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 forthe 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 THEYreturned.
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 hadremained 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.
