Chapter 19 | Cillian

Chapter 19

Cillian

C illian threw open the door from the main hall. Moonlight covered the courtyard in a dim, hazy light, almost as though he’d walked right into a dream.

Or a nightmare.

He gritted his teeth as he made his way outside. Guilt and fear tore into his insides just as surely as any blade could. He never should have allowed her to come. He should have tied her up, thrown her over a horse, and sent her to Clann Abhaile —to safety! Now, because of his weakness for her, she was mere inches away from men who’d take her life without a second thought.

The wolf snarled in his mind, as angry as he was at their mate’s proximity to the danger. There was no doubt in his mind who waited outside the castle walls. It was a bold move, but not unthinkable. In fact, if they hadn’t taken those damned scout reports as truth, he might have anticipated such an attack.

He’d been too distracted. From the moment she’d convinced him to let her come with him, he’d been distracted. Hell, since the moment she’d walked into his tent with her proposal, he’d been distracted.

Distractions lead to death. The luchthonn were stronger than the average man, but they weren’t invincible. There were ways to kill them, and he’d just as soon not give Edwin’s men the chance to find them out.

The courtyard was alive with men rushing around like bees in a hive. Fergus’s captain, éogan, stood in the center, shouting orders as a tall boy helped him into his armor. Cillian jogged toward him. “The English?” he asked.

éogan scowled and nodded. “Bloody wraiths, sneaking up in the middle of the night. They must have taken another road—one our scouts weren’t watching. Don’t know how they could have known, but—” he paused, then shook his head. “No matter. They’re here, and if the number of torches is anything to judge by, we’ve got quite a scrap ahead. Where are your men? We’ll need all the help we can get.”

Just then, a single, echoing howl split the night. Cillian gave him a thin smile. “They’re ready. The madraí will join your guards behind the wall, but we luchthonn will go out ahead to meet our enemy. Let us see how brave they are then.”

Cillian tugged the wolf’s skin over his head, exhaling roughly as the change took over. In the blink of an eye, he surrendered to the wolf, embracing the shift to his other form. When it was over, he shook himself, stretching his limbs and testing the air. éogan stood several feet from where he’d been, staring in wide-eyed wonder.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” he whispered, crossing himself. “I’ll be thanking all the saints you’re on our side.”

Cillian huffed—the closest thing to a laugh he could manage as a wolf. All around him, the humans had stopped their preparations to stare. Some flinched away, clutching their weapons in front of them, but others inched closer, curiosity and amazement gleaming in their eyes.

Another howl pierced the silence. Cathall. This time, Cillian threw his head back and returned it with one of his own. The humans shouted in surprise, leaping away from him, but he paid them no mind. He took off toward the gate, loping past the men, who scrambled to get out of his way.

Ahead, an open field lit by a bright full moon. Cillian had never been superstitious, but it seemed the goddess of the wolves, the moon herself, was with them. How could it be anything but a good omen?

He raced through the field, his paws thudding against the hard ground. Within moments of leaving the castle walls behind, he felt them at his sides—his brothers. He knew their shapes, their scents, as well as he knew his own. Cathall slipped into place at his left, his golden fur shining in the moonlight.

They were halfway across the field before Cillian noticed the archers. A line of men armed with bows and arrows stretched across the tree line. Suddenly, a small fire pierced the darkness at one end of the line.

The arrows , he thought. They’ve lit the arrows .

One sharp bark scattered the wolves. Some rose from four legs to two, and even at a distance, Cillian could hear the fearful shouts up ahead. Adrenaline raced through his blood, pushing him faster and faster toward his prey.

The archers released their arrows, sending them up in a wide, fiery arc. Cillian howled, warning his pack of the incoming danger. He watched the arrows fall, leaping to one side and then another to avoid being struck. Behind him, a pained whine and a dull thud suggested that not all the wolves had been so lucky. He pushed aside the instinct to protect his pack with the knowledge that it would take more than an arrow to bring down a luchthonn. The burning arrow would sting like the devil, but unless it went through their head, they’d heal.

As he approached the line of English soldiers, time seemed to slow. It was as though there was nothing around him but the war drum of his pulse in his ears and the beat of his paws on the ground.

He saw his prey, and his wolf would have their blood.

The luchthonn fell on the first line of soldiers like a mighty wave against the shore. The men crumpled beneath them, easily overpowered by bodies twice their size. Shields splintered against sharp claws and powerful blows. Bones snapped between his teeth as he closed his jaws over one man’s sword arm. Blood flowed from their enemies’ wounds, the crimson liquid bright in the moonlight.

Snarls and screams filled the night. Swords glinted in the pale light before cutting into thick, furred bodies. One Englishman stabbed at Cillian with a spear, grazing his side before he could pivot away. He growled at the man, baring his blood-stained teeth. A sharp odor hit his nose—the man had pissed himself in fear. Cillian rose on two legs, threw back his head, and howled. His opponent tried to run, but Cillian was on him before he’d taken a single step. The man’s neck snapped beneath his teeth like a twig in a child’s hands. Cillian didn’t even wait for his body to hit the ground before moving on to the next soldier.

The battle was over almost as quickly as it began. The luchthonn stood in the remains of the battlefield, surrounded by the bodies of their adversaries. Cillian called the change, tugging the wolf’s skin off of his head to survey the damage. The red haze of battle still thrummed beneath his skin, and he scanned the area with a mounting feeling of dread.

Minutes passed as he walked the field, helping his brothers to their feet and trying to make sense of the niggling doubts in the back of his mind.

“Cillian? What troubles you?”

Cathall stood beside him, muscles tensed as though he too felt something was wrong.

Cillian shook his head. “It was too easy, wasn’t it?” He gestured at the bodies on the ground. “This was it? This was Edwin’s two hundred strong? Ain’t half of that here—where are the rest?”

Cathall glanced around as though the dead might hold the answer.

Cillian tilted his head toward the rest of the luchthonn. “Anyone hurt?”

Cathall paused, then shook his head. “Nothing serious, anyway. I can’t find—”

CLANG CLANG! CLANG CLANG!

In the distance, the bells rang again. A large company—much larger than the one they’d faced—surrounded the castle gate.

Cillian’s heart plummeted as icy dread slithered down his spine. It’d been a ruse. Somehow, their enemy had known. They’d known the luchthonn would lead the charge, and they’d sacrificed some of their men to distract from their actual target—the castle.

Cora.

He’d left her there without so much as a weapon to defend herself.

With a savage snarl, Cillian yanked his wolf’s skin over his head. He leapt forward, already on four paws by the time he hit the ground at a run. A howl went up behind him as the others followed, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything but getting to his mate in time.

And gods save anyone or anything that stood between them.