Chapter 42

42

G wendolyn wasn't certain what woke her.

It wasn't a sound.

The world lay still beneath a blanket of night, with only a glimmer of stars peeking through a velvety night. The mist that had concealed was gone. Still, she didn't stir… only listening, blinking herself free from her veil of slumber.

Somehow, she had slept peacefully—a dreamless, restful sleep, despite yesterday's horrors—and she wondered if that, too, was a gift from Málik, ensuring that she would be ready to face this day.

It didn't hurt matters one bit that he had loved her so thoroughly, leaving her languid and sated, but she was still a little muddled from that as well.

A twig snapped in the distance, and she held her breath, though an eerie stillness persisted thereafter. Even the birds slept, and she lay still, until the silence grew deafening, as though the forest itself held its breath…

Beside her, Málik stirred, and only then did she feel it… a rumble of thunder… But nay, not thunder.

The ground shook.

No sooner had she realized what it was, Málik bolted upright, his blue eyes wide and alert, scanning their surroundings, quickly understanding. Intuitively, his hand reached for the sword lying beside him, and for a moment, he barely moved or made a sound as his gaze met Gwendolyn's.

And now, footfalls—heavy and hurried—could be heard from the camp. The rustling of leaves, crunching beneath boots, grew louder as others felt it too, and understood.

"Riders," said Málik, his voice a low growl, roughened by sleep.

Judging by the reverberations, they were still miles away, but not that far. Gwendolyn nodded, then pounced into motion, gathering weapons, preparing as quickly as possible.

Blood and bones!

Clearly, she had not been careful enough—too complacent after months of travel with no sign of Locrinus or his troops.

How stupid, she told herself. How witless!

How could she not have expected the worst?

Caradoc had been so certain, but all it took was one scout to spy them.

The sound of hooves grew louder, and louder, until it became a ceaseless rumble. She gave Málik one last glance before they parted ways—Málik to lead his Fae, and she to find her men. A moment of silent understanding passed between them—full of love but uncertainty. And then she turned to go.

"Ambushed!" she shouted, as she ran through the camp to warn her sleeping troops, rousing all she could, with no time to spare.

In the distance, a legion of silhouettes emerged against a brightening sky—soldiers on horseback with an army afoot behind them.

"Prepare to fight!" Gwendolyn commanded, her voice laced with iron.

Sleeping forms pounced from their pallets, gathering weapons.

Archers readied their bows. Taryn hurried amongst them, inserting arrowheads into a pail of yew poison.

Cavalrymen mounted steeds, horses snorting, their breaths misting in the air.

"Ready for battle!" she shouted, her gaze never leaving the darkening horizon where the enemy approached like a creeping shadow. "To me!" she called out, her command slicing through the rising clamor. "To me!" And she ran toward Aisling, hurling herself into the saddle, checking her boot for Borlewen's blade.

"By the Ancients, they are legion," murmured a lad beside her, his eyes wide with the fright of his first battle.

"Fight for your life," she commanded him. "Today, we carve our fate with the edge of our blades!"

The first arrow whistled through the air, zipping past Gwendolyn and embedding itself into an oak at her back. Aisling reared, pawing the air with a wildness that matched her pounding heart. "Easy, girl," she soothed. "Easy!"

Málik and his Fae arrived, weaving through the camp. His silver gaze caught her, a spark of fury igniting the wintry blue of his eyes. He gave her a nod, a silent vow that carried through the morning air, more deafening than any war cry, and Gwendolyn returned it, lips thin and hard.

Beneath her, Aisling pranced restlessly, and she tightened her grip on the reins, leaning close to the mare's ear. "Fly, my sweet girl! Fly!"

And fly they did, charging straight to the head of her army, Gwendolyn's heart pounding in time with Aisling's hooves. All about her, the once peaceful camp became a maelstrom of motion and clatter. Men and women shouted commands, horses whinnied, the clank and clash of weaponry filled the air. But those sounds could not drown out the approaching chaos as her warriors fell behind her.

At the last moment, instead of Kingslayer, she chose Claímh Solais , feeling a rush of satisfaction as the sword lit with flames in her hand. Raising the ancient sword high above her head, she called out, "For freedom! For Pretania!"

None of them had expected this battle.

They were ill-prepared and outnumbered by the enemy.

"Aim true," said Málik, drawing up beside Gwendolyn as the enemy charged them with a deafening war cry. His eyes caught hers once more, beseeching. But instead of ‘I love you,' he said, "Remember all I taught you."

