Chapter 43

43

G wendolyn's warriors beat Locrinus' back to give them room to fight—to end this battle once and for all. Both afoot now, both wielding swords. There was no mistaking the advantage Gwendolyn held.

Not even in Loc's ignorance could he fail to be cowed by the flaming steel, and his moment of hesitation was his undoing. His gaze locked with hers, but where his eyes were wide, flickering with the specter of defeat, hers burned with the unassailable light of retribution.

"Your reign ends with me!" she vowed, her voice slashing through the uproar, her pursuit relentless as she cut down one of Locrinus' lieutenants who surged forward to stop her, the gap between her and Locrinus narrowing with every heartbeat, her grip on the ancient hilt tightening, sword pulsing.

But as Aengus once saw fit to remind her, he who wields the Sword of Light will command unconquerable armies!

Locrinus dared to lunge at her, and Gwendolyn parried his first vicious thrust, sidestepping the swipe, and with a cry of vengeance, she lunged forward, her blade singing through the air, finding its mark—a decisive blow to his ribs that sent him staggering backward again, lighting his tunic aflame. Squealing with terror, he stumbled backwards, then collapsed, and the tumult of combat faded to a distant echo in Gwendolyn's ears. All she could hear now was the pounding of her own heartbeat at her temples. The air about them crackled with the intensity of her enmity, even as he slapped out the last of the flames on his tunic, and his head thumped back on the blood-spattered ground. At last, she stood towering over him, her chest heaving, the Sword of Light a quivering flame that flickered in his malevolent eyes.

A tempest of emotions raged within her, conflicting tides of vengeance and mercy clashing. Memories of her fallen kin, the smoldering ruins of her kingdom—the screams for justice, screams for retribution. And yet, a softer voice murmured of forgiveness and for a heartbeat, or mayhap an eternity, she wavered, her gaze fixing upon the man who'd been her nemesis.

Two souls.

Some, like Locrinus', were equally vile.

Some, like hers… neither good nor bad.

We do what we must for the good of all.

Gwendolyn blinked, her confusion gone, and with the weight of a thousand lost tomorrows heavy upon her shoulders, she remembered her cousin and reached for the dagger at her boot—the one that once belonged to Borlewen, whose laughter had been silenced too soon. But she would not stab him in the back, as Málik once taught her to do. Nay, she would take his life whilst looking him straight in the eyes. "Remember Borlewen?" she asked, watching his expression, and she rejoiced in the sound of her beautiful cousin's name on her lips and the terror it evoked in her murderer. Gwendolyn grinned, advancing again. Locrinus didn't move, his eyes wide, flicking from the flaming sword to the tiny, ornate dagger in her hand, and when she was certain he remembered it, she said, "May the gods claim you." And with a swift motion, guided by the hands of her dead loved ones, she plunged Borlewen's dagger deep into Locrinus' ignoble breast. His eyes grew wide with shock, his lips parting to form a silent plea as he gasped in protest. Blood gurgled from his lips as he reached for the dagger embedded in his chest, clutching at it, his fingers slick with his own blood, slipping over the hilt, groping the dragon hilt with a panic born of comprehension. And then his hand dropped to the ground, and he sank back, the strength leaving him for good.

"The Usurper is slain!" came a shout, and the word spread like Hellas fire across the battle-scarred plains. Swords raised skyward as the enemy turned and fled.

Gwendolyn watched dispassionately as the soul drained from his eyes, her own reflecting not so much triumph but satisfaction. His final breath wheezed from him, an inaudible whisper that died in the wind, and his death rattle was like the breaking of a curse, the last note in the dirge of his reign.

Kneeling down next to him, her fingers grazed the hilt of Borlewen's dagger, and whispered, "I am the vengeance of every woman, man, and child you ever disdained." And then she grasped the dagger, pulling it free from his lifeless body, before cleaning it upon his tunic and placing it back into its sheath at her boot.

She rose then, and the air, once thick with the guttural cries of combat, shuddered with a new sound—a collective breath, held too long.

Belatedly, she spied the myrtle crown that had fallen from his head, and she bent to scoop it up, staring at it a long moment, before settling it over the blade she held. It was rightfully hers, though she needn't wear it here. This victory was not Cornwall's but Pretania's.

A cheer resounded.

Finding Aisling, her white coat splattered with blood, Gwendolyn climbed atop her back. With her armor dented and smeared, she looked upon her army. The once verdant meadow lay marred by the scars of war, the ground weeping with the blood of friend and foe. Her gaze wandered the victorious, grown silent save for the cries of the wounded and the clinking of armor as soldiers tended to the fallen. "Tonight!" she shouted, again lifting the burning sword. "We weep for those who lay silent on this field! Tomorrow we bury our dead, but we honor their memory, not in whispers of sorrow, but in declarations of glory. Together, we have woven a tapestry of courage that shall hang upon the halls of eternity!" Another cheer resounded, and she continued. "Each thread represents a life lost, a sacrifice made for the freedom of our people, but our children's children will point to this day and know victory belongs to us!"

Heads nodded, eyes glistening.

Fists clenching with heartfelt emotion.

Once more, Gwendolyn raised the sword, and cheers erupted anew as her gaze swept over a sea of faces, each a story of valor. One by one, her gaze settled upon the living—Baugh, Kelan and Málik…

At the sight of Málik, her heart leapt into her throat, tears stinging her eyes.

Esme and Caradoc appeared, stumbling to the fore, with Taryn behind them, wounded and leaning on Bryn.

With a lump in her throat, Gwendolyn spied the young lad she'd given advice to, as well as the blacksmith's son, who waved his sword victoriously. She gave him a nod, and, with a shuddering breath, re-sheathed her flaming sword.