornáin initially wanted to move on without them, but Clía stood her ground.” Despite all the horrors they had seen, and all the horrors that would come, Ronan felt a warmth rush through him.
Of course he had Clía to thank for saving his life.
Any peace was short-lived as Niamh detailed the events of their rescue attempt. Like Ronan, she didn’t mention ó Connor. All the same, he sensed Clía tense beside him.
Kordislaen stood in silent contemplation as Niamh finished speaking.
It was a moment before he spoke. “We will reconvene in the evening. You are all dismissed.” Movement flooded the room. Kordislaen stopped Ronan before he could rise. “Not you four—I still need to hear the rest of the information you gathered. For safety, it’s best I hear it alone.”
***
WHEN THE ROOM CLEARED, RONAN BEGAN TO EXPLAIN.
“They spoke of a man named Bás. He’s the key to their next step.
My guess is that he’s a high-ranking warrior, maybe someone with intel on Scáilca’s defenses.
They have no horse cavalry, and there’s a Tinelann general in their camp, but I didn’t see them.
I believe that general is the one leading the troops and will meet up with several other units of soldiers this week.
After that, they strike their target. It’ll be a location that Bás was able to weaken. They believe it’ll fall easily.”