Brenna hissed orders across the line. Deagan and Malachy had control of two flanks while Niamh badgered the archers into place. Odran loomed beside her, massive staff in hand. Blind and old though he may have been, he was the most seasoned warrior of them all - save Brenna herself.
“How many are there?” a man asked, panting heavily.
Brenna spun, brought up her sword. Eoghan stood in the moonlight before her. Ciaran had inherited his mother’s gifts, but he’d inherited his father’s face.
“At least thirty men per ship,” Brenna said.
Eoghan stared at the blue on her skin. “You.”
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