28 FIGHTFLEE

GRADUALLY, THE WORLD came back into focus.

Cailean was aware that he was leaning heavily upon Bree and was likely squashing her against the rough wall. However, his legs had gone weak in the aftermath of his climax. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could remain standing. And so, still breathing hard, he pushed himself off his wife, scooped her up, and carried her over to the waiting nest of furs.

Stretching out next to her, he propped himself up onto an elbow and gazed down at Bree.

She stared up at him, her face soft, her golden, cat-like eyes glowing.

Cailean’s throat tightened. He wasn’t used to the vulnerability she roused in him. He’d once dismissed his reaction to her as weakness, but not any longer. She told him things he didn’t want to hear, made him face things he’d rather turn away from. She gave him strength and soothed his bruised soul.

He’d suffer for this woman, and he’d do it willingly. He wasn’t a man who did anything in half-measures. Perhaps he’d always known this about himself, known that once the walls came down, he’d be done for.

None of that mattered now though. She’d spoken the truth. If he wanted to make things right with his sister, he couldn’t just slink away with his tail between his legs, defeated and despising himself.

Instead, he had to fight.

Bree’s cheeks glistened in the firelight. He lifted a hand, smoothing the tears away with his fingertips. But as the silence drew out between them, the ache in his throat became unbearable, as did the burn behind his eyes. And when Bree raised her own hand—which trembled slightly—and caressed his cheek, he realized that she wasn’t the only one overcome by this moment.

“The Hag’s teeth,” he muttered, his voice catching. “What’s wrong with me?”

Her sensual mouth curved into a smile that made his breathing catch in his chest. “Nothing,” she whispered.

A shriek ripped Bree from a deep, peaceful sleep.

Jolting upright, she lunged for one of her blades, only to realize that she was naked and her fighting knives and longsword were out of arm’s reach.

Likewise, the noise had yanked her husband awake.

Cailean rolled off her and grabbed his breeches, hauling them on.

“The Slew shouldn’t be out tonight,” she gasped, leaping out of the furs and hurriedly dressing. Lacing her vest over her woolen tunic with fumbling fingers, she glanced over at where Cailean was strapping on his knife vest.

“No.” Her husband’s face was grim, his blue eyes steely. “But something else is.”

Bree yanked on her boots, collecting her weapons as she followed Cailean to the door. “What time is it?”

“Early.”

They stepped out of their lodgings, into the yard between the two accommodation wings—and froze. The sky was ablaze, acrid smoke choking the air. Screams punctured the night. And then a bright, piercing sound drifted through the air.

Bree’s breathing caught, even as Cailean cursed.

They both knew that noise. It wasn’t the thunderous rumble of a Marav battle horn, but the commanding cry of a Sheehallion trumpet.

Bree’s blood started to roar in her ears.

Her people were besieging Cannich.

Whipping around, she faced Cailean. “We have to get out of this fort.”

Stubbornness settled over his features. “Not without my sister.”

Bree nodded, checking her panic. Aye, he was right. They couldn’t leave Enya and her sons to the mercy of the Shee. “Right,” she said, flicking her fingers by her sides to glamor herself. She then drew her longsword. “Let’s go find her then.”

Beyond the ale-hall, panicked locals packed Cannich’s twisting wynds, while off-duty warriors hurriedly buckled on their weapons and armor as they rushed by. Cailean caught one of them by the arm, pulling the woman up short. “Are they inside the walls?” he demanded.

“Not yet,” the warrior replied, her voice hoarse from the smoke. “Although, the Shee have ladders up against the gatehouse. They’re hurling buckets of flaming pitch over the walls. It won’t be long until they’re inside.” The woman’s armored chest heaved. “Watch yourselves … powries and trow are inside the fort.”

She wrenched herself out of his grip then and hurried on, pushing her way through the panicked throng that gathered nearby.

“Get inside,” Cailean bellowed, elbowing his way into the crowd. “Lock your doors and shutter your windows. Rouse your hearths, scatter salt, and gather what iron you can!”

They heeded him, scurrying away as he strode through their midst. The cottage his sister resided in was tucked into a wynd behind the fighting enclosure, not far from the entrance to the fort. When the Shee surged their way inside, Enya and her sons would be trapped.

Bree followed her husband. Above her, the smoke from the blazing dwellings the burning pitch had set alight cleared for a moment, and she saw that the sky had turned from black to a deep indigo. Night would soon give way to dawn.

