“What was that?” The boy leaned closer to hear what Ronan was saying, and Ronan took his opportunity. He lifted his feet and swiped sideways at the boy’s knees.
He fell with a thud, and Ronan followed it up with a swift kick to his head. The kick wasn’t as strong as he would have liked, but it would keep him down for now.
The noise drew the attention of the other warrior.
As she rushed over to Ronan, he was fumbling through the boy’s weapon belt for his knife with his tied-up hands. As they closed around it, he felt himself being lifted by the arm to a standing position. Before she could take the knife from him, Ronan had already slashed through his bonds.
He swung the knife at her, an attack she quickly dodged. But her deflection gave him the space he wanted. Ducking, he quickly cut through the rope at his ankles.
The hiss of her blade through the air warned him of her attack before he saw it. He rolled, and her swing narrowly missed.
Free but armed only with a knife, Ronan faced the warrior. Without a second to pause, he rushed at her. If he gave her too much time, she might think to shout for help. And if their fightlasted too long, that alone would draw the attention of the other warriors in the camp.
They traded blows, Ronan’s defense weaker than he would have liked. His every muscle and bone ached, and his head pounded with every movement. The capture had caused more damage than he thought. But he kept fighting. When he next sidestepped her sword, he swiped, slicing her eyebrow and drawing blood. Scarlet red trickled down her face, into her eye, and she stumbled. He didn’t stop. He lunged, and the blade pierced the skin by her collarbone. She collapsed beside the boy.
Ronan grabbed her sword in his free hand and ran to MacCraith. He slashed his hands loose and tossed him the knife to work on his feet. But when Ronan turned to the commander, his view was blocked.
Three Tinelannian warriors stood before him.
He took too long. And now they were caught.
There was no time for thought—he simply rushed at them.
Their weapons raised in defense, he found himself parrying with two of them. One thrust at him with a sword; the other swiped with an axe.
From the sound of ringing metal to his left, MacCraith must have taken on the third.
Going up against two opponents at once wasn’t ideal—especially while his body revolted against every movement—but Ronan pushed forward. He met their swings, only letting a few slip by. But a sharp pain in his thigh caused him to falter.
The axe had dug into his flesh, and screaming fire raced through him in its wake. He couldn’t think—couldn’t move. And the sword came next. He managed to turn at just the rightmoment, and what would have been a blow to his torso only scraped his side. He elbowed the sword-wielding warrior in the face, knocking him off-kilter and causing him to fall. Ronan then lunged at the man with the axe, cutting his throat with a swift slice.
His lungs screamed. Blood flowed down his leg. But this moment of reprieve ended before he could enjoy it. A shout to his left alerted him to MacCraith’s struggles with his opponent. Before he could move to help, another voice drew his attention.
Ó Dálaigh stood before them. A sword pointed at his throat.
Ronan’s heart plummeted in his chest.
The metallic scraping of MacCraith’s fight beside him paused. He must have stopped as well. They could keep fighting, keep pushing back, but it wouldn’t take the blade away from Ó Dálaigh’s neck. One wrong move, and their commander would die.
Ronan had thought they could all make it out of this. He realized now it was a naive wish.
His eyes followed the blade of the sword to the wielder.
A man stood behind Ó Dálaigh, in a green cloak as dark as the trees around them. His blue eyes met Ronan’s... and Ronan was struck by their familiarity.
Ó Connor.
“Put down your weapons,” the war chief ordered.
Ronan didn’t know what Ó Connor was doing here, but he knew what he should do. He now had information that would be crucial for the coming war. Kordislaen would tell him to prioritize himself—the information—no matter the cost.
But that would sentence Ó Dálaigh to death.
He tried to run through the scenarios, ways to bring them all home.
There had to besomething.
Distracted by his desperate thoughts, he didn’t have time to dodge the fist coming for his temple. They collided with a crack. Another thud, and the world went dark once more.
