Chapter 41

41

T he Iceni village lay in ruins, buildings destroyed, wooden beams strewn about the landscape like splintered, broken bones. Smoke rose from the ashes, the air thick with the reek of death. At the stench, Gwendolyn was assaulted by a wave of nausea so powerful it nearly made her retch from the saddle.

Fresh bodies littered the streets—men, women, children, their once-vibrant lives reduced to twisted, grotesque forms, with eyes open, and staring vacantly at a bright, blue sky they could no longer see.

Children lay twisted—one with a black dog at his feet, its belly ripped open by the sharp edge of a blade.

Looking like the tired, bent-up old man he was, Emrys dismounted, his soft boots crunching over splintered shards. He stooped then, his trembling fingers lifting a small toy from the ashes—a sack baby, its wooden face charred beyond recognition. A symbol of innocence destroyed. He raised it higher to show Gwendolyn with tears glistening in his aged eyes—but of course, he had been sheltered all these years in his Druid village, and no matter the tales Gwendolyn had heard about his ilk, she had found these men to be gentle, erudite souls. Swallowing hard against the lump that rose in her throat, she felt a deluge of anguish welling within her, hot and raw, her heart crying out for justice—for retribution against the beast who had perpetrated this atrocity…

Locrinus.

She knew it for certain—knew it to the marrow of her bones, recognized his signature in the heartless slaughter of innocents. And, in this place of unholy desecration, amidst the remnants of life so violently extinguished, a new resolve coiled within her. "He will pay," she whispered.

Again, she thought about Habren, his boy, and in a moment of white-hot fury envisioned drowning that child in the river before Loc's own eyes, all traces of her humanity lost and for good reason.

They found no survivors, only more dead—more innocents whose lives had ended too soon. Loc's executioners spared nothing—no structure left intact, no home left unburnt. In the grey morning light, the wind howled mournfully through the desolation as though it, too, grieved for what was lost, and Gwendolyn dismounted, at last, with the taste of ash heavy in her mouth. She had not known these people beyond the emissaries they'd once sent to attend Trevena's dawnsio , but her heart wept for them just the same.

Had Locrinus attempted to conscript their warriors, and the Iceni refused?

She crouched down, lifting a scrap of a shattered pottery, a design she recognized from their trade fairs. Her finger trembled as she traced the intricate swirls. The people who had fired this clay, and decorated it with such care—were they, too, reduced to ash like their village? Or did some of them flee?

Her gaze drifted into the heart of their village—the mound atop which now stood the charred remnants of the Iceni's Konsel, distinguished by the justiciar's symbol, the sword and scales. The wind shifted, stirring up another wave of ash and smoke and the grit clung to her lashes, bringing a new sting of tears. In times of peace, that hall would have been a bustling center, filled with delegates negotiating trade deals, guildsmen settling disputes, or common folk seeking justice. Now, it was gone but for the echo of their screams—desperate ghosts to Gwendolyn's ears, and still she heard them, and promised to avenge them.

If she failed, there would be no one else who could.

Against Gwendolyn's wishes, her party abandoned the ruins, returning solemnly to camp. It was determined they could not risk a pyre, nor the time to bury Iceni's dead. And, in the end, she was forced to relent. If Locrinus' scouts were still in the area, it would not bode well. After the battle was done, if they emerged victorious, they would return to place those poor folks to rest.

Taking no chances, she ordered her troops to retreat into the nearby woods, to conceal their numbers within. And meanwhile, one last time, she gathered her Konsel by the forest's edge, with only a sliver of moon to lend its light.

By night, the spring air still held a bitter chill, but they dared not burn even a small campfire. They wrapped themselves in cloaks and skins, and those who had not lost their appetite, supped on cold victuals.

The mood was doleful as they drank from flagons—not for merriment but for courage, and to chase away a chill that had little to do with the weather.

