THE SOUTHERNSCÁILCAN COUNTRYSIDE WAS ALL VAST FARMSand dense copses of trees cascading over hills into the occasional murky lake. If they traveled farther south, into Liricnoc, the forests would thin and the lakes would vanish, but they remained traveling eastward, to Álainndore. It took a day until they saw the first sign of the border, the green crest of the Hill of Tiarnas peeking over the horizon. Stones stood in a circle at the summit, and a sliver of the cold gray coronation stone was barely visible in the middle.
This was the center of Inismian, where the three neighboring kingdoms of Scáilca, Álainndore, and Liricnoc met. It was the place where the gods first stepped foot on the land. Generations of monarchs had traveled from all over the continent to be crowned here. One day, Domhnall would kneel before the gods, as his ancestors had before him, and perhaps Ronan would be standing behind him then too. His friend, his shadow.
Ronan’s chest tightened strangely, and he pushed the thought away. His future would be what it would be. It was the present that needed his attention.
The air around him hummed with tension. Ronan couldn’t tell if it was the magic of the place or his own anxieties that made it so. He was all too aware of the commander’s warnings of potential threats.
The growing shadows of the forest enveloped them as they rode, chasing the retreating sun. The last wisps of fading light flowed through the treetops, catching on branches and moss. After a few moments, he couldn’t see the entrance they had traveled through.
He knew if they continued down the dirt road, it would lead them through the forest and eventually to a clearing at the base of the hill. But the trees whispered. Their branches knocked against each other in the summer wind, leaves rustling. And Ronan knew they were not alone.
He stopped his horse, causing the warrior behind him to shoot him a confused look, but Ronan held his position. The other guards followed his lead, slowing to a halt. Ronan’s hand began to shift toward his bow, subtly undoing the clasps holding it to the saddle, as his eyes scanned the brush.
If he was wrong, Commander Derval would not be forgiving. He could see her looking back with irritated expectation. He could hear her voice in his head.No mistakes, Ó Faoláin.
There was a crack to his left. A branch breaking under someone’s foot. His mind raced through the possibilities.
It could simply be another traveler, posing them no threat.
It could be bandits looking for a quick way to earn somescreppals. They’d see the number of warriors and likely be too intimidated to attack. It’d be best to keep moving, then.
It could be one of the sidhe, the creatures that roamed the forests and plains of Inismian. Thankfully, he could rule out most of the more dangerous beasts, as the threat wasn’t coming from the skies. Moving on quickly would still be their best option.
It could be what people had been whispering about in the markets and taverns. Tinelann warriors, breaking the treaty that had maintained peace between kingdoms for so long.
Or—
Before anyone could blink, Ronan was in motion. He reached for his quiver, nocked an arrow, and let it fly into the trees. With a dull thud, a body fell forward from the bushes, sprawled in front of them. From the markings on the man’s leather armor, Ronan knew he was right. The man was Ionróiran, one of the soldiers from the continent across the sea, Mhór Roinn, looking to weaken Scáilca and gain a foothold in Inismian.
There was a moment of silence, and then, with a roar, nearly two dozen men emerged from the woods, attacking on all sides, outnumbering the prince’s guard. But Ronan’s shot had put the caravan on alert. They were ready.
An axe flew toward Ronan’s head, its wielder grabbing a dagger from his belt and charging at him from the ground. Ronan ducked toward his horse’s neck and pulled out his sword. He could see the Ionróiran going for the animal to even the fight, but Ronan used the flat of his blade to quickly deflect the strike. As the man prepared his next blow, Ronan sliced his neck, a swift, deep strike that killed him instantly.
Another man took his place, and the fight began anew.
The sight of two Ionróiran men heading straight for the prince’s carriage broke him out of the routine of combat. The warriors nearby were engaged in fierce battle, leaving the prince alone and vulnerable.
Ronan leaped from his horse and ran, dodging between swinging blades and flying axes. He made it to the carriage just as the first man opened the door. Over the top of his head, Ronan saw Prince Domhnall ready, steel glinting in his hands. Then Ronan grabbed the Ionróiran by his leather armor and launched both of them backward.
They tumbled, and sharp pain stung Ronan’s cheek as the gravel and dirt from the road abraded his skin. His eye burned as blood—his own, possibly from one of the earlier duels—dripped from his forehead. His sword fell as they rolled, but still, Ronan ended up on top.
With one hand pinning down the Ionróiran at his neck, he reached with his other for the dagger that he kept strapped to his chest.
The man fought for his life, flipping them around, but the momentum only helped Ronan plunge the dagger into his heart. The Ionróiran’s body fell stiffly onto him, the sudden pressure a relief and a crushing ache.
Pushing the body off, Ronan hurriedly turned back to the carriage and the prince, only to see the second Ionróiran dead on the ground in front of him.
“Are you okay?” Ronan glanced at Domhnall.
The prince’s dark eyes were wide. Crimson blood had spattered the inside of the opulent carriage, bold against the striking goldand the prince’s pale complexion. But it wasn’t only shock on the prince’s face. There was a degree of thrill. Of exhilaration.
“I’m fine. The other warriors?” Domhnall’s voice was calm despite the rage of battle surrounding him.
Ronan looked around, ignoring the pain piercing his right wrist and ankle. “The battle is waning.” The ground was littered with the bodies of the invading warriors. Scáilcan soldiers worked to finish off the survivors. Some on the ground wore Scáilcan blue, but their numbers were far fewer. “We were lucky. We need to leave at once—I don’t want to risk more threats arriving.”
It was at that point that Commander Derval joined them. “We must keep moving, Your Highness,” she said, echoing Ronan’s words.
“Of course. However, before we leave”—Domhnall turned from surveying the scene to face Derval—“in light of this... development, I would like the captain with me in my carriage. We have much to discuss before our arrival in Álainndore.”