The wynds grew thick with warriors now, all surging toward the gates and the ladders leading up onto the walls. A dull boom reverberated through the night then, followed by another.

Bree’s heart lurched. Shit . They were using a battering ram on the gates.

Reaching the cottage, Cailean hammered at the door with his fist. “Enya!” he shouted. “It’s me, Cailean!” He paused then, waiting for her to answer, yet she didn’t. “Gods-damn it, sister.” He slammed his fist against the door thrice more. “Let me in!”

No one answered. And eventually, with a snarled curse, he kicked the door in. Darkness yawned before him, indicating that no hearth burned within. Grabbing a burning torch off the wall outside, and drawing his dagger, he stepped indoors.

Bree entered at his heel. Halting in the living area, where they’d met Enya earlier in the day, she glanced around. The interior of the cottage was tidy, the dirt-packed floor swept clean. The curtain that divided the living and sleeping spaces had been tied back.

The cottage was empty.

“The Reaper’s turds,” Cailean ground out. “Where are they?”

“It looks as if your sister and nephews are no longer living here,” Bree replied, noting that the hearth had been neatly laid, yet not lit.

“Come to scavenge, have you?” A rough voice intruded. “At the first sign of trouble, the crows circle!”

Bree swiveled on her heel and came face-to-face with a stocky man with heavy features and thinning white hair. He bore a heavy iron poker, and she clenched her jaw as he waved it in her face.

“We aren’t looters,” she replied brusquely. “We’re looking for someone.”

“Enya and her sons,” Cailean cut in, bearing down on the man. “Where are they?”

The man’s heavy brow furrowed, even as the hands gripping the poker trembled slightly. Nevertheless, he held his ground. “The fight master’s wife and her lads left yesterday,” he growled.

Bree’s breath gusted out of her. “They’re no longer in Cannich?”

“No. They loaded mac Frang’s body onto a cart and departed around noon.”

Bree cast a look in Cailean’s direction, to see his gaze had shadowed. Aye, he’d be relieved Enya was safe. But unless he hunted his sister down, he’d never make things right with her.

And to do that, they needed to get out of this fort.

“Come on,” she said, edging around the poker-wielding man. “Time to go.”

Bree left the cottage first, and had just stepped out onto the wynd beyond, when a stone hurtled through the air, slamming into her side.

Cursing, she lurched sideways, drawing her knives as she righted herself. She twisted then to find three powries stalking her. Their red eyes glowed in the dim light, their blood-stained caps bobbing as they moved. Meaty fingers, tipped in blade-like nails, wrapped around the hilt of gleaming daggers.

More Sheehallion steel.

“Thieves,” Bree snarled. “Where did you get those knives?”

Something was very wrong. Powries never left the ruins they inhabited, and just like trows, didn’t carry Shee weapons but pikes fashioned from ash.

The powries didn’t reply. Instead, they rushed, howling, at her.

An instant later, Cailean was at Bree’s side, his broadsword glinting dully in the torchlight as he swung it toward the first of her attackers. Together they cut the three imps down. Flames bloomed brightly in the lane as each powrie fell, their fine weapons clattering to the ground.

A roar went up then, the sounds of rending iron and splintering wood filling the air.

Breathing hard, Bree whipped around, her gaze traveling down the wynd to where a crowd of leather-clad warriors surged. Smoke billowed, and then shouting rang through the air.

Cailean cursed. “They’re inside.”

She cut him a look, witnessing the hard expression that had settled over his face. “What now?” she asked as her heart thundered in her chest. “Fight or flee?”

Their gazes fused. “How big is the Raven Queen’s army?”

She swallowed. “Last time I saw it, it was a thousand strong … at least.”

“To get up here, they’ve already defeated an army of three hundred at the base of the rock,” he replied. “Cannich’s garrison is half that number. They can’t hold the fort on their own … not without the High King’s help.” A muscle feathered in his jaw. “Whatever we do, this fort is going to fall.” He stepped close then, his gaze never leaving hers. “I’m not throwing our lives away. We flee.”

Her heart kicked against her ribs. “But how?” She gestured toward the gates, where screaming had begun. “That’s the only way out.”

A thin smile curved her husband’s lips, his gaze glinting. “Aye … but I have an idea.”