Chapter 38

38

A s Gwendolyn neared the glade, the clang of steel against steel grew louder, and a rumble of voices cheered and jeered in equal measure.

She drew her Kingslayer, at once empowered by the blade in her hand, swinging it a time or two to remember its weight and balance. It had been too long since she'd practiced herself, and longer yet since she'd wielded her weapon in battle.

At the sight of her, the men all parted, eyes wide with apprehension. Whispers erupted in her wake, and though Gwendolyn felt some trepidation over challenging Caradoc, she swallowed it down.

She could not afford to second-guess herself.

Not now.

Her grandfather and Caradoc were circling one another, each waiting for an opening to attack. Neither seemed aware of her approach until one spectator shouted out a warning for them to stop and the sparring came to an abrupt halt as both men turned to face Gwendolyn, blinking in surprise.

"Dótturbarn?" said Baugh, clearly confused, his hefty brows colliding, and for a moment, he looked so like a young boy, blinking innocently—caught amid some childish play. But Baugh was the elder of the two, and despite that, with his greater size, he would present a challenge. She turned from him to face Caradoc, who was only a tad smaller, but quicker and far more battle-worn.

Neither man would present an easy victory.

Caradoc met her gaze unflinchingly, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Is our fair queen here to settle our score?"

A round of raucous laughter burst forth from those observing, but it was quickly replaced by a dumbfounded silence as they registered Gwendolyn's intent to fight him. A slow grin unfurled. "I am," she said.

Caradoc's dark eyes glinted with interest. "Will you foreswear your Elf and wed with me if I win?"

"No," said Gwendolyn evenly, without apology. "You would oblige me to cut off your pretty little cock, and then we would most certainly be at odds when I take away your favorite toy."

"Little?" he said.

Gwendolyn shrugged.

"But you think it pretty?"

"According to your own high praise!"

Caradoc barked with laughter.

"Fight me," she demanded, extending her sword and pointing it at Caradoc, all mirth vanished from her countenance. "Give no mercy, and I will offer none. Let us see which of us is the better swordsman."

"You are not a man," he pointed out.

"And so you believe this means I cannot win?"

"I did not say that."

Gwendolyn persisted. "Fight me now, Caradoc, or cease with the crowing."

Caradoc's grin widened as he took a step back, raising his weapon. "As you wish, my queen ," he said with a bow, and it was accompanied by the unmistakable glimmer of lust in his dark eyes—yet this was the last time he'd ever look at her that way, Gwendolyn vowed. She would not be some token queen, a leader of warriors only because she wore a golden crown or brandished a burning sword. With a bellow, she launched herself at Caradoc, their swords crashing.

The onlookers, now realizing this was a test of strength and skill, erupted into cheers, some shouting words of encouragement to Caradoc, while others stared, slack-jawed, at the scene unfolding before them. Gwendolyn did not take offense at their support of Caradoc. After all, she was a woman, and they expected him to win.

But he would not win.

She had a point to prove here, and she would make it clear.

Her grip on Kingslayer tightened as she prepared again to advance. Remembering everything Málik ever taught her, she held the sword ready, sidestepping Caradoc's fierce advances with grace.

He was bigger, but not faster.

Neither was he nearly as skilled.

Their swords clashed, sparks flying as the two danced a deadly gavotte.

Over and over, Gwendolyn matched Caradoc's attacks, parrying his thrusts, countering with her own. Her heart pounded in her breast, but she pushed on, refusing to yield. Eventually, Caradoc's breath came in ragged gasps as they moved together, but there was no faltering on his end. He was a formidable opponent, his strength and determination making him a worthy adversary.

The fight went on, each stroke ringing out like a bell in the clearing's stillness, the crowd watching with awe.

At one point, Caradoc lunged, and Gwendolyn sidestepped just in time, allowing him to stumble off balance. She spun to face him again, and he grinned at her as he righted himself, delighted by her tenacity. But it wasn't long before his advances came with grunts and groans. Still, he parried easily, with a hint of mischief in his eyes, though, as Gwendolyn continued to press him, his expression shifted to one of surprise and then to grudging respect. And still he fought with everything he had, whilst all their warriors gathered to watch.

The crowd grew larger, attracting others who had, at first grown bored with yet another clash between two prideful, old men.

But this was not that—this was their queen, the woman who claimed she should lead them, and, one by one, they gathered to see what she could do.

At one point, Gwendolyn noted even Baugh looked on with a mixture of shock and admiration. She felt the weight of all eyes upon her but didn't allow it to distract her, keeping her attention solely upon Caradoc, anticipating every swing and every thrust with an uncanny intuition, answering his attacks with swift retaliations of her own. When suddenly he thrust deeply, the sword's point sliding beneath her armpit, scarcely missing the flesh of her arm, she came close enough to grasp his hilt, then simply took the sword out of his hand. The look on his face was one of unbridled surprise—as though no one had ever taken his sword.

With a grin, Gwendolyn then pulled him close to press Kingslayer's sharp edge against his throat. "Yield!" she demanded, and she watched with steady eyes, victorious but not gloating, awaiting his surrender.

At last, Caradoc fell to his knees, breathless and beaten. "I yield!" he shouted. "I yield," he said again, voicing it loudly as sweat dripped from his forehead.

To his credit, he did not explain away her maneuver with excuses, and Gwendolyn would never confess it, but she felt giddier than a child with a tart.

"Care to try again?" she said with a wink, and Caradoc lifted both his brows, and for the first time perhaps ever, refrained from indulging his laddish ego by turning the jest into a lewd suggestion.

"I said, yield," he said, throwing his hands into the air, and the onlookers erupted into laughter and applause, with ovations echoing across the glade.

Gwendolyn removed her sword from his neck, stepped back, and smiled.

"Long live the Queen!" someone shouted, and soon others began to chant and Gwendolyn's heart beat against her ribs, triumph coursing through her veins.

She locked eyes with her grandfather, who gave her a nod, acknowledging her victory, and then her gaze searched for Málik only to discover him standing to one side, arms crossed in a manner that said he never once doubted her. His beautiful smile was one of praise, his lips curving wickedly in a dazzling display of sharp—very sharp—white teeth.