His words were laced with concern… and more. Love. Unrestrained and without apology. His gaze bore into hers. But with no time for words, Gwendolyn nodded before urging Aisling forward, the mare surging beneath her, muscles straining against the clash that awaited. "Hold the line," she shouted. "Archers, hold!"

Gwendolyn waited for the line of archers to form. Men scrambled into formation, Taryn still inoculating arrowheads even as they took their places.

The first wave of their arrows should even the odds. If the arrows themselves didn't do the job, the poison would ensure they'd not live to see the morning. And even if they were fortunate, and the poison did not kill them, it would make them feel horrible enough that they would wish they were dead, and lifting a weapon would prove impossible.

The suspense lay thick upon the field.

"Wait," she said, watching the army's approach. "Wait!"

Her gaze locked upon the lead rider now, a sense of vengeance settling like a white-hot stone in her belly. Locrinus.

With every bit of her soul, she hoped he himself would be spared the first round of missiles. Borlewen's blade burned at her boot.

"Wait," she said. "Wait!"

Once they were within range, her hand rose, signaling the archers. A shower of arrows took flight from behind her, whistling past her ears to blot out the brightening sky before raining down on the enemy line. The dull thud of their impact was lost amidst the cacophony. Screams echoed back along with the clattering of armored men and horses collapsing under the deadly rain. But Locrinus did not fall. His dark form, sword raised, with the crown of Cornwall atop his head, came charging still. A brief moment of satisfaction simmered through her veins before reality set back in.

This battle was far from done.

It was only just begun.

Digging her heels into Aisling's flanks, she lurched forward into a gallop, and with one hand clutching the reins, she once again lifted the flaming sword. "For Pretania!" she yelled again, leading her troops into battle. Her war cry was met with a resounding shout from those behind her, and every beat of their hooves drove them closer. Locrinus' forces surged forward, meeting Gwendolyn's army with a ferocity that matched her own. The clash was inevitable—a violent explosion of steel against steel, flesh against flesh. Gwendolyn was the first into the fray—sword waving high above her head with Málik by her side. The clamor echoed throughout the fields, and she lost sight of Locrinus almost at once. The spray of blood mixed with dust assaulted her nostrils as screams of battle rang through her ears. The battlefield was chaos—a symphony of clashing swords and thundering hooves. Swords shimmered against the early morning light as they smashed again and again, the sharp metal flashing and glinting, the ground a red tide churned by the pounding of hooves.

Gwendolyn's grip on the sword tightened, its power pulsating in response to her fury. A stiff wind whipped through her curls, a surge of energy coursing through her veins as she embraced her fate, the battle persisting, brutal and bloody.

The air grew thick with the stench of sweat and the coppery scent of blood.

As the sun climbed to its zenith, so grew the intensity of the conflict. Faced with their enemies' merciless onslaught, Gwendolyn and her warriors pushed back with ruthless determination, fighting for every inch lost and gained. Gwendolyn herself was a whirlwind of righteous fury, wielding her blade as though possessed. She met every strike with equal fervor, her every movement carrying the weight of her retribution. Enemies fell before her, but for every man she cut down, another seemed to take his place. The tide of Locrinus' forces was relentless.

By eventide, the pain in her body screamed for mercy, but vengeance steadied her hand even when the handle of her sword grew slick with sweat and blood. She parried and lunged, slashing her way through Locrinus' men. But there was so much blood on the field that Gwendolyn feared defeat.

But surrender was not an option—not for Gwendolyn, who'd sworn to defend this land and its people against Locrinus' tyranny and oppression.

And then… the momentum changed.

Out of the corner of one eye, Gwendolyn spied the newly arrived banners—Iceni! They came from the north, their numbers diminished but fearless.

Hope flared.

Spinning, she spied more banners to the south—Cantium warriors numbering in the hundreds. They spilled from the woodlands onto the battlefield and Gwendolyn could feel the tide of the battle change as, once again, the sky filled with the glint of steel as swords clashed and sparks flew.

But through it all, where was Locrinus? She had lost sight of him amid the fray.

With renewed purpose, she searched the field for her father's crown. His men were fighting for fear she knew in her gut. With his death, this battle would be done.

Swords came flying at her, but she burned through them.

And there he was…

With the myrtle crown.

There was no mistaking the desperation in his actions as he sought to extricate himself from the conflict he had created, his eyes darting about for an avenue of escape.

