The skies were dark and still. All the same, Ronan’s hand drifted toward his sword.
“Was it—”
Ronan interrupted the prince. “Don’t say it. If the fire didn’t attract them, uttering the word will only seal our fate.”
They both quieted. Listening.
“I don’t hear anything anymore,” Domhnall whispered. “Do you think we’re safe?”
“We’re in the Ghostwood. There’s no such thing,” Ronan said, backing into the camp. He nudged Clía lightly with his foot. “Get up. Now.”
She sat up, eyes bleary. “What’s going on?”
He didn’t answer, moving on to Ó Dálaigh. Domhnall followed his example, waking up Kían and Niamh, careful to stay quiet.
Their eyes fell on Domhnall’s tense shoulders and Ronan’s hand on his sword.
Niamh was the first to grab her weapon and roll to her feet, but the others followed suit quickly. Even Ó Dálaigh armed himself. Kordislaen might have ordered him not to intervene in the test, but he would still fight for his life.
Silence suffocated them as they waited.
Wind swished through the trees. Ronan unsheathed his sword.
He heard it again. Flapping in the distance but growing closer. He dug his heels into the dirt, bending his knees, ready...
The sound grew to a roar. A mass of shadows crept over their clearing, blocking out the moon.
And then they descended.
Dusty wings and sharp claws fell on them. Ronan swiped with his blade, hitting whatever he could.
The Sluagh. The host of wandering dead.
They were creatures of nightmares, shadow, and death. Not quite man, not quite bird. They had no hair or feathers, only leathery skin and pointed ears. Claws that dug into flesh, and fangs that could rip out your throat.
The nightmarish beasts traveled Inismian, looking for souls to take, but Ronan wouldn’t go easily, and he wouldn’t let any of his group be taken.
Ronan dodged one of the creature’s blade-sharp talons. He thrust out his sword, slicing into its neck. Black liquid poured out as the Sluagh fell. Across the clearing, Domhnall fell back, two Sluagh drawing closer to him. Ronan sprinted to his friend.
“Need help?” He skidded in front of Domhnall and engaged one of the creatures.
Domhnall’s sword slashed beside him. “I could have handled it.”
“Of course,” he said. “Like you had that fight with the training captain handled back in Suanriogh.”
“That was two years ago—isn’t it time to move on?” Domhnall sighed, cutting through one Sluagh’s gut. It collapsed onto the ground, and Ronan made short work of the other.
He scanned the clearing, looking for where else he could help, when something stirred at his feet. A claw, twitching. The creature he had just killed began to move, its wounds stitching back together.
Of course. You couldn’t kill the dead.
“We need to retreat!” Ronan shouted, grabbing Domhnall’s arms and dragging him from the Sluagh, who were working to rise to their feet once more.
Kordislaen had told him to protect the royals. He needed to get them out of here.
A scream pierced the air. Niamh. She stumbled back, cornered by a Sluagh, her sword useless on the ground behind it.
There was a flash of gold as Clía ran to her side.
