Page 17 of The Queen's Huntsman
If things had been different, Gwendolyn knew that, as her Shadow, nothing would have separated them. Like his father, he would do his duty, no matter how he felt about her. But Loc did not fight fair. He fought to win, and he would send his entire army against six.
If anything should happen to Ely, Bryn would never forgive himself… nor would he forgive Gwendolyn. And neither would she forgive herself.
The distant wail of a horn blew against the night. “We’ve been discovered,” said Beryan, and Gwendolyn gave him a nod, commanding, “With me!”
She would not be the one to bring her friends to harm.
Everyone had already risked too much to free her, and she’d not begrudge Bryn the chance to keep Ely safe.
She did not linger for goodbyes.
Spinning about as the horn wailed once more, louder this time, rejoined by the sound of barking hounds, she gave her mount a heel.
Tonight, five had stood in her defense, placing themselves in great peril to see her escape, but if she and Beryan didn’t stay ahead of the dogs, everyone’s efforts would come to naught.
And this time, if Locrinus captured her, he would not spare her life. The time for uncertainty was done. She must be strong, beginning now.
ChapterSeven
After a while, the cry of dogs fell silent.
Still, they daren’t rest—not yet. Gwendolyn had spoken true; She knew Locrinus would drive his hounds till they collapsed. And if by some odd turn of fate he should listen to sound advice and rest them a while, that didn’t mean he would rest himself, nor would he rest his scouts.
Better than anyone, Gwendolyn understood how bitterly he hated to lose, especially to her. He wouldn’t stop searching till he turned every stone, but not because he considered Gwendolyn a threat, because he so earnestly despised her.
Locating the river by its scent, they followed the dwindling stream vigilantly so they could slip in and out of the shallows to mask their scent, and the thing that struck Gwendolyn as they wended their way northeast was the stink of decay that wafted in the air—putrid, like Porth Pool the last time she saw it.
Against a breezeless night, even the mist failed to stir, suspending itself midair in writhing serpentine veils that, over time, coiled about so thickly that it threatened to strangle the very air—so dense in fact that Gwendolyn could hardly see her mount’s ears.
With each snap of a twig, and every owl’s hoot, the animal’s flesh quivered between her thighs, responding as she responded to every new sound—twitchy and not solely because of the midge flies. When finally the breeze lifted, sweeping aside the fog, a crook of moon glinted against the inky waters, its sickle-shape revealing the swarms.
Continually, she heard Beryan slapping at his head and bare arms and was grateful for the protection offered by her mother’s tunic and leathers. He, too, wore leather, but with the summer heat, his jerkin was sleeveless and hers was not.
Later, as the mantle of night lifted, and the hounds remained silent, Gwendolyn dared to hope… until the grey morning light arrived to reveal a forest consumed…
Blood and bones.
In such a short time, the Rot had spread so far north. After less than three months locked away, she could scarcely believe how much this land had declined. In what should have been the peak of summer, everything was dull and brown. Whatever green she spied was peaky and pale, and the boughs of trees, save for the hardy evergreens, were nearly bare, their diseased, yellowing leaves clinging for life. Too many now blanketed the forest floor, causing their horses’ hooves to sink to the knees in decomposing bracken. As though it meant to defend them, embracing them, tendrils of mist curled jealously about the wizened trunks of wasting oaks.
Presently, they encountered an ancient wych elm, with its lichen-covered branches stretching far across the stream. Halfway across, one large branch succumbed to decay, and now lay damming the river.
Here and there along a muddy bank lay a small carcass—a bird, a rabbit, even a boar.
“This is dreadful,” Gwendolyn said. “How far has this spread?”
“Much too far,” said Beryan, with a heavy sigh. “At least now you know why we had no choice but to barter for your freedom.”
“Barter?” Gwendolyn straightened in her saddle, a frisson of fear rushing down her spine. But even as she asked, she knew—all this time she’d been wondering how in the goddess's name they’d convinced Innogen to aid them. “Whatdid you give her?”
The elder man’s voice grew heavy with regret. “Durotriges,” he said, without equivocation, and Gwendolyn shut her eyes, remembering Adwen’s words… spoken so heavily with such certainty…Nay. He will not,he’d said.
And now she understood why he was so sure Loc would not declare war.
He wouldn’t need to because Adwen had already promised Durotriges in return for Gwendolyn’s freedom, yet Adwen did not know Loc