Page 40 of The Forgotten Prince

Lir nodded, perhaps in agreement, perhaps only a nervous gesture. “I’ve never known the Deceangli to raid like this,” he said, speaking of his nearest neighbors.

Gwendolyn agreed. This was not Deceangli, nor Silures.

Silures’ lands had never grown beyond their original borders. For as long as she had lived, that tribe seemed content enough to live and let be. That they had allied with Loc had more to do with their proximity to him than any intent to rally to his cause. Moreover, the Silures’ chieftain may have given his fealty to Brutus, but he’d more often appealed to her father for judicial intervention. Until Locrinus’ betrayal, their kingdoms had shared constabulary duties. And neither was it unheard of for King Corineus to settle debts for disadvantaged farmers, even for those not of their province. As for the Deceangli, Lir would know their disposition, having lived around them for more years than any living soul could remember. He and his Druid brethren had occupied these woodlands for more than seven hundred years.

“I cannot believe men would perpetrate such a thing,” offered Gwendolyn.

Indeed, she had known none to be so…

Violent.

Brutal.

Heartless.

Savage.

Studying the carnage, Málik said nothing. His wintry-gray eyes perused the village, his gaze moving haltingly from hut to hut—or what remained of them—and perhaps beyond. Gwendolyn followed his gaze, hoping to find what he was searching for.

A tribal flag flew fitfully, like the final, desperate thrashings of a dying beast. The fire that had swept through this close-built village was guttered now, reduced to plumes of life-choking smoke. A young cock lay with wings spread, as though it ran, collapsing as it fled. Its torso lay crushed, trampled by hooves.

It startled Gwendolyn to find they had slaughtered even the village goats, then burnt them—not one living creature spared.

Children. Dogs. Goats. Women. Men. Horses.

The stink of charred flesh was unbearable.

Mingled with the smell of the Rot—ever so slight here, but present—the combination was insufferable. And yet, the underlying dampness of this sodden ground had contained the flames, so it didn’t reach the woodland perimeter. Whatever transpired here was less than one day past, not more than that. The dead were fresh and still without the telltale scent of decomposing flesh.

Not yet.

Clarity assailed her—sharp and immediate.

This was why she must fight.

This.

This was a brutal reminder of Loc’s cruelty and judging by the way these people had fallen—as though running for their lives, some covering their faces as they stumbled to their deaths—it appeared as though Loc’s men had ambushed them. Perchance by night as they’d slept? A judgment against this village. For what? These were Loc’s own people—had he perhaps received some intelligence that they had softened toward Gwendolyn’s cause? Or had Loc’s soldiers acted alone, greedy for pillage? Had they ravaged this village for supplies—weapons or food?

It sickened Gwendolyn to note there were too many empty hands amidst the slain, although one woman died making a fist, as though the handle of some weapon had been pried from her fingers.

Gwendolyn felt a potent surge of nausea.

Whatever the case, she could not pass through this village without seeing to the care of these wretched souls. Against Esme’s bitter complaints, she commanded everyone to dismount to see to a funeral. Except for Málik, whom she sent to investigate the surrounding woodlands, everyone expected to dirty their hands, including herself. By the end of the day, Gwendolyn herself had dragged more than twenty bodies into a pile at the center of the village, whispering apologies to deaf ears. There wasn’t time to bury them, but though Esme also objected to a pyre, Gwendolyn couldn’t bear to leave them as they were.

“This is a mistake,” complained Esme. “The fire will lure them back,” she warned, flinging one corpse after another, as though they were only piles of dirty laundry. By the eyes of Lugh, Esme’s strength never ceased to amaze Gwendolyn.

Neither did her cold demeanor.

“There are children here,” Gwendolyn said. “I’ll not leave innocents to have their sweet faces plucked by vultures!”

The first thing she came across thereafter was the most heartrending discovery of all—a young woman with a babe still cradled in her arms. Intending to carry her to the pyre, Gwendolyn flipped her over to discover that they had fallen together, and in her tumble, the babe lay crushed and smothered. Her throat constricted at once—and not because of the lingering smoke. Some heartless miscreant ran them both through with a blade—both mother and babe. The child’s little body, covered by his mother, had been shielded from the flame, but not the sword. Between them, fresh blood pooled from a wound at his belly, and his dirty little face lay planted in the stinking muck.

Gods.

Gwendolyn couldn’t bear it.

The poor child looked as though he might be sleeping. She gave a little keening cry, and for a moment, worried it could be the child. Lifting him into her arms, Gwendolyn left the mother where she lay, and carried him ever so gently to the pyre. Swallowing the salt of her tears, she laid him down in a place where he could rest, surrounded by his kin, and then made a place for his dear mother.

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