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 tomove. 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.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The wind swept up from the cliffs, whipping Clía’s hair behind her as she made her way to Kordislaen, who sat on his horse at the cliff’s edge.
A messenger hawk landed on the general’s outstretched arm. He attached a small piece of parchment to the bird’s claw before it flew away. This was why he was away from the fight—Kordislaen was leading his warriors from afar, so that he could ensure their victory.
A chill traveled down Clía’s spine as Kordislaen finally turned toward her, his dark eyes meeting hers, but she steeled herself against it. Watching Ronan walk away to an uncertain future was a necessary and crucial reminder of what hung in the balance.
This needed to end.
She wrapped her fingers tightly around Ronan’s sword, as three Ionróirans, a man and two women, climbed up the cliffs and joined the general. They were dressed for war, chain mail glimmering in the sun.
“Finish her off,” Kordislaen ordered, waving his hand.
The fight fell upon her.
She dodged fatal swipes of blades and responded in kind. Cuts and bruises collected on her skin, but nothing stopped her.She may have lost the blessing of her sword, but she was still more than capable of fighting.
She held nothing back. Her worries were locked away, and it was only the soothing hum of her blade that kept them bound. The soldiers met her in ferocity, but even the fierce must fall.
Her blade sunk into flesh.
Kordislaen remained impassive. He watched over them as if they were ants squabbling over crumbs.
One of the remaining Ionróirans caught Clía by surprise, gaining the upper hand. Before she could use this advantage and finish the fight, a blur of motion joined the fray.
Niamh blocked what could have been a catastrophic—if not fatal—strike. Clía sent her a look of appreciation, but she was too busy fighting to notice. She attacked with remarkable vigor.
“I got them—you take Kordislaen,” Niamh shouted between blows.
Clía ran toward Kordislaen. Finally, there was no one else between her and the general.
