Page 75 of The Forgotten Prince

Gwendolyn swallowed, knowing intuitively the beast was coming after her. Automatically, she lengthened the distance between her and Málik, not so much hoping it would follow her, but not wanting it to go after Málik.

And then, it wasn’t a matter of dealing with one.

Esme appeared, with Bryn behind her, both hurrying to defend Gwendolyn, but behind them came an army of spriggans.

A sleepy Druid made the mistake of emerging from his hut at that moment, and a spriggan swept its clawed hand across his middle, disemboweling him where he stood. Gwendolyn watched with horror, and then they were battling for their lives.

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The squeals of the dying and injured accosted Gwendolyn’s ears, and the sound rent the heart from her breast.

These creatures did not come for the Druids; they came for her.

As it was when Briallen wore Gwendolyn’s torc, she could see their fiendish gazes alight upon her and her alone. Anyone who stood in the way would find themselves ripped to shreds, and Gwendolyn could not bear to see it happen again.

They know we’re coming, she remembered Esme saying, and now Gwendolyn knew who they were.

Moving away from the melee—away from Málik, away from Bryn and Esme—she simply meant to draw the creatures to her. She didn’t think, only acted—afraid not for herself, but for her friends. Gwendolyn ran, and the spriggans were quick to pursue. Unfortunately, she didn’t go far, stopping short as she reached the adjacent cross point. More spriggans!

One after another, they were swarming onto the ramps, appearing from the mist and trees, teeming into the village…

Pressed between them, Gwendolyn searched, trying to form another plan. Her gaze alit upon a fat, swooping branch, and with Kingslayer in hand, she ran, then jumped, as the piskie on her nose had done—with every bit of her might.

The tree might be difficult to climb with the sword in hand, but if she made it to the branch, she could jump again to the distant crossroad where no battle had yet engaged. One foot caught the limb she was aiming for. The other missed its perch, slipping. She dropped the sword. It fell with a clatter onto the ramp below.

Now what was she supposed to do?

She could drop, but despite hearing the clatter of her sword, she couldn’t see anything below and couldn’t be sure she would find the same purchase.

One lumbering creature prepared to leap, so she forsook the sword, dragging herself up, crying out in pain as the bark tore into the flesh of her hands. Opting for the path she could see, she swung her legs, trying to find a perch, but there was nothing—no small limb to use as leverage, nothing solid beneath her feet. Finally, as the creature crouched to leap, she found a knot in the tree, and hauled herself up, then turned at once to leap again onto the cross point.

No time for doubt. Once on the cross point, she sounded the alarm, knowing there would be Druids still sleeping in their beds. “Fire!” she shouted, hoping for an immediate response. “Fire! Run! Run!”

Fire was the one thing she knew these Druids must fear. She couldn’t be certain they would know what a spriggan was.

One sleepy Druid emerged from his hut, and Gwendolyn felt the worst kind of horror for bringing this travesty to his door. She saw his gaze fix upon the creature that pounced onto the cross point, and she screamed, “Run! Go! Hurry! Arm yourself. Fight! Warn others!”

From the location she’d fled, she could still hear the sounds of battle engaged, but Gwendolyn expected most of the creatures to follow her.

Another spriggan leapt onto the cross point from the direction she’d come, and Gwendolyn turned to stand her ground, giving the Druid time to warn others.

These creatures carried no weapons—no need! They wore blades on their person—hooked protrusions like immense thorns stretching backward from each forearm. With claws for hands, it swung at an overhanging branch, snapping it in twain as though it were nothing more than a small twig, then came lumbering after her, emitting a trilling sound like crickets, but louder.

At the moment, Gwendolyn had no better weapon than Borlewen’s blade. She drew it from her boot and grew dizzy with relief as Málik dropped onto the platform beside her, wielding his sword to hack off the spriggan’s head. Thereafter, he tossed Gwendolyn the sword in his hand before removing his own from the scabbard at his back. Gwendolyn caught the sword, grateful to feel its weight in her hands. She daren’t ask to whom it belonged. She hoped it wasn’t Esme’s or Bryn’s.

Now she fought with two blades, one in each hand.

“Stabbing will do little,” Málik advised. “Sunder the head.”

Swinging the sword because it was the best she could do, Gwendolyn lopped off a forearm. “Will an arm do?”

With an angry burst of temper, the creature swiped its uninjured arm at her, dragging its claws across her mithril, the sound like nails across steel, and leaving a scar across the otherwise unmarred chainse. It didn’t penetrate, but the impact pressed the air from Gwendolyn’s lungs and she fell backward onto her rump. Once more, the beast pounced, and this time, one of its claws penetrated her weakened armor, puncturing flesh and drawing blood.

Gwendolyn cried out in pain.

Furious over the blow, and her own stupidity, she rallied to her feet, slashing her blade across the smaller ligaments that made up the creature’s mantis-looking legs. Unlike Málik, she hadn’t the strength to sever them all at once, so she kept hacking until the creature stumbled backward, and then she kicked it off the ramp, and turned to face another. Success!

“I take it back,” Málik said. “Cleave anything you can reach.”

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