So when Alannah caught the sound of a man’s voice in the inn as she walked up the drive, concern swirled up her spine. When the voice escalated to a shout, Alannah took off at a run. She closed the distance from the muddy road to the front door in record time, more than ready to draw the short sword she carried for just such purposes.
Before she opened the door, Alannah heard the man shout again and her heartbeat took off like a racing horse.
It was Oran. Emer was in there with Oran.
Alone.
Chapter Three
The last timeConan laid eyes on Ath Luain, he’d been a lad of seven summers, journeying south to foster with Brian alongside his older brother. As they approached the ford on the River Sionainn, the town looked larger than he’d remembered, though there was no great keep to cast shadows upon it like Caiseal or Cenn Cora. New buildings flooded the town like the river in spring, spilling across both shorelines and dragging freshly-dug roads along with them. The causeway came into sight as they crested the final hill on the path to the ford.
Apparently, Teague hadn’t lied about the bridge.
But that didn’t mean he wasn’t a liar.
Dallan let out a low whistle. “That’s one heck of a bridge. It’s going to be a beast to light.”
He wasn’t wrong, either. Large enough to accommodate a cart and built of thick wooden timbers and planks, it stretched easily over half a mile to the western shore. They would need a suspiciously large quantity of oil and tinder to ignite it.
Illadan shot Dallan a look of warning. “Can you not hold your tongue in public?”
“I’d hardly call this ‘public.’” Dallan gestured with both arms to the verdant fields and woodlands that blanketed the land as far as they could see.
“He’s right. There’s no one for miles,” Conan jumped in, defending his friend. Not that Illadan wasn’t his friend also, but he was much closer to Dallan and Finn.
Illadan frowned, but didn’t argue. He spent more time with Cormac and Broccan, both of whom had traveled with Brian to deal with the other kings.
“And it looks like your brother was right,” Ardál pointed out. He’d ridden much of the journey in his customary silence, scouting ahead and keeping to himself. Ardál’s dark locks fell tamer than most of the other Fianna, in juxtaposition to his preference for the uninhabited wilds of the countryside.
“Maybe,” Conan grumbled, his good mood gone. The last thing he wanted to think about was his villain of a brother. At least he had two good ones to compensate him for. “But just because the bridge is here, doesn’t mean you should trust him.”
“It won’t be here for long,” Dallan grinned, his eyes glittering with mischief.
Illadan pinched the bridge of his nose, reminding Conan of a parent surrounded by misbehaving children—which wasn’t terribly far from the truth of their relationship with the Fianna’s leaders. Most of the warriors had a knack for trouble, especially where women were concerned. “We stick to the plan,” he ground out.
The plan, of course, being to pose as a band of traveling bards, as all of them were trained in poetry and Finn had trained as an actual bard before joining the Fianna. They would arrive a few days before Brian and his army, settle into an inn somewhere nearby, then scout the bridge and decide on the best plan of attack. They’d brought a supply of oil and tinder, but seeing the bridge looming large on the horizon, Conan doubted they carried enough.
The most important part of the plan was that they needed to remain undiscovered. Brian’s entire revenge ploy depended on himnotbeing culpable in the bridge’s destruction. As best they could manage, it needed to look like an accident.
Whilst hotly debating the best placement of the tinder, they reached the outskirts of Ath Luain and were forced to cease their plotting aloud. Flooded muddy streets, reminiscent of the bogs of Dyflin, made Conan glad of his horse. The buildings on the eastern shore of the Sionainn had multiplied in the years since he’d left for Mumhain. A veritable town had sprung where before there’d been just the smithy and the butcher.
One of the first buildings they passed was a large, rectangular wooden inn, built in the newer style that felt so different to the traditional roundhouse. A sign, carved into a wide plank and painted the yellow-green of birch leaves, showed a line drawing of a man lying down, clearly indicating the offer of respite. Beside it, stables stank of wet hay and horses.
“Let’s secure a room, then we can have a look around.” Illadan dismounted, moving in the direction of the inn.
Dallan and Finn followed him. Conan stayed outside with Ardál to guard the horses.
A handsome couple of middling years perched atop a merchant’s cart, pulled their mare to a halt beside the men.
The man leaned down, his voice pitched away from the building. “You lookin’ for a room?”
“Aye,” Conan replied, uncertain what the man was after.
“The Hart’s Rest is the only place to stay worth the coin.” He tilted his head toward the bridge at the far side of the smattering of buildings. “Cross the river. It’s at the far western edge of town. You can’t miss it. Tell the girls Nolan sent you and they’ll take care of you.”
“What of this place?”
The man frowned at the building behind Conan. “I’d not stay there.”
