Chapter Thirty-Seven #2
Murphy perked up the moment she mentioned swimming and ran back into the hall. Clía wished there was a better way to protect him, but if this battle didn’t go well, she knew he would be happy in the lake.
As she stepped into the storage closet, Domhnall cautiously followed. “Griffin wasn’t wrong. If we die out there, we’ll only cause more problems.”
“Then don’t die.” Clía shrugged. “You can stay or go—it doesn’t matter to me—but I won’t sit and wait when I can make a difference.”
She could see the choice rattle around in his head before he squared his shoulders. “For Scáilca.”
He was saying it for himself, but she responded all the same. “For álainndore.”
***
THE UPSTAIRS REMAINED NO DIFFERENT THAN HOW IT WAS when they first were hidden away, but the second they walked down the steps to the first floor, the evidence of the battle was clear.
The castle had fallen into chaos.
Soldiers were running, armor bloody and weapons drawn. Everyone inside was either helping an injured comrade or rushing to move to a new post.
Clía couldn’t see anyone she recognized.
“Do we have a plan?” Domhnall had to yell to be heard.
No.
She couldn’t say that, instead replying, “We need to get armed.”
They both were already wearing armor—Clía would be testing her new creation, while Domhnall was in his shining iron set that he paraded around in in class, something that had always aggravated her but now filled her with relief.
Domhnall nodded. “Lead the way.”
Together, they ran through the castle, splitting off to grab their weapons of choice. The pained shouts of the injured jolted through her with every step she took.
Camhaoir rested against the wall of the fabric room. She grabbed it, grateful she never gave it to Niamh like she’d planned. The hilt was reassuring in her grip. Today, she would see just how blessed this blade was.
Footsteps alerted her to Domhnall’s incoming presence. She saw her reflection grinning back at her in the mirror. Blond hair twisted behind her head, her new lightweight armor glimmering in the scattered light, and Camhaoir by her side—she looked like a warrior.
But there was no time for those thoughts, that pride. She had more pressing things to be concerned with.
***
THERE WAS NO QUIET IN BATTLE.
Clía and Domhnall sprinted through Caisleán’s halls, following the steady tide of warriors returning to fight and the sound of metal clashing and screeching against metal. Footsteps pounded on the frozen soil; steel clanged against iron and leather.
It hurt her ears.
She kept running toward it.
Warriors had broken through the wall by the main entrance—a weakness they had anticipated. Most of their foot soldiers were focused there, while archers stood on the tallest points of the castle, sending volleys of arrows into the incoming Tinelannian warriors.
Clía couldn’t see their troops clearly from where she was standing—the fight was a mess of bodies and blades. Figures lay broken on the ground as they passed. She hesitated to look at their faces.
A gasp escaped Domhnall. His gaze was fixed ahead on something she couldn’t see, and before she could stop him, he had darted off. Something collided into her—a Scáilcan warrior darting past and into the fray. By the time Clía caught herself, Domhnall was gone.
The Tinelannian warriors were gaining ground.
Some broke from the front line and rushed the castle, only to be swiftly stopped by a loosed arrow.
However, the arrows couldn’t prevent the men in front of her from falling or a sword from swinging at her head.
She met it with her blade without thinking, and suddenly she found herself caught in the dance of battle.
Clía kept her focus on the weapons coming at her and the people surrounding her. Griffin was right; this wasn’t a training session. This couldn’t even compare to her fight with the Tinelannian men during their mission. There was too much going on, so many things to watch out for.
She was overwhelmed, but she would not let herself be overcome.
The gem in her hilt glimmered. With each strike she met and dealt, she could see the light climbing up her veins. A faint glow in the light of day, but there all the same. Energy continued to course through her, never waning. Clía felt sharpened, as deadly as a newly honed blade.
This was the power of Ríoghain’s Jewel. The magic of Tír Síoraí.
She fell into the pattern of the fight, locking away the fear, doubt, and compassion that held her back.
Her opponent was skilled. He met her blade with confidence, if not ease, but he didn’t gain ground. She could see her fellow Scáilcan warriors struggling to hold the line.
With a quick thrust, her blade passed through his neck.
His broken, wet choking was louder than all the fights around her.
She didn’t watch as his body fell. And neither did the Tinelannian warrior taking his place.
The dance began again. And again.
The fifth warrior she fought was an intimidating force. Her sword fell behind as she tried to block his maneuvers and gain an advantage. A faint tremble clung to her, a dull fire seething in her muscles, but she had no choice but to continue swiping and lunging.
Thunder broke over the battleground, pealing out from the castle itself.
Bright sunlight beamed down at her from its rising point in the sky as she turned toward the castle. The stones of the ancient keep shook with a surge.
