“Gag him!” Dian Cecht roared, and a spell slapped Cian around the face and mouth so hard, he almost swallowed his tongue. “Throw him in the hole until he comes to his senses.”
Cian opened his eyes, his gaze locking onto his father’s. The older man’s face was a mask of fury.
You want to break my Grá Croí bond?
I’ll break every bond I have with you and the Tuatha Dé Danann first.
Dian Cecht’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, his knuckles white, his body trembling with barely contained rage. “You’re a fool,” he spat, the words dripping with venom, “and you make me appear as one too.” His father turned to his brothers. “Put him in the hole. Some days without food, water, or light will make him more agreeable.”
Not likely, old man.
He and Failinis were in complete agreement. The only thing that would make them more agreeable was their Grá Croí.
7
Burncourt was aptly namedin Reaper’s opinion. “I’ll burn his fucking court to the ground.” His words were whipped away by the wind and swallowed by the thunderous hoofbeats of the war party as they made their approach to the Rath.
The Wolf Walker inside him, if Trace was to be believed, howled and frothed at the mouth for vengeance. The SEAL who’d spent so many years in covert operations cringed at the direct approach Fionn and his warriors had to warfare.
He guided his steed through the army of fifty Fianna warriors with Fionn at its helm. Reaper’s teammates surrounded him, all united in a singular purpose… get Cian back alive.
The twilight of Tír na nÓg shimmered around them as they arrived at their destination in front of a circular ditch with a wooden palisade on top. Fionn’s horse reared as he pulled it to a stop. The High King of the Fianna pulled his sword from his scabbard and bellowed, “Rath Burncourt, I am Fionn Mac Cumhaill. Open your gates or face the wrath of the Fianna.”
“Fionn Mac Cumhaill is dead,” one of the guards called back. “Away from here with ye now. We’ll not be having the likes of ye in our village.”
“Fetch me Dian Cecht, now,” Fionn roared in return. “And bring my Hound to me, the one known as Cian of the Stag Clan.”
The guards stationed atop the ramparts hurled what sounded like insults in response, but they also called for Dian Cecht and his sons.
The tension was palpable, and Reaper’s heart pounded as they waited outside the massive wooden gate.
“Dian Cecht!” Fionn’s voice broke the hush, powerful enough to stir any spirits who may have been lurking among the trees. “Face us,” The High King demanded. “Are you so cowardly that you will allow your people to die by my hand?”
Reaper fixed his gaze upward, where movement rippled across the walkway atop the wall. A figure emerged, but his presence was shadowed by the timber structures. Even from fifteen feet below on the back of a borrowed horse, Dian Cecht’s aura was undeniable, regal yet somehow foreboding.
“You have no right to my son.” Dian Cecht’s voice was sharp as a knife, and cut through the air, splintering the facade of peace Burncourt usually held. “The Tuatha Dé Danann wants no war with the Fianna.”
Then you shouldn’t have kidnapped my man.
Um what?
Reaper clenched his jaw, his grip on the reins squeezing tight. Silently, he commanded his steed closer to Fionn and the Fianna warriors flanking him.
“We will not leave without him,” Reaper’s rage-filled voice lashed out. “Release Cian, my Hound, now.”
Silence reigned for a long moment that stretched taut like a bow ready to snap. Then, Dian Cecht turned, his reply lost to the murmur of hushed words passed among his guards. They watched him, waiting to see how he would respond to the demands of the greatest warrior time, myth or legend had ever forged… Fionn.
The Fianna warriors shifted uneasily. Their horses snorted and sidestepped as the tension trickled from warrior to beast. Ice flowed through Reaper’s body, Cian’s desperate yearning seeping into his thoughts like liquid fire. The challenge was issued, and the outcome would be decided by the bastard who hovered above them all. Cian’s father.
Hurry up and wait sucks even in this place.
Behind him, the Fianna spread out in a loose but deliberate formation, their movements fluid and predatory. Their hands rested on the hilts of their swords. Each man’s fingers flexed in anticipation as they scanned the shadows. The tension rolling off them was a storm front of barely leashed violence. Reaper could sensetheir readiness, their fury, and their loyalty to Fionn and to each other.
He decided the Fianna were the Special Forces Operators of their time. They were the ones who went to war to save the innocent, protect the weak, and eliminate the enemies who would destroy the world they lived in.
At the top of the wall, Dian Cecht stood like a statue. His face was a mask of cold authority, his lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line, his eyes narrow slits as they locked onto Fionn. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to freeze, the only sound the ragged, uneven rasp of Reaper’s breath sawing in and out of his lungs. Then, like a crack splitting across a frozen lake, Dian Cecht’s composure fractured, just for a second, but it was enough. His skin paled abruptly, the color draining from his face as if the danger his people now faced slammed into him. “Fionn.” He said the name like a curse, but somehow his voice was also smooth and controlled. “You dare bring your dogs to my door?”
Fionn didn’t so much as twitch. When he spoke, his voice was the low, resonant rumble of distant thunder. “You forget yourself, leech.” His words dripped with disdain. “My Hound gave me his allegiance. That is a vow that cannot be broken. He belongs to the Fianna, and has for eight thousand years.” His gaze flicked to Reaper, then back to Dian Cecht, his expression unreadable, his eyes dark with something ancient and dangerous. “And you have stolen him from his Grá Croí.”
