Quick to take advantage of anyweakness, Bresal loomed over him with his axe raised for the killing blow?—
Reaper’s hands clamped onto the man’s head, and he twisted. A sickening crack echoed through the corridor, and Bresal’s body crumpled, his neck bent at an unnatural angle.
“You okay?” Reaper stood over the corpse. “How bad did he hurt you?”
“I’m fine.”
“We’re gonna be talking about your definition of fine.” He helped him to his feet, and once he was sure he was steady, he stepped back.
“Thanks.”
Reaper winked at him, then threw his head back and howled a sound that wasn’t human. It shook the whole of Rath Burncourt. The remaining warriors stumbled away from them, their faces pale. One dropped his spear, and another turned and ran.
Cian blinked at his Grá Croí.
What in the name of the gods?—?
A furious voice cut through the aftermath. “What are you?” Dian Cecht stood at the far end of the hallway, his staff crackling with dark energy. His eyes were fixed on Reaper, wide with something Cian had never seen before—fear.
Reaper’s lips peeled back from his teeth in a snarl. “Your worst fucking nightmare.”
The rath trembled as the first arrows struck the walls, their iron tips screaming like banshees. Cian grabbed Reaper’s arm and yanked him toward the side passage. “The servants use this passage to haul firewood into the hall.” The stench of charred meat and herbs hit them as they burst into the kitchens. A cook shrieked, knocking over a pot of stew when they bumped into her. The liquid hissed across the flames, sending up a cloud of greasy smoke.
Outside, the battle had begun in earnest. The Fianna’s war cries cut through the night, and were answered by the clamor of Tuatha Dé Danann steel. Arrows rained down, thudding into the thatch above them, some finding flesh with wet, meaty sounds. Cian’s heart ripped a little for the people he’d grown up with. The villagers he’d played with as a boy were now his enemies.
He stumbled around a trestle table, sending loaves of bread crashing to the floor, then vaulted over the wreckage toward the postern door that was hidden behind stacks of firewood in the kitchen garden.
“I wish to fuck I had my weapons.” Reaper stayed at his side. “They’re gonna pin us down.”
“Not if we move.” The hinges groaned as Cian shouldered the door open. Beyond it, the outer village sprawled in front of them. “He didn’t even bring them inside.” Rage at his father’s lack of caring for his people blasted through him. He needed to stop this before everything he had descended from was destroyed. These people had done nothing wrong.
Dian Cecht’s voice sliced through the chaos, amplified by magic, ringing in Cian’s skull like a blade dragged across bone. “You cannot outrun me, boy!”
Cian ignored him and grabbed Reaper’s wrist, pulling him into the cover of a grain vat whose thatched roof sagged with age. The arrows fell thicker around them, some embedding in the dirt at their feet, others finding home in the walls. A warrior stumbled past, an arrow jutting from his throat, his hands clawing at the shaft. He was dead before he could figure out how to scream.
“Where to?” Reaper’s eyes were constantly moving. “We’re sitting ducks here.”
“Then we don’t sit.” Cian scanned the village. The western path was closest, but the Tuatha Dé Danann had already fortified it, their golden shields locked in a wall. The eastern path was clearer, although it came with open ground, it was also less defended.
Riskier.
But faster.
Dian Cecht’s voice again, closer this time, the words dripping with dark amusement. “What are you?”
Reaper’s free hand pressed against the Grá Croí mark on his arm, and the bond between them flared under Cian’s skin.
Cian exhaled. “Now.”
Reaper raced out from cover, his body low, his steps silent despite his size. Cian followed, his blades ready. They wove between huts, ducking under washing lines, skirting the edge of the forge. The air smelled of blood and burning thatch. Somewhere, a woman screamed, and a child wailed.
The Fianna are inside the walls.
A spear hurtled from the darkness. Reaper twisted, the tip grazing his shoulder. He didn’t slow. His knife flashed, and the warrior who’d thrown it gagged, clutching his slit throat.
Cian’s teeth gritted. “Left. Now.” He grabbed Reaper’s arm and hauled him through the wards that surrounded the village into the trees beyond. The magic of the Tuatha Dé Danann’s wards hit them like a wall of resistance. Cian gritted his teeth and pushed, pouring every ounce of his will into the bond between them. The magic of his past burned through him, but the wards shattered, and they broke through.
Ahead of them, the Fianna’s campfires glowed through the trees in the distance. Behind them, Burncourt burned under the wrath of Fionn and his warriors.