Until…

Gwendolyn knew the moment his eyes lit upon her, and he raised his sword, his resolve returned, his face a mask of villainy. A wave of hatred pummeled through her—as black as those plumes he'd left of the Iceni village.

She lifted her sword, and for a moment, he hesitated, drawing back on his reins, his gaze fixed upon her sword—its flames unmistakable even at this distance. But again, with a sneer of contempt, he charged her—arrogant to the end.

But of course, why would he fear her—despite the army she'd raised, despite the sword she held, despite the turn of this battle.

To his eyes, she was ?mete— worthy only to be stomped beneath his feet.

A woman —one discarded.

A child, no more— arise a queen!

Horses, with their coats lathered with sweat, galloped wildly with their riders, attempting to bar her way, but Gwendolyn fought her way toward Locrinus, her steel singing through the air, her blade at last meeting his with a clarion ring that spoke the promise of her retribution.

He matched her every move with a dark grace born of malice. "Yield," he taunted, his voice a serpent's hiss as their blades crossed again and again, sparks igniting at the impact. "Your magician's sword means nothing to me!"

But it should, Gwendolyn thought, and her lips curved viciously, determined to end him once and for all. But perhaps he did not believe his own eyes, or his Outlander-self could not comprehend the meaning of Claímh Solais .

Her grip on the Sword of Light tightened as she fought him, her fingers clasping the hilt as their blades clashed again and again.

His blade flashed dangerously close to her face, as he spat, "You will regret crossing me, ?mete. Now, yield!"

And there it was—if she doubted for a moment.

Cruel, ugly bastard!

"Never!" Gwendolyn swore, her words edged with spite.

With the flaming sword in hand—a promise from the Fae to the Sons of Míl that its bearer would lead this land—her arm surged with new strength, guiding her blade in a relentless arc that bore the weight of her wrath.

Again and again their blades collided, Locrinus undaunted by the flames she wielded, meeting her attacks with such force that both she and Locrinus tumbled from their mounts. Gwendolyn hit the ground, rolling in the bloody muck, rising to her feet covered in filth. Locrinus was the first to regain his footing, lunging towards her with a snarl. But Gwendolyn rose in time and parried his brutal swing with the strength and fury of someone who'd fought her way through hell and back—because she had.

She'd shed blood—mortal and Fae alike.

Suffered Locrinus' cruelty—the violation of her person, cruel taunts, his odious mother and mistress!

She had escaped his prison.

Nearly drowned to retake Trevena.

Escaped a gilded cage.

The ground beneath her feet was hallowed by the blood of the fallen, and she would not let their sacrifices be in vain. With each flaming pass of her sword, she called upon the wrath of the Ancients, every thrust a declaration that justice would be served…

For her father.

For her uncle.

Her cousins.

For her innocence.

For this land.

For Plowonida.

For Caradoc.

For Durotriges.

And every injustice Loc ever committed.

With a sudden burst of energy, she lunged forward, driving Locrinus back with a flurry of blows. Their swords clashed and met and met in a shower of sparks, every strike fueled by pent-up animosity. Gwendolyn spun and twisted, her movements fluid and precise as she fought against his relentless assault. The smell of sweat and blood mingled in the air—some of it hers. The taste of adrenaline grew sharp on her tongue as she pushed back against her foe—the man who'd dared to violate and shame her.

Who broke her heart!

Stole her hope!

He who came dressed in golden robes to deceive with a serpent's tongue. The man who'd accepted her torc as a promise of peace and tore this land apart with every heinous act he committed.

His men shoved a blade into her father's back as they'd supped at his table, and then dragged him through the streets, lopping off his head to decorate Loc's gate—her final "wedding gift."

Their dance of blades continued, a deadly gavotte that threatened to disarm them both, the clash of steel filling the air punctuated by grunts and curses as they strained against each other's skill and strength.

When finally, Locrinus staggered beneath the weight of her relentless assault, he stumbled backward onto his rump and Gwendolyn's gaze scanned the field…

Elsewhere on the battlefield, Málik faced a phalanx of adversaries. With movements honed by his years of training, he dispatched them.

Nearby, having opted for his bow instead of his sword, Bryn release arrow after arrow with unerring precision.

Esme and Taryn fought beside him, their assaults a mixture of blades and arrows, moving between the two so quickly that it was impossible to predict her movements—all this Gwendolyn witnessed in the fleeting moment that she turned her attention from Locrinus, and when she returned her gaze to him, she pressed forward, resolved.