Poor Emrys sat silently, his eyes vacant. Gwendolyn could not blame him; he had perhaps witnessed the barbarity of men for the first time in seven hundred years, and she noticed he was still clutching the charred toy in his gnarled, old hands as though it were a talisman to ward off evil.

It was Caradoc who spoke first. "We can but guess Locrinus had his fill of their attacks."

Gwendolyn drew Borlewen's blade from her boot, picking at the skin beneath her nail. "How can you be sure that was the case?"

"Because I know the Iceni," he said, his black eyes glistening against the moonlight. "They could scarcely tolerate my presence on these lands. The attacks were relentless. In the end, with Cantium, they had more than twice our numbers, and after a year of quietude, they caught us with our cocks in our hands."

"I can well imagine that of you," Esme quipped. "You can scarcely leave it be."

Caradoc narrowed his gaze at her. "I did not tell you to barge into my chambers," he said. "I will make no apologies for what you encountered—but perhaps art jealous?"

Gwendolyn lifted a brow, trying not to imagine what had transpired between those two in Trevena. Esme had no boundaries, and Caradoc was a hound for women.

Esme laughed without humor, casting Bryn a glance, then said nothing more, her sore attempt at humor falling far from its mark.

"Enough," said Gwendolyn quietly. It was no time for discord amongst themselves. "Caradoc, how many do you believe were lost?"

He shrugged. "Between the Iceni and Cantium, I cannot see that we could have gained more than a thousand men. But, whilst I did not see the destruction, it does not sound to me as though he slew them all."

"A thousand more is still a thousand fewer than Loc's ten," pointed out Taryn, and she huffed a sigh. "IF that's all he has, and he has not conscripted more."

Gwendolyn asked, "What news had you in Trevena of the Brigantes?"

"None," Taryn replied, shaking her head.

"If you ask me, those fickle bastards joined him long ago, and those who would not found themselves kissing a blade."

Remembering the ravaged village they'd encountered on their way north, Gwendolyn was forced to agree. She would never have believed that Westwalas alone could produce ten thousand warriors. And Durotriges was only a small province, and most of those he'd slain.

Alas, the prospect was grim. For all their bluster, they were still the weaker party and, so it seemed, at first light, they would descend upon Plowonida. They could hesitate no longer if the Iceni were gone. Delaying the battle would gain them little, and the best strategy they had was to attack while they still had the element of surprise—before they had the chance to finish bolstering their defenses.

"My warriors will hold their own," assured Málik.

Esme said nothing, but she nodded agreement, and Bryn, too, cast Gwendolyn a nodding glance, having already shared his thoughts with her. But, alas, he was mistaken. The Fae did not have the strength of a hundred men, and no matter, she did not intend to disappoint him—not tonight. He would fight with greater confidence and courage if he still believed in Esme's strength—not merely because he had grown to care for her, but also for what hope he'd placed in the Fae.

"The tide may yet turn in our favor," said Caradoc. "Those lands are mine. I know them well. We'll use this knowledge to our advantage. We can defeat him."

"Should we send a scout, but quietly, to see how their troops have fared through the winter, perhaps poke about to see if any might join us?" Gwendolyn suggested.

"And give the bastard fair warning?" asked Kelan. "Nay, My Queen. My father speaks true. We may have two thousand fewer, but we've much else to our favor."

A hush fell over the camp, and once again, the eerie sound of blades being sharpened could be heard rising against the silence.

"That bastard!" declared Esme suddenly. Shaking her head, she kicked away from the tree she'd been leaning upon, casting Gwendolyn a backward glance as she left. She didn't have to explain who she meant, because Gwendolyn felt the same.

Locrinus.

Gwendolyn gave her a nod as she left, flicking the soft pad of her thumb against the sharp edge of Borlewen's blade as she watched Esme walk away—realizing that, for all Esme's gruff demeanor, she had a truly soft heart.

