Chapter Thirty-Eight #2
Ronan wanted to fight back, but he couldn’t find the words. “I never said there was nothing between us.”
Domhnall scoffed. “Oh, so we’re being technical now?”
“I hate you.”
“I love you too.”
Before Ronan could argue anymore, they reached Caisleán. The warriors guarding the door let them in without question.
He allowed himself a brief moment to look the prince over. There was some damage to his armor, and Ronan could see the early signs of bruising on his face, but Domhnall was relatively fine.
“I should be telling you to go back into hiding,” he said.
The prince smirked, brushing his hair out of his face. “And do you honestly expect me to listen to you?”
“If you die, the king will have my head.”
“Do you have so little faith in me?” he replied.
Ronan considered him. His prince. His friend.
He gave in, shaking his head. “You better live through this.”
Domhnall grinned. “How about a competition, for old time’s sake. Let’s see who can gather the most warriors to help us.”
Ronan sighed but smiled despite himself. “We can’t take too many. The front lines need warriors too.”
“Fine, then. Who can gather the best warriors.”
Ronan picked up his pace—ignoring the stabbing pain in his legs as he did so—to the castle’s main entryway, following the sounds of war.
Domhnall called after him, “Where are you going?”
“To find the best warriors!” he shouted back.
***
RONAN AND DOMHNALL MET WITH THEIR NEWLY ACQUIRED troops by the door leading to the cliffside tunnel. A familiar head of ginger hair in Domhnall’s group caught his attention.
“MacCraith?” Ronan asked.
The man smiled back at him. “At your service.”
“I thought you were leaving.” He was relieved to see a familiar face—and a warrior he knew could hold his own—but the man should have been miles away by now.
“I was,” MacCraith said. “But you were right. We can’t afford to lose Caisleán. I may not have made it to Suanriogh to get aid, but I sent Domhnall’s letter along, and I grabbed a few friends on the return journey.” He nodded to the warriors next to him. “We’re here to help however we can.”
Ronan clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you.”
“Does this mean I win?” Domhnall said from where he leaned against the curved tunnel walls.
The sound of shouts kept Ronan from replying. The enemy was gathering outside. Which meant he needed to start moving.
Ronan motioned for their troops to follow him down the tunnel.
“As you may already know, the Ionróirans have reached the Whispering Cliffs. They’ll be hoping to gain entrance here.
It’s our job to stop that. I expect a couple dozen warriors on the other side of the doors.
Kill them, take no prisoners. There’s no time for mercy,” Ronan said, Domhnall giving him an approving look.
The door to the tunnel was closed and barricaded shut with wood, but it wouldn’t keep the castle safe for long. He could only pray to the gods that he and his troops could withstand the brunt of the Ionróiran force.
Ronan and a few of his warriors heaved the wood out of the way and opened the door.
For a moment, the glare of the sun blinded him. He paused, gathering himself and assessing the threat. Dozens of Ionróirans against only two surviving Caisleán warriors who had been guarding the entrance. He threw himself into the fight.
He ran toward the nearest Ionróiran, swinging at the man before he even noticed his presence. His blade dug into the man’s arm. The Ionróiran jumped back, but Ronan kept pushing forward.
Shouting surrounded them as the rest of Ronan’s group joined the fray and the battle commenced. When his opponent fell, he moved on to the next.
Swords clashed against axes. Shields deflected fatal blows. Cries of the dying mixed with the shouts of the victorious.
The chorus of the fight pushed Ronan forward. He met his enemies strike for strike, with no room in his thoughts for anything but survival. He swung Camhaoir in blurs of movement, and in the daylight, he could barely make out the glow that seemed to emanate from the sword and from him.
In a breath between fights, Ronan noticed there were still dozens of Ionróirans left on the beach. Then he saw the boat on the shoreline. The Ionróirans were replenishing their numbers, and a few more canoes were already sailing from the ship to the sand.
But they weren’t alone in the water. A familiar shape leaped from the waves, crashing into one of the boats and knocking the warriors into the sea. One disappeared under the surface with a scream.
Murphy reemerged, a gleeful look in his eyes as blood dripped from his maw. Ronan smiled at the terrifying creature. “Good boy.”
The dobhar-chú didn’t need the encouragement. He dove back into the water, and in seconds, another boat was emptied into the ocean.
A voice he knew as well as his own pulled his attention away from their new ally.
Domhnall fumbled, blood dripping down from his head onto the sand. A deep gash crossed his face, from eyebrow to cheek.
The injury distracted him. The prince didn’t see the axe coming for his neck.
Ronan lunged forward, and in the back of his mind, he knew his position wouldn’t be right, it wouldn’t help, but he still had to try. He couldn’t sit here and watch him die. Not Domhnall.
Someone else was there before Ronan could make it.
MacCraith pushed Domhnall out of the way, directly into Ronan’s path, and knocked the axe aside with his sword.
A triumphant look lit up his face, but he wasn’t fast enough.
He didn’t see. An Ionróiran had crept up from behind, and his dagger found MacCraith’s back before Ronan could shout a warning.
MacCraith’s body fell to the sand with no sound. Ronan kept waiting for the noise. A thud. A snap. Something to signify that it was real. That this had happened.
Domhnall was drawn into another fight as Ronan rushed to his fallen—was he a friend?
Their only significant tie was a suicide mission and Ronan’s betrayal of him to Kordislaen, all those months ago.
Was MacCraith even aware it was Ronan’s fault he had nearly been killed on that mission?
I suppose it doesn’t matter now, he thought bitterly.
They had barely known each other. He didn’t know MacCraith’s husband’s name, if there were children who would mourn him, or what his life was like outside of the castle that hovered over them.
He only knew that he was honorable and brave.
That he had returned to help him and the kingdom they were both loyal to, and now he was dead.
There was no time to mourn. Footsteps thudded behind him, and Ronan turned to face another axe.
There was a streak of burning light as Camhaoir rose before Ronan could think to move.
With a strength he didn’t know he had, he cleaved the metal of the axe.
The Ionróiran before him gasped, but Ronan didn’t question what had just happened.
Instead, he pushed forward, cutting their throat with a swift swipe.
He looked behind him to see Domhnall back in battle, but faltering more than usual because of the wound across his eye.
Ronan, invigorated by the unusual energy coursing through him, went to his aid.