Clía spoke first. “Welcome back. I see you’ve brought guests.”
The general looked at her as if she were an interrupting child. “This is serious, Princess. I thought you would understand that by now. The games are over.”
“I think they’re finally getting fun.”
Kordislaen began to pull his sword from its sheath, but Ronan beat him to it, his weapon drawn and pointed at the general before he could blink.
“You’ve disappointed me, Ó Faoláin.”
“You wouldn’t be the first person I let down.” Ronan held firm to his blade.
“Ah, yes, your mother.” Kordislaen’s smile left an uneasy feeling in Ronan’s gut. “You know, I should have saved her instead.”
Ronan faltered. It was only for a moment, but that was all Kordislaen needed. Before Ronan could think, his sword was lying on the ground behind the general. Kordislaen swung with his blade, going for Ronan’s neck. Instinct flared within him as he twisted. The blade skimmed off his armor, but not before hitting his sword arm. Fire burned where the steel had kissed skin and muscle. Blood flowed generously from the wound.
Before Kordislaen could deal out any more damage, Clía was there, blocking his blow.
A swipe of steel, and the three of them were separated again; however, Kordislaen was unfazed. Ronan grabbed the small dagger he kept in his boot. His arm screamed in protest. The tiny blade wouldn’t be of much help against Kordislaen, but he would take whatever weapon he could get.
“You always need someone to step in and save you, huh, boy?” Ronan tried to ignore Kordislaen, but his words brought back another day. Another battle. “Tell me, will you watch her die too?”
When Ronan stepped in front of Clía, it was instinct, not strategy. He wanted to charge Kordislaen, finally fight him with no debt holding him back, but he held his ground. The first time he’d met the general, it was because Ronan had to be saved after rashly jumping into battle. This time, his life wasn’t the only one at stake. He had already lost someone he loved because he failed to protect what mattered.
He had been a child then. This was different. Thishadto be different.
Kordislaen strode in front of them, like a predator cornering its prey. Ronan watched as he tightened his grip on his sword. Any moment, he would strike. Ronan could only hope he could respond in time. He held up his knife with his nondominant hand, knowing the other wouldn’t be able to wield it due to his injury.
“No.” Kordislaen tilted his head. “I think I’ll kill you first.”
Behind him, Ronan could sense Clía shifting, preparing for the spark that would start the fight anew. Still, he kept his eyes on their enemy. And that was when he noticed it. Kordislaen’s gait was unsteady. He hid it well; it would have been almost impossible to see if Ronan didn’t know to look for it. His legs were still injured.
“I think you should be more concerned about yourself,” Ronan replied.
At this, Kordislaen’s mouth twisted into something sinister.“You think you’re strong, but you couldn’t even kill me when you had the chance. Do you really think you can do it now, considering everything I’ve done for you? This is far from the gratitude you owe me.”
Ronan raised his knife. He knew it should be an easy thing to dismiss—Kordislaen was clinging to any straw he could grasp to manipulate the situation and throw him off balance. Still, the words tugged at a part of Ronan whose continued existence he hated. Everything he had been through, what he had lost and gained—Kordislaen’s fingerprints were on far too much of it. He had helped Ronan achieve his dreams, and despite how monstrous he turned out to be, that small part of Ronanwasgrateful. He supposed that feeling might never truly go away. But gratitude did not equal fealty.
“I owe you nothing. Not anymore.”
A shout came from his right, and Ronan noticed the forms of Domhnall and Niamh making their way to them. Before he could process their arrival, he heard a slight intake of breath. He lunged to the side, pulling Clía with him, Kordislaen’s blade narrowly missing them. The general stood where they were only seconds before, but it gave Ronan the opportunity to dive for his own weapon.
Kordislaen didn’t give chase; he stood back and watched as Ronan and Clía put some distance between them and him. He didn’t seem enraged or even troubled by the arrival of two more warriors. A smile rested on his face as he returned to his horse, making his way to the cliff’s edge. He wasn’t fleeing; it was a show of confidence.
Gods, if only I had a bow.
Ronan was pulled from his plotting by a hand on his arm. Domhnall and Niamh had reached them.
“Look,” the prince said, chin tilted toward the sea.
Ronan followed his gaze. The first thing he noticed was the large sail, and his eyes followed the mast down to a ship filled with hundreds of warriors, Ionróiran shields resting beside the oars. It was heading right for the beach below them.
The ship drew nearer with frightening speed. If the Ionróirans landed on the beach, they could enter through the lightly defended cliffside tunnel and take the keep from the inside. The warriors fighting on the front lines would have enemies on their front and back. They’d be overwhelmed in minutes.
They needed to protect the tunnel.
“We saw the mast,” Niamh explained.
“We need to get men inside Caisleán. As many as we can afford to take away from the front lines. If we guard the tunnel and keep the Ionróirans at bay while the rest of our warriors beat back the Tinelannian forces, we might still stand a chance,” Ronan said in a low voice.
