Brian’s party had come and gone, riding north as planned along with the other kings.
Which meant it was time.
The plan was simple. Conan and Ardál would keep watch while Dallan, Finn, and Illadan set the bridge afire. The trick would be getting it to burn fast and hot so that once folk noticed they couldn’t put it out in time to save it.
There was only one rule: don’t be seen. They all wore hooded cloaks, just in case.
“We need this to work,” Illadan reminded them as they huddled under the bridge in the early hours of the morning. The moon neared the horizon, but the sun wouldn’t appear for hours yet. Even folk who’d stayed out late or got up early would be sound asleep right now. “We don’t have many more supplies. If this goes wrong, we’ll be stuck here until we can procure more and try again.”
They all nodded their understanding. As pleasant as the hostelry was, none of them wanted to stay longer than needed. Finn’s wife was heavy with child. Illadan had left his new baby to come on this mission. Everyone had a reason to make sure this worked.
And Conan couldn’t take another agonizing day of pretending he wasn’t still interested in Alannah.
Conan took up the post on the western side, Ardál the eastern. He didn’t hear a sound as he gazed out into the sleeping streets of Ath Luain, and he didn’t dare a glance behind him. With his luck, the moment he turned his head, someone would stumble into sight.
The smell of burning oil filled his nostrils, a faint flicker of light cast dancing shadows at his feet.
The shadows grew longer. Heat billowed against his back.
But the men still hadn’t called out that they’d finished.
Conan shifted his weight, narrowing his eyes at a cluster of shadows along the side of a building at the edge of the nearest road. They were taking too long. He didn’t know how long it had been, but he knew it shouldn’t take so long to light wood afire. The shadows moved again, a cat emerging to stretch languidly.
Conan exhaled slowly. They needed to get out of here before they drew attention.
Lights appeared in town. Someone woke. Then all hell broke loose.
“Fire!” Shouts rose up, a symphony of panic, first from the western shore, then the eastern.
Conan whistled to the men, signaling they needed to leave, before ducking under the bridge. Four splashes told him they followed. They swam south to the ford, sheltered enough from sight between the embankments and the cover of night to sneak away unseen.
Soaking wet and freezing, the five Fianna warriors flopped like fish onto the shore once they were clear of Ath Luain.
“What happened?” Conan demanded.
“It wouldn’t light,” Dallan grumbled. “They coated it.”
“It lit,” Illadan corrected, entirely too composed. “It didn’t spread as it should. We’ll need to start fires every foot or so to burn through the coating.”
“We need twice as many materials as we had, and we used them all,” Finn sighed.
Conan shook his head. “We need a new plan.”
“We’ll circle around Ath Luain, dry off, and sneak into our room. Sleep if you can, but we still run at sunrise. Tomorrow afternoon we’ll come up with a new plan.”
They made it all the way to The Hart’s Rest before the rest of their plan fell apart. Dried and exhausted, Conan stepped around the corner.
And straight into Alannah.
Chapter Thirteen
Alannah hopped backin surprise, squinting to be certain it wasn’t Oran who’d come to take advantage of the chaos. When she realized it was Conan, her shoulders lightened in relief.
“Are you alright?” he asked, glancing around with concern. “We heard shouting.”
“There’s a fire,” she explained, scrambling to grab the nearest bucket and pointing toward the blaze that towered above Ath Luain.
Conan nodded, calling to the rest of the bards to get buckets.