Re-sheathing Borlewen's blade at her boot, she wrapped her arms about herself, feeling the chilly night air seeping into her bones. Some might say this was a fool's mission, that she was sending warriors to their death for the mere chance of a victory, but looking into their eyes—Taryn with that gaze that never wavered, Kelan with his stony resolve, and Caradoc with his well-earned wisdom—she saw no fear or regret, only a fierce desire for vengeance. "It's past time for our bed," she announced. "If we do not rest, we'll be dead men walking on the morrow."

She charged Taryn and Bryn to assign the watch for the night and then ordered the rest to their pallets—no tents. They need not bother. They would not remain here a moment longer than it would take to restore her men for battle.

Thereafter, finding a private spot to sit with her back against a tree, Gwendolyn wrapped Arachne's cloak about her shoulders and sat staring toward the decimated village—at the black plumes silhouetted against the moonlit sky. Even now, her nostrils were sticky with ash and the scent of smoke—and worse.

It reminded her only too well of that village they'd happened upon last fall—where then, too, nobody bothered to bury the dead and she herself had worked all day long to lay them to rest, only to leave that devastation with charred flesh beneath her fingernails—a sensation that harried her for weeks.

But at least the Iceni were not set to the torch. As it was in Chysauster, except for the children, they'd taken their final breaths with a weapon in hand, defending their families and homes…

A soft footfall alerted her to the presence behind her, but Gwendolyn knew it was Málik. He had this way about him—silent as death. But even if she had not recognized his furtive step, she would never mistake his scent.

"I couldn't sleep either," he whispered, settling himself beside her, putting his strong back against Gwendolyn's tree. He then grasped Gwendolyn by the hand, clasping it, his voice gentle. "You did not come so far to fail," he said, and though Gwendolyn's nod was forced, her hand squeezed his with unspoken gratitude. "Come what may, my heart is yours, even as I pledge my sword," he continued, and then he pulled her close, forcing her to face him, reaching up to trace soft lines along the length of her jawline… down the curve of her neck…

Gwendolyn shivered as she gazed at into his eyes… loving him fiercely… hoping against hope they would survive tomorrow's battle… and then love each other forever…

Their breaths, mingling as one, fell into a gentle rhythm—easy at first, then quickening with desire. With the specter of death peering over their shoulders, Gwendolyn had never felt more alive—or more determined to stay this way.

Her heart aching with love and longing, she traced every feature of his beautiful face with her eyes—the sharp, chiseled angles of his aquiline nose… the full, sensual curve of his lips… the alluring points of his ears… the dangerous glint of his fangs… and the shimmering silver of his soft hair under the waxing moon.

Gods. Every magnificent detail of him was a bittersweet torture, reminding Gwendolyn of the danger he posed to her heart… if she should live, and he should die. But if the worst should come to pass, the one regret she would not have was to let him go without telling him the truth. "I love you," she whispered.

It wasn't difficult to say.

And she meant it.

He leaned closer, smiling, lifting a finger into the air, giving it a swirl… summoning a mist. In seconds, they were shrouded. It was the first time in so long Gwendolyn had witnessed his hexerei and she gave him a crooked smile and a questioning look.

He whispered into her mouth. "They'll think it a patch of fog…"

Gwendolyn's lips lifted at the corners. "On a clear night?"

His wicked smile unfurled, revealing the gleaming white of his fangs, and he pulled Gwendolyn into his arms, pressing their bodies close.

Gwendolyn responded with a soft moan, entangling her fingers into his hair as his lips unerringly found hers, and she trembled beneath the onslaught of his lips, wanting more, and more, and more…

Without apology, she tugged him away from the tree, and in one swift movement, shoved him back onto the soft ground, following him down. They landed together in a tangle of limbs and cloth, but there was no time to squander. His hands found and climbed her thighs, fumbling with her leathers until his fingers found her laces. Tomorrow might bring blood and battle, death and despair, but tonight was for love.

Tonight was theirs.