“I don’t care what the odds are, I’m finding them.” No matter how slim the chances, she would risk everything if it meant Ronan would live. “Niamh, will you help me?”
Clía wasn’t sure if it was Niamh’s desire for blood or the determination gleaming in Clía’s eyes that convinced her, but the warrior nodded without hesitation.
Clía turned to Dornáin. “And you?”
He sighed. “If all of you die, Kordislaen will blame me. I’d rather be tortured by Tinelann than face him.”
She took that as a yes.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
First, there were whispers.
Then the pain.
It roared through Ronan’s head as he sat slumped on the ground. Ropes chafed against his wrists. He kept his eyes closed and listened to the voices going in and out around him.
“No sign of the others?” a gruff, accented voice said.
A woman’s voice with a matching accent replied, “No. They must have cut their losses and retreated.”
“Or they left for reinforcements,” said the first man.
The woman laughed. “For these men? Doubtful.”
Their conversation grew muffled along with fading footsteps. As they left, Ronan cataloged his restraints. Arms tied together behind his back. Ankles bound underneath him. He couldn’t feel the weight of his sword at his hip, and as he moved his foot slightly, he noticed the absence of the dagger he kept in his boot.
His head ached as he tried to remember what had happened.
He, MacCraith, and Commander Ó Dálaigh had been scouting, making sure it was safe to make camp. The woods were thick this close to the border. The shadows of the Diamhairs cast them in darkness as the sun set behind the mountain range. With every step farther from the clearing, they were greeted withthe chorus of the trees. Insects chirping, the flutter of a bird’s wings, the soft coos of an owl. Nature undisturbed.
The three of them walked in a horizontal line. The plan was for them to remain within eyesight of one another, but the dense brush made it nearly impossible for Ronan to keep track of the other two warriors. He could only hear their faint footsteps on the mossy forest floor. Ronan was on the far end of their line, keeping his eye on what was directly ahead and what lay to the east. He remained silent as they searched for any sign of life. A footprint. Discarded items. The sound of distant voices.
After an hour of scouting, Ronan was almost content to say it was safe, when he noticed it. The silence. No birds. No insects.
He froze. And as he turned, his eyes caught the light flickering between leaves and vines.
Ronan lifted a hand to signal to the others to stop, but their footsteps continued. They couldn’t see.
In an instant, he was sure of three things.
They weren’t alone.
It wasn’t safe.
And he had no way of telling the others without giving away his position.
He started to edge away from the light, toward where Ó Dálaigh should be. Before he could find him, his legs were swept out from under him.
He fell to the ground with a hard thud.
A person cloaked in shadows stood over him. The glimpse of light from beyond the trees reflected off cool steel as they swung. He rolled away before their sword could make contact.
“We’re under attack!” Ronan shouted. His location was already given up, but at least he could warn the others.
His attacker didn’t pause. Their sword swung down on Ronan again, and he quickly rolled back onto his feet. The blade missed him by an inch, but now he was standing. He reached for his own blade and began parrying his assailant’s blows.
From a distance, Ronan heard the clanging of metal against metal. Ó Dálaigh and MacCraith. He wouldn’t be getting any help in this fight.
