Page 44 of The Forgotten Prince

Ducking to miss the swing of an axe leveled at her head, she sprang to her feet yet again, leaning into her strike, putting her might into the blow, ripping the blade across the golden serpent on the man’s breast.

The man howled in pain, his face twisting with surprise and anger.

“Dragon Queen!” he spat. “I knew I smelt Cornish offal!”

Gwendolyn refused to trade insults with this fool. There was no satisfaction to be had by it. She would rejoice once he was dead.

“You will die today!” he said, and his smile was cruel as he advanced upon her once more. But nay, she would not! She had not practiced daily over these past six months, sweating every loss, only to fall prey to this mangy dog.

Nor was she the weakling girl she used to be; her arms were strong, and her will itself made of Loegrian steel. Thanks to Málik, she understood every aspect of swordplay, knew intuitively how to fight her enemies, big and small. Day after day, Gwendolyn had proven that, besting every opponent she faced, except Málik, and even Málik when she did everything right.

Ignoring the man’s taunts, she forced all thought from her mind. Málik had taught her the first to anger would be the first to fall.

She did not intend to fall.

She parried each time the man swung, pushing him back, back, back—away from Bryn. Nimbler than he was, carrying less weight, Gwendolyn danced about his sword, her lips turning with grim satisfaction as his arms tired and his smile faded. And still she did not taunt him; he wasn’t worth the loss.

Another of Loc’s soldiers—the one with the lime-washed hair—advanced upon her now as well. Gwendolyn’s gaze moved behind him to Lir, who had only just now recovered his sword. Once again, her heart tripped as she watched another of Loc’s soldiers go after him, preparing to stab him in the back. She couldn’t make it in time. She had two warriors to dispense with first.

Glancing at Bryn, she commanded him with her eyes to shield Lir. Bryn’s intervention came just in time. Even as the soldier made to plunge his blade into Lir’s back, Bryn struck his blow, sending the warrior to his knees.

Meanwhile, Gwendolyn circled the campfire with both her warriors, striking blows at her, one after another—both advancing from the same direction, too stupid to press her between them.

Miss. Duck. Miss again. Duck. Again.

Saving her strikes for when she knew it would matter, Gwendolyn kicked at the fire with her boot, sending glowing embers at one man’s loosely clad shins. The burning coals sizzled through his breeches, scalding his flesh. Still, he smiled.

“You will swallow my blade!” he said, skirting the fire to her left.

The idiot took one hand off his sword long enough to cup his bollocks, and Gwendolyn used this moment to her advantage, pouncing at him and thrusting her weapon straight through his eye. Dropping his sword, the fool stumbled to his knees, but even as Gwendolyn booted him away, retrieving her sword, the second warrior came stabbing at her, laughing maniacally. Skirting his blade, moving aside, and placing the pit between them, Gwendolyn readied her blade, raising her pommel.

“Bitch!” he shouted.

Swing. Miss. Parry. Swing again.

Circling the pit, Gwendolyn waited, watching for the right opportunity, understanding the limitations of her sword.

She could reach him across the flames, but to wield a sword of this length, she must be able to step into her blow. Kingslayer weighed less than Málik’s bastard sword, a bit more than her arming sword, but it needed the support of her entire body, or the sword would miss its mark.

In the space of a breath, Málik was by her side.

“Aim high,” he commanded, though Gwendolyn never saw his mouth move. The words flowed through her like a whisper in the wind.

Meanwhile, Loc’s man continued to advance upon her.

Gwendolyn lifted the pommel higher, preparing to strike, knowing its weight would drag the sword tip down the instant she extended to strike.

“Elf lover!” said the man, but though Gwendolyn was not Málik’s lover, she wished she were. His taunt was no insult. If she were, she would be the first to say so.

“You’re better than him,” Málik assured, his words nourishing her like sustenance. Take him down. You can do it.

Indeed, she could.

Gwendolyn knew Málik spoke true. Still, his reassurance gave her daring. Intending to disarm the man, she did what they expected no gentle woman to do. She stepped into the burning coals. Resisting her fear, she leaned her body into the blow and the look that entered the man’s widening eyes as her sword found him was one of bewilderment. He could not move quickly enough to escape his fate. Gwendolyn sliced her blade across his throat, beheading him as expeditiously as Esme had her prey. Then, she pulled his body over the firepit, dropping him belly first into the coals, withdrawing her sword.

Málik grinned, eyes glinting with pride.

And then he was off again, arms and blades swinging, legs dancing so nimbly even Gwendolyn’s practiced eyes could not follow his movements, even after months of sparring with him.

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