Page 61 of An Unlikely Knight

Chapter Twenty

As the keep loomed in the distance, an unsettling sensation slammed into Padraig, his chest constricting. It wasn’t fear. It was certainty. His body and mind knew this was to be the last time he would stand inside the ancient walls. Either he would leave and return to the other realm … or he would take his final breath here, among the ruins of the home that had defined him for centuries.

The others must have felt it, too. No words were spoken as they dismounted the aurochs, the massive beasts stamping their hooves against the dry, cracked earth. They stood in a silent line, shoulders squared, gazes locked on the once-mighty fortress that had sheltered the knights through times of despondency, fear, injuries, healing, and time itself.

Liam and Tristan took the aurochs toward the remnants of the stables at the far side of the keep. The creatures, despite their formidable size, were docile, their deep, wary snorts breaking the brittle silence.

Padraig couldn’t blame them for their unease. This place was nothing like their native plush Esland. Here the land was a barren husk, swallowed by extremes, searing heat by day, frigid cold by night.

The front door of the keep hung open, swinging slightly on rusted hinges. It wasn’t surprising. They had fled in the heat of battle, leaving the stronghold vulnerable.

Beyond the threshold, devastation awaited. The front room, once grand and welcoming, was obliterated. Splintered wood and piles of ash covered the floor, the remains furniture reduced to charred ruins. Animal tracks crisscrossed the soot-covered stone floors, evidence of creatures that had sought warmth here in their absence.

Swords in hand, the men inspected every inch of the keep. Only after every corner was deemed safe did they relax.

“We should barricade ourselves inside for the night,” Tristan said, returning from the stables hauling a massive wooden plank from outside.

Gavin moved toward the hearth, uncovering a broken-handled broom and brushing away layers of cold ash. “I’ll get a fire going. It should help drive out some of the chill.”

Rushing upstairs, Padriag found several blankets that had survived the destruction and carried them down to place on the floor in front of the hearth.

They moved through the motions, each man taking on his task without need for discussion.

Tasks completed, the five sat around the growing fire in quiet concentration, fashioning crude spears from broken beams, whittling the ends to deadly points and hardening them in the flames.

Padraig finished one and tossed it onto an ever-growing pile. “Liam, any idea when Meliot will attack?”

“Not yet.” Liam frowned, running a hand over the rough grain of a newly carved spear. The Brit shook his head and tossed another weapon to the pile of spears before disappearing into the darkness of the upper levels, needing silence to surround him when he summoned visions.

Niall finished sharpening a spear and turned his attention to the kettle, lifting it from the fire’s iron hook. “I’ll boil water. We should have something warm before taking shifts sleeping.”

Years ago, when they had still harbored hope of reclaiming their lives, they had fashioned a hand-pumped well in the back room of the keep. It had been their lifeline, allowing them to gather water even when it was too dangerous to venture outside. Now, it was one of the last remnants of their preparations.

Padraig searched the kitchen shelves, fingers brushing over dust and emptiness. There was nothing, no food, no provisions. Only a few brittle sticks used for making tea. He crushed a few between his fingers, inhaling the sharp blend that reminded him of cinnamon.

By the time Liam returned, each man sat with a cup cradled between his hands. Niall silently poured another cup and held it out.

Liam took it, but his expression was grim. “They come. They will arrive at dawn.”

The men exchanged looks, but there was nothing that needed to be said.

“There is something else,” Liam added, his fingers tightening around the warm metal of the cup. “Something unexpected will come. I tried to see, but something is blocking me.”

No one spoke for a long moment.

Then Tristan exhaled, his broad shoulders easing as he glanced around the ruined hall. His gaze softened, though his voice was strong when he finally spoke.

“In a way, I’m glad this is ending—no matter the outcome.” His eyes moved from face to face, lingering on each of them. “We have fought, endured, and survived for longer than any man should. And now, as we stand on the edge of fate, I can say with pride; I could not have chosen better men to stand beside me.”

Padraig’s throat tightened. Something in his chest clenched hard and fast. He swallowed against it and nodded. “Together, we conquer.”

A roar of agreement filled the hall, their voices rising as one.

“Aye! Aye!”

They lifted their cups in unison, a final toast to battle, to brotherhood … to the end.

The men settled around the hearth to sleep. They would need as much rest as possible before facing whatever the next day brought.