Camhaoir fell to her side, hitting the ground with a soft thud. With it, the rush of battle faded, leaving a cold, bitter reality in its wake.
Ó Dálaigh’s eyes were closed, and his chest rattled with his raspy attempts to draw breath. The dim moonlight hid the horrors of the injury. Blood pooled around him, staining the dirt. He didn’t have long. Despite what she knew in her mind and soul, she tried to save him. The blood was warm between her fingers as she applied pressure to his chest.
“Stay with me,” she muttered, ignoring the tears trailing through the dirt and blood on her cheeks.
Ó Dálaigh didn’t respond.
There were no sounds coming from him. No whispering breath. No relentless pounding of his heart.
He was quiet.
She stayed quiet with him. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, and she reached to wipe it away.
He didn’t deserve this indignity. To die on the hard winter ground in some unknown forest. He’d had only a small blade, and so many injuries, but he fought anyway. And that was his mistake. Maybe if he had run, he would have made it.
But he hadn’t. And now he was dead at her feet.
Ronan’s hand landed on her shoulder. “Come on, we need toget out of here.” His voice was barely a whisper, but surrounded by the dead, it traveled down her spine like a shout.
All the awoken Tinelannians in the clearing were killed, and while there were probably only a few remaining in the tents, it was too dangerous for them to linger. They were weakened with injury and exhaustion, and they had already lost someone.
Despite those facts, when Ronan grabbed her arm, she still couldn’t move.
“Clía, we need to leave. Now. There’s something you need to—”
“I’m afraid you won’t be leaving just yet,” a familiar voice said.
She whipped around, unable to believe her ears.
Ó Connor stood between them and the woods. Another warrior armed with an axe stood at his side. “Take care of that one.” He nodded to Niamh. “I’ll handle these two.”
He pulled his sword out from under his cloak.
“Ó Connor?” Her voice was as frail as she suddenly felt. “What’s... What are you doing?”
Ronan pulled her behind him as they both stumbled to their feet. His sword was ready when Ó Connor struck.
Clía felt like she was in dream, her mind struggling to make sense of what was happening. There had to be some explanation. Some reason. He wouldn’t betray Álainndore like this. He wouldn’t betrayher.
She was frozen, watching the two most important people in her life face off against each other. Each clash of their blades was another crack in her heart. She grabbed Camhaoir, but she didn’t know what she planned to do with it.
Until Ronan shouted. One of Ó Connor’s blows made contact, the blade piercing Ronan’s thigh, right above his other wound.He didn’t fall, only stumbled back to regain his footing. And when Ó Connor went to strike again, Clía was there.
Her sword met his, and she felt that strength surge through her. Her training came back.Wear him down. Wait for an opening.
“You’ve learned well,” he said, something akin to pride in his voice.
She kept fighting.
“We don’t have to do this.” He spoke as if this were another game of fidchell. As if Ronan wasn’t bleeding behind her. “I don’t want to hurt you. You weren’t supposed to be a part of this. Let me finish what I must, and you’ll live, Clía. I promise you that.”
“And be a traitor to my kingdom? Watch my friendsdie?” she spat. “I’d rather you kill me.”
He laughed. “Stubborn as always.”
When she blocked him next, she couldn’t stop the word from passing her lips. “Why?”
Why are you doing this? What are they offering you? What could be worth this pain?
