Page 45 of The Forgotten Prince

One by one, their attackers fell.

Joining the fray, Lir thrust his blade through one man’s back, then hid behind a tree, punching his blade through the back of another man’s neck as Esme did battle. The warrior gagged, surging forth with the agony of Lir’s knife, impaling himself on the end of Esme’s sword. “I told you, stupid Druid! I don’t need your help!” insisted Esme ungratefully. “Go hide beneath a rock!”

Lir turned and ran as yet another soldier advanced upon him, and Esme moved between them to dispatch the fool. “Thank you,” said Lir, as Bryn felled another. And Málik yet another.

“Don’t thank me, you pretentious fool,” said Esme, as she moved away.

Working together, they proved to be an effective team, although Gwendolyn hadn’t time to be impressed. She swung, and parried until her arms felt as though they would fall off, and soon enough, they had dispensed all but one… and that man Esme dragged into their camp by his hair, shoving him down onto the ground before the firepit, kicking his mate’s body from the coals, then putting her sword tip into the much-revived flames. Freshly fed by the fallen man’s attire, the fire licked higher, burning brighter, greedy for more kindling.

Bloodied and battered, the soldier’s eyes grew wide as Esme leered at him, revealing the full effect of her porbeagle teeth. And even as her sword began to glow, Gwendolyn spied piddle flowing from beneath the man’s rear.

“Who sent you?” Esme demanded.

Wiping her blade on her leathers, Gwendolyn approached, and then one after another, so did the rest of her companions, moving into a circle to hear the man’s confession. Afraid though he must have been, he spat on Esme’s boots.

Esme did not instantly respond. She kept her gaze trained upon him, her sword in the flames as it flared. “How did you know we would travel here?” Esme demanded. The man said nothing, and she turned her blade, never taking her gaze from his face. “Were you searching for us?” she persisted.

Still, the man did not respond.

“How many returned to Loc?”

Gwendolyn furrowed her brow, wondering how Esme could know.

“Vermin!” the man spat. “I do not answer to Elvin fiends!”

“Nay?” said Esme, her lips curving cruelly as she took a step forward. “I would send you away whole with a message for your gutless master, if you but answer one question.” She tilted her head at the man. “Wouldn’t that be better than dying?”

The man spat again, this time at Gwendolyn, and Esme drew her sword from the flames and moved upon him so swiftly there wasn’t time to blink.

“Wait!” Gwendolyn demanded. “You cannot—”

“Slaughter innocents?” Esme asked, stopping, turning to face Gwendolyn, with a note of challenge in her voice and a gleam in her eyes.

Gwendolyn reasoned with her. “I would not suggest he is innocent, but you cannot murder this man. He hasn’t a weapon!”

“Not anymore,” Esme argued, tilting her head to peer over her shoulder. “I shoved it in that one’s arse.”

Behind her lay a man with an axe in his buttocks. The sight of it made Gwendolyn grimace, but such was the savagery of war. And regardless, it gave her no satisfaction beyond the fact they had survived this attack.

“Is it not against your laws to slay an unarmed man?”

“Who told you that?” Esme asked, casting an amused glance at Málik, and then added, “You should know his laws do not apply to me.” And then she raised her glowing sword above the man’s head, and before anyone could stop her, she thrust it down, skewering him through the pate. The light left his eyes at once, and Esme put her boot against his face, pushing him away to retrieve her sword.

“Why would you do such a thing?” Gwendolyn asked, appalled. “He could have told us more.”

“He would not have,” Esme countered. “I am well enough versed with the hubris of men to recognize truth when I hear it.” And then she turned, swiping the blood from her sword with her bare hands, leaving Gwendolyn to stare after her.

21

They arrived at the Druid village at the break of day on the twenty-fifth day of the sixth moon of the year.

There was no need to pull the bell in the grotto. As though expected, a welcome party descended to escort Gwendolyn and her party into the village. Bright-eyed, with some nameless emotion in the ferocity of her gaze, Esme cast Gwendolyn a parting glance, then rushed ahead, ascending into the village without invitation.

No one stopped her. But then, who would dare?

Gwendolyn hadn’t spoken to the quarrelsome Elf for days. She didn’t understand what had changed, or when, but by now Gwendolyn had had enough of her ready ire. Every time she thought about the cold-hearted manner of her dispatching of Loc’s man, it soured her belly. Gwendolyn liked to believe herself a hardened warrior, but after witnessing such a brutal execution, she knew it mustn’t be true, and she was glad of it. While she wasn’t the same girl she once was, neither did she wish to become such a heartless monster for whom a man’s life could so easily be dispensed. To be sure, Gwendolyn had oft imagined herself cutting Loc’s throat—and given the chance, she would do it without hesitation—but that was different. Loc had stolen her life. He’d murdered her family, stolen her dignity, and then cast her away as though she were nothing more than offal. But that man wearing Loc’s livery was her enemy in name only. Perhaps given the opportunity to end her life, he might try, but like so many others, he had been misled, and if Gwendolyn slaughtered every man, woman, or child who followed Loc, she would massacre thousands—too many—for no other reason than because they dared to raise a golden serpent as their standard.

“I know you do not wish to hear this,” Málik had said, when Gwendolyn pulled him aside to discuss the matter privately. “There wasn’t more to be done. We couldn’t have brought him with us. What else could Esme have done?”

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