The warriors didn’t notice as she crept toward the hostages. Ronan and Ó Dálaigh, on the other hand, were well aware. Their eyes widened as she approached. She put her finger over her lips, reminding them to keep quiet. There was a sense of relief at seeing resolve fill Ó Dálaigh’s eyes, in knowing he was lucid and able to help them in the escape.
As she knelt next to Ronan, she thought she saw fear cross his face for a moment—for her or for himself?—but it quickly disappeared. He held his tied arms out in front of him. She sent a quick look back at the guards, who were still focused on the perimeter. Oblivious.
Maybe Ronan really was blessed by Ríoghain—the god must have been looking out for them.
She sawed through the rope slowly, careful not to make too much noise. When she finished, she handed him the spare dagger she had strapped to her belt. He took it, freeing his legs before turning to MacCraith, who lay unconscious behind him.
Ronan will be able to wake him, she told herself.
Ó Dálaigh waited with a patience she could never understand as she made her way to him and released his bonds.
It was at that moment their luck died.
A snap came from the forest to the east, where Dornáin was supposed to be watching quietly.
All five warriors turned in unison at the noise. While she would be in their peripheral vision at worst, Clía ducked to the ground all the same, hoping to blend in beside Ó Dálaigh. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ronan still. The eastern perimeter guard made her way into the brush, shouting an alert in the darkness. Dornáin was found.
There was a scurrying of footsteps as the warrior made chase.
The disruption unsettled the three Tinelannians on guard duty. They turned back to their prisoners.
The scrape of metal being freed from its sheath filled the clearing. They had seen her.
The guards rushed over, but before they could strike, Niamh emerged like a vengeful goddess from the tree line behind her and joined the fray.
Leaping to her feet, Clía left her small knife on the ground beside Ó Dálaigh, so he could finish removing the rope from his hands and ankles. She felt the smooth hilt of Camhaoir, and a new rush of strength sung in her blood.
Niamh could handle two of the guards—Ronan was already on his way to give her aid, injuries forgotten. Ó Dálaigh rose from his spot on the ground to engage the third hostage guard, and Clía waited for the other perimeter warrior to join the fight. He was cocky, not even bothering to call for back up. He saw Clía and Niamh—the calvary come to save the Caisleán prisoners—and confidently strode forward. His grip on his weapon was weak, his shoulders slouched and stance pitiful.
Clía couldn’t wait to show him how deadly she could be.
He lunged for her. Clía brushed away his blade with a flick of her wrist. Power surged through her, and he stood no chance.
Her sword slid into the enemy warrior’s side far too easily, just as a loud shout came from Niamh and Ronan’s fight. Clía turned to see Niamh dash forward, stabbing her blade through a warrior’s throat and ending the cry, but the damage was done.
Two tent flaps opened, and three more warriors ran out toward them.
Clía pulled Camhaoir from the body of the perimeter guard and met them, with Ó Dálaigh following close behind. The third guard was dead on the ground behind him.
None of the three awoken warriors wore armor—no wasting time putting it on—but they were all armed. Ó Dálaigh quicklyengaged with a dark-haired woman, while Clía took on the two men.
She expected to struggle, but she parried every blow with ease. Their attacks didn’t push her back. She held her line. Strength vibrated under her skin, and the clearing seemed alight in the heat of battle. She never struggled to hold them off, despite never having fought two people at once.
As she raised her blade before her face to block a deceptive attack, she noticed the crystal on the hilt of Camhaoir was glowing. It bathed the space around her in a pale pink light, and her skin reflected it in the strangest way. Her veins seemed almost incandescent in its glow.
This isn’t the time to be distracted by jewels, Clía!
With a twist of her wrist, she disarmed the taller of the two soldiers and knocked him unconscious with the pommel of her sword. The second man charged forward, but he was tired. His lunges and swipes were slower, and she was able to slip through his guard. Her blade sunk into his side. She pulled it out quickly, letting him fall to the ground.
A relief-filled laugh bubbled in her chest, but it was smothered by a groan to her left.
Ó Dálaigh fell to the ground, dark blood gushing from a wound in his chest. His hand came to the opening as if to hold himself together. His opponent raised her blade once more, to finish him off, but Clía leaped in the way, sword first.
It wasn’t the best position to block—her elbow ached from the poor form. Yet she didn’t flinch as the warrior prepared to strike again. She stepped in, keeping her away from her comrade on the ground.
Clía attacked with fury, determined to give the enemy an injury matching Ó Dálaigh’s. Determined to see her fall. The Tinelannian didn’t last long. Clía was humming with strength and relished the smooth slice of her blade through the warrior’s neck. Another threat gone.
She turned back and knelt beside Commander Ó Dálaigh.
