“How are you here?” Gallchobhar left the silver arm in here with me, but I leave it on the ground; any small value it has is gone, now. I’m still dizzy and every muscle is stiff and painful, especially in my legs, as I try to rise. Gallchobhar’s hospitality has taken its toll. “Where are the others?”
“The Caer. They wanted to come but you know how they are at sneaking around.” She speaks in a brusque whisper, snatching a waterskin from her belt and forcing a few drops down my throat. She doesn’t want to speak, but she can see I’m not ready to move yet.
“How many warriors do we have?”
“Not enough.” Analytical rather than desperate. “Fiachra attacked many of the outer villages in preparation for this siege. Wiped out several warbands we would have called upon. And food stores in the Caer won’t last a week.”
Bad news. Catastrophic, actually, despite the way she says it so matter-offactly. “What’s the plan?”
“We attack. Probably not long after dawn.” She meets my gaze. Unsmiling. “Thought you might like to join us.”
I push myself to my feet. Sway. Pull my cloak so that, as far as is possible, it conceals the space where my arm should be. “I would be delighted.”
We step over the guards’ corpses and leave the tent. The camp is still well-lit, fires everywhere, but they are dimmer, many of the men resting in these early hours. Most warriors still awake are arrayed closer to the Caer, watchful of its walls. There seem few barriers to our exit, but it will have to be in the wrong direction if we aim to rejoin our friends.
We walk at a steady pace, hoods up and faces shadowed, not uncommon given the icy night air. I do all I can to conceal my limp, the stiffness with which I move. We stride confidently until we can see the edge of the camp.
“Leathfhear?”
My heart drops at Gallchobhar’s amused voice from behind us. We don’t stop, pretend not to have heard, but after a second, armed men appear in our way. I glance at Tara, who grips her spear and slows. I do the same.
“Leathf hear! Itisyou. It seems I have underestimated your importance yet again.” Gallchobhar’s chiding is something dark as I draw down my hood. “And who is your saviour?” He motions at Tara to reveal herself.
She shakes her head, spins her spear. “I challenge you, Gallchobhar ap Drin. Let the winner take him.”
“Tara ap Rónán?” Gallchobhar is gleeful as he recognises the voice, realises who it is. He laughs, a boisterous roar. “Why would I accept—”
It happens as fast as blinking. Tara is moving. Her spear licking out. The warrior nearest to us drops, clutching his throat, gurgling as his life blood spills onto the dirt.
Gallchobhar’s laughter dies, and he bares his teeth into something more sinister as he waves back the other men stepping forward to attack.
“Show me your face, Tara. It has been solong.”
Tara shrugs and pulls back her hood. Her blue eyes are fierce. The scar on her face looks angry in the torchlight.
He inspects her. “Ugly as the day you left, I see.”
She smiles back at him. “And you, as stupid. Though I could have guessed that much.”
Gallchobhar’s sneer increases, evidently annoyed that Tara doesn’t appear to be intimidated by him. “Not stupid enough to fight you, when you are already my prisoner.”
“Spoken like a man with no honour. Spoken like a man who is afraid he will lose.”
Gallchobhar continues to study her. He is annoyed, but I don’t think she’s actually goaded him; he may be vile but he is not, despite Tara’s assertion, a fool. That doesn’t mean he’s not considering it, though. He is clearly confident in his superiority. And he knows that even with Ruarc and Fiachra’s apparent disdain of the Old Ways, he will look weak if he refuses.
“Very well,” he eventually says simply. “But we will fight with an audience.” He smiles slowly. “I would hate for your father to miss out on this proud moment.”
Tara and I both realise what he means as we’re marched toward the Caer’s wall. I grimace, and can see a similar expression on my friend’s face. I lean over, lowering my voice to a murmur. “If you would prefer me to embarrass him in front of everyone, I am more than happy to take your place.”
She grins, even as the warriors forcing us along jerk us apart, afraid we’re conspiring. Continues to smile as she meets my gaze and shakes her head.
Gallchobhar, striding slightly ahead of us, raises his arms as he reaches the well-lit point leading to the main gate where he will easily be heard by those defending, but remain out of range of their projectiles. “King Rónán!” he bellows to the walls. No way of knowing whether the king is actually present—likely not, given the hour—but no doubt someone will soon be fetching him. “It seems that as you are not capable of fighting yourself, you have sent your offspring to do it!” He laughs, a sneering, mocking sound that echoes over the silent battlefield, then turns to Tara. “Before we begin. Tell them!”
He says the last loud enough for those on the walls to hear too. Tara steps forward. Expression betraying no sign of fear.
“I have challenged Gallchobhar ap Drin. If I am victorious, Deaglán and I will leave unharmed.” She does not have to say what will happen if she loses.
“So the terms will be honoured!” shouts Gallchobhar gleefully. Somehow managing to mock the traditional form, even as he commits to the deal. I breathe out, the faintest hope sparking. There’s no way Gallchobhar could know just how good Tara is. And though I would not trust Gallchobhar himself to let us go, I do think Fiachra’s men will honour the deal if she wins. I think.
