She was overwhelmed, but she would not let herself be overcome.
The gem in her hilt glimmered. With each strike she met anddealt, 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...
