* * * *
Rónán wiped the blood from a cut above his brow, struggled to see through the smear of red and hurl of snow as two of the Earl of Ardgar’s knights climbed down to the jut of rock he’d retreated to moments before. The stone, flattened on the top, provided him with stable footing; the width, enough to hold five men at most, limitedhis movements.
Arms trembling with exhaustion, he again swung his sword, took out the nearest man, waited for the second to move close enough to attack, dispensed with him as well.
The pounding surf far below seemed to taunt him, the rhythmic slam as each wave pummeled the base of the cliff as if chanting that his plan would fail.
Nay.
After he’d left the remainder of the guard, for the past two days he’d led Lord Ardgar’s men on a merry chase. He’d used the cliffs and dense woods as a foil, several times having set up false points of resistance, diversions that would fool the guards into believing he was accompanied by several men and had given him a chance to move to a new location to position more decoys.
This afternoon, confident by now Lord Sionn, Lathir, Craigshyre, and any remaining knights in company would be close, if not have reached Wynshire Castle, he’d planned to slip deep into the forest, then head back. Except Feradach had split his troops and sent a significant portion of his force ahead, who’d doubled back and sealed off his avenue of escape.
Like a harbinger of death, the afternoon sun illuminated the enemy lining the cliff above. The formation shifted, and a tall, stocky figure stepped into view.
His sword smeared with the enemy’s blood trembled in Rónán’s hand. Years may have passed, but never would he forget Feradach O’Dowd.
Memories of his childhood, of the brutality endured surged through him. Somewhere over the years, the miscreant had slithered his way into becoming a knight, then a master-at-arms for Lord Ardgar. A blemish upon the brave men who rightfully earned the honor.
Outrage flushed the warrior’s face as he glared at his men. “’Tis naught but one man. Where are the others!”
He hadn’t recognized him? Rónán scoffed. Why would he? When he’d fled many years ago, he was a lad. “Go to Hades!”he shouted up.
An evil glint flickered in Feradach’s eyes. “You will regret daring to abduct Lord Sionn!”
“Abduct?” he yelled. As if he should be surprised the scoundrel would dare lie. “You mean rescue the man from your attack on theAodh!”
The formidable warrior’s face darkened. “Who are you that you dare speak to me so?”
He angled his jaw. “Rónán O’Connor.”
Confusion, then surprise widened his eyes, then a satisfied grimace curved his mouth. “I see that you havena learned your place since you ran away like a coward many years ago. A lesson I will ensure you receive now.” Face smug, he turned to his men. “Everyone, stay back; he is mine!” He began to climbdown the steps.
Rónán was tempted to engage the warrior, like the others, before they reached the flat stone. But the child who had suffered beneath the cur’s hand, who had lived in fear, the lad who’d almost tasted death beneath his brutality, demanded vengeance.
Blade readied, he stepped back, waited until the formidable knight reached the flat rockwhere he stood.
Weapon drawn, Sir Feradach turned, his lip curling into a sneer. “You think you are man enough totake me, lad?”
“Lad?” Rónán circled him; the knight shadowed his moves. “You have never been a man, but a tyrant who intimidates the weak for your own twisted pleasure.”
Red infused his face, and the veins in his face popped out. He charged.
Metal scraped as their blades locked. Icy, snow-filled wind slapped Rónán’s face, but he focused on the man he despised with his every breath. “I think,” he said with deadly calm, “’twill be you meeting his maker.” He pushed.
Surprise widened Sir Feradach’s eyes as he stumbled back. The warrior steadied himself,then attacked.
The cacophony of angry steel screamed over and again, the roar of the sea and howl of wind an ominous setting.
His enemy swung.
The razor-sharp blade slid across Rónán’s arm, caving a fresh gash atop one received two days before. At the next blow, he ducked. Though he may never have Lathir, if naught else, the bastardwouldn’t win.
With his body trembling from exhaustion, aware he had but one chance, and hoping to draw Feradach closer, Rónán sagged, as if barely able to stand, a stance too close to the truth.
Twisted glee on his face, his nemesis raised his sword to deliverthe fatal blow.
“Charge!” a deep, vaguely familiar voice boomed.