This was no strange weather.
A tunnel had been collapsed.
Unease crept into her gut as something slammed into her chest, knocking the breath out of her. She looked back at her forceful opponent just as his blade ricocheted off her armor.
Gasping for air, she didn’t wait for him to recover. She grabbed his outstretched sword hand and pulled him in closer. He stumbled. Her wrist twisted, and his sword fell to the ground, allowing her to step closer and swipe her blade across his neck in one fluid motion.
Clía was running before he hit the ground. Camhaoir was safely at her side as she weaved through the fighting warriors and found her way inside the castle.
A Draoi bumped shoulders with her, on her way to another part of the castle. Clía grabbed her arm.
The desire to make sure Ronan was safe wasn’t a wish, it was a need, as her traitorous mind insisted he was in danger. “ó Faoláin’s troops. Do you know where they are?”
The Draoi nodded, her face grim. “Southern underground entrance.”
Fear burrowed deep inside Clía. She had never been more upset at being right. Was he near the tunnel that collapsed?
She wanted to immediately run to him, but there was one more thing she needed to know. “What about Kordislaen? Any sight of him?”
“He was at the front not too long ago, watching the battle. He disappeared shortly after. I heard some people say he was spotted going west, to the cliffs,” she said.
Clía let the woman go and ran.
The door to the underground tunnels was knocked askew. No one questioned her as she slid inside.
She traveled down the claustrophobic halls until they opened into a wide chamber with three conjoining tunnels: the one she’d entered from, one that continued straight down the winding passageway, and the tunnel to the southern entrance.
When she turned that final corner, her heart filled with oily fear.
Where an entrance should have been was only a pile of debris. A thin layer of gray dust from the shattered stones covered the ground like freshly fallen snow. They had knocked down the wooden pillars that held the heavy ceiling, caving in the escape route.
A rattling cough dragged her attention from the wreckage, to where warriors were strewn about the chamber. They lay on the floor, covered in the debris. Trained healers moved from fallen warrior to fallen warrior.
There were so few men on the ground. It was less than half the size of a typical troop. Either the rest had gone back to the front to fight or . . .
She searched their faces, a silent prayer to the gods on her tongue.
Breath filled her lungs at the sight of Ronan. Even sitting on the ground, his back leaning against a wall, he had the look of a leader. Clía couldn’t see a patch of skin on him not covered in dirt and blood, but he was alive, and that alone quieted the pounding urgency of her racing heart.
He lifted his head as she knelt by his side. The grimace on his face warmed into a soft smile, but his eyebrows knotted in confusion. “I thought you were supposed to be hiding?”
The weakness in his voice shattered the piece of her heart that had frozen in battle. “I had to find you. I needed to help.”
“And you said I was the one with a savior complex.” His laugh was a quiet ghost. She clung to the little warmth it still had.
“What happened here?” she asked. He had a few cuts and open wounds on his arms and swelling in his left wrist. Thank the gods. None of his injuries would cause lasting damage. At least, none that she could see. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” He shifted, hissing with the movement.
Her hands hovered over him to help, but she was too afraid to make anything worse.
“We were overrun. I guess they thought it would be the easiest entrance to overtake because we knew they were coming from the north. They weren’t exactly wrong.
It was only my men out there, and their numbers were at least double.
“They gained the upper hand quickly, following us into the southern tunnel, and when there were none left outside, we struck the pillars and brought it down on top of them.” Ronan’s usually bright eyes were dull as he looked over his injured men in the chamber.
“I tried to get as many of our people out as possible. The ones closest to this chamber were fine, but the rest . . .”
The pain in his voice tore at her. Her hand brushed away the dust on his cheek. His eyelids closed at her touch. Almost peaceful.
I could have lost him. No, she couldn’t let herself think that. Not until after the battle.
He took her comfort for a moment before opening his eyes again, a soldier once more. “I’m guessing you’ve seen the fight aboveground. How are we holding up on the other front?”
They were losing ground. Already, so many were dead. There was a chance the tunnel collapse could have damaged the keep—she had no idea whether the southern wall was still standing above them.
“It wasn’t great when I was up there.”
His mouth tightened. “We’ll pull through. We have to.”
Her thumb began absently tracing a pattern on his cheek. “I have to go,” she said.
Pulling herself away from him was like fighting against gravity. She didn’t want to leave him here, but she had to help with the fight.
“You’re heading to the front?” It wasn’t an argument, only curiosity.
“To find Kordislaen,” she corrected him.
His fingers met hers, curling around them in reassurance. “You want to go after him? On your own?”
“I can handle myself.”
He smiled, and her heart leaped.
“I know that. I was wondering if maybe you would want backup all the same?”