“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 thebestwarriors.”
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 ANDDOMHNALL MET WITH THEIR NEWLY ACQUIREDtroops 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 friendson 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.
