Chapter Twenty-Nine
Ronan, MacCraith, and Ó Dálaigh’s paths were easy to find. Their boot prints were fresh in the mossy dirt.
Clía kept her footsteps light, watching the ground carefully to avoid crunching leaves or snapping twigs. They didn’t stop until they were met with distant noise. Men laughing, fire crackling, and the pounding of warriors’ feet against the hard winter soil.
Niamh stopped her with a hand and motioned to diverge from the trail. Clía followed her orders, and they crept into the underbrush. They slunk closer, until they were crouched inside a bush that was clinging to its leaves.
Clía’s stomach dropped when she saw the soldiers in the camp. A dozen of them waited.
Tents circled a fire in the center of the clearing. The ground was worn with the warriors’ steps. They wore no armor or weapons aside from the occasional knife. Most looked ready to retire for the night.
Her legs ached from the position she was in, but she forced herself to stay still. To keep watching their movements.
A few soldiers returned to their tents, leaving a half dozen still milling about the camp. Three caught her attention. They stood in the back, with knives strapped to their hips. They never movedfrom their position. It wasn’t until another warrior shifted out of her view that she saw why.
They stood beside a large, shadowed mass on the ground. Three huddled bodies, tied with rope.
And Ronan was among them.
Believing and seeing are two very different things. Believing Ronan was captured by the enemy made sense, and while it scared her, she could work through that fear.
Seeing him on the cold ground—stripped of his weapons, at the mercy of warriors who had none—sent bolts of ice-cold fear through her heart. She wanted to scream. She wanted to run into that clearing and fight all of them. She wanted him safe again.
Rational thoughts fled her mind. She knew she had to keep still—Niamh’s hand around her elbow reminded her of that—but she also knew that one of the most important people in her life was being held against his will on the other side of that clearing.
She tried to focus on the plan, but Dornáin was right when he said they had no advantages.
There was no way to form a rescue while the camp was littered with warriors. They had to wait until the time was right.
They stayed there until she could no longer tell if it was late or early. Only two guards remained around the perimeter, along with the three guards by the hostages.
She touched Niamh’s arm. If they were going to move, now was the time.
The first test was getting to the other side of the camp. They couldn’t cross into the clearing—they would be seen in seconds—but the underbrush held its own challenges. Clía andNiamh followed one path, while Dornáin took the other. He would keep to the woods, able to jump in for support if needed. Unfortunately, to get into position, he would have to carefully travel around the rest of the camp and bypass a guard, while Niamh and Clía needed only to sneak behind the nearest guard.
Clía held her breath as they crept past. His pale skin glowed against the dark of night. They advanced in utter silence, every movement tested. Each place they touched their feet was first checked for any potential source of noise. They delicately lifted branches out of the way, ducking under when they could, and placed them back with the gentleness of a new mother. Clía let loose a breath only once they were out of range of the warrior.
Across the way, Dornáin’s guard hadn’t moved. She remained still against the forest, which meant she hadn’t heard or spotted him yet. But Clía couldn’t see him either. All they could do was hope he was in position.
She and Niamh closed the distance between themselves and the prisoners, remaining hidden in the foliage.
As they drew closer, she could see that Ronan and Ó Dálaigh were awake. Ronan’s eyes were open—swollen and bruised, but open. And calculating.
Dark welts bloomed on his face. Blood crusted on his temple, his nose sat at a slightly crooked angle, and there was an ugly gash on his thigh. Anger coursed through her. Ó Dálaigh looked even worse. Bruises covered his skin, rusty, dried blood clung to his forehead, and from the way his sword arm hung, she wouldn’t be surprised if it were broken.
Ronan wouldn’t have gone down easy, and from what she knew of MacCraith and Ó Dálaigh, they were strong fighters.
MacCraith’s limp form was blocked by the others. She could only hope he was awake and not worse off than the other two. Getting them all out of the camp would be harder than they expected. Much harder.
She eyed the warriors guarding the hostages. Their shoulders were sagging with exhaustion, their eyelids drooping. They had most likely been standing there for hours. The warrior in the middle, a short and stocky man with more beard than face, was swaying on his feet. Replacements would be on their way soon—no commander would leave these men at post for much longer. Which meant they had limited time to act.
Adrenaline and anger fueled her. It washed away all thoughts of weariness. Her little sleep and lack of food. All she saw was their blades, the odd angle of Ó Dálaigh’s arm, and the blood on Ronan’s face.
She and Niamh exchanged a glance, trading words through silence.
They knew exactly what they had to do, and how to do it. It was time to see if it was possible.
From behind the guards, Clía left the safety of the forest. One hand stayed on the hilt of Camhaoir, prepared to draw it in a heartbeat, while her other hand carried a short dagger.
