Page 77 of The Forgotten Prince

Druids.

Fae.

Her belly turned, and she prayed Lir was wise enough to remain hidden along with his brother. She knew these creatures would not seek them. They were after Gwendolyn. But even as she thought this, one spriggan made a lie of her thought, and instead of turning its scrutiny to Gwendolyn, it pounced upon Bryn.

“No!” Gwendolyn didn’t think, only acted. She flew toward the pair, leaping atop the creature’s back, seeking to drag it away.

Bryn twisted and turned, trying in vain to dislodge the heavy creature from his back, and spying Gwendolyn, surprise widened his eyes—did he think she would leave him? “The legs,” she charged. “Cleave the legs!”

Bryn wasted no time. He rolled forward, taking the spriggan and Gwendolyn along with him, and then twisting again, he sprang free, swinging his blade across the creature’s legs, toppling it with Gwendolyn still on its back.

All about were screams and squeals, interspersed by the sound of snapping twigs and trills. The creature whose back Gwendolyn now rode turned and tangled its gnarled limbs in her hair. Yelping in surprise, she tried to free herself, even as the beast wrapped its woody limbs about her chest, reaching for her throat.

The sword in her hand would do nothing in close proximity, so Gwendolyn flung it away. Málik and Esme were too busy staving off fiends, and Bryn struggled ineffectively to free her, entangling himself in the creature’s extremities. Vines shot out to enfold them both—as they had the day Málik saved her from Loc—squeezing tighter and tighter. Somehow, Gwendolyn kept an arm free, and reached for the blade in her boot, cutting vines as she lifted her arm, snapping them away until she could shove the knife lengthwise against the spriggan’s throat, the razor-sharp edge pushing against the smaller ligaments of its neck.

Too hard! The blade accomplished nothing, and even whilst Bryn struggled against the creature’s hold, all the while hacking at it wherever he could, its hands continued to twist about Gwendolyn’s throat, squeezing tighter and tighter, sending out more and more vines that crept across her face, into her mouth, and poked at her eyes. Desperate for air, Gwendolyn began to saw her knife across the wooden ligaments of its throat, and kept sawing and sawing, even as the vines crept into every crevice and her eyes bulged. Her lungs threatened to explode.

Gods. She was going to die here!

With Bryn!

Imagining Ely’s bitter tears, with the breath in her lungs burning for release, she remembered her promise to Ely and resisted a vine when it tried to catch her arm. With a singleness of purpose, she continued to saw.

No, no, no, no, no!

Not here. Not yet. Not now.

She had too much to do!

She would not die this day and allow these fiends to slaughter her friends.

With a sound like a pop, at long last, she severed the creature’s head. It fell with a thunk against the wooden ramp, and then, gasping for breath, Gwendolyn rolled free of the tangle of wood, cutting and hacking at vines, then stood again to fight.

On the battle waged.

Together, they felled one spriggan after another—too many to count.

There was no clang of metal to ring against the night, no sword against sword—only the soft give of human flesh and the snapping of twiggy limbs.

At long last, when dawn broke, with the last of the spriggans dispensed, Gwendolyn sat, heaving for breath, tears burning her eyes as she met Bryn’s gaze, then Esme’s, and finally, Málik’s.

All about lay twisted forms, some wounded, some dead—and despite that, they’d won, the spriggans had exacted a heavy toll. Exhausted, Gwendolyn fell back onto the ramp, her head settling with a hard thump, only vaguely aware of the red permeating her black mithril—a thick pool of blood settled and congealed into the web of metallic fiber. The mithril had saved her from having the heart ripped from her breast, but she was wounded. She plucked at the vines that clung to her face, wincing as she removed one from the corner of one eye.

We won, she thought. We won!

That was her last coherent thought before she succumbed.

32

Gradually, still disoriented, Gwendolyn regained consciousness, sensing after a time that she was in her bower, in her bed… alone.

“You underestimate her,” someone whispered. “She’s stronger than you know.”

Female.

Esme?

Was there a note of pride in her voice?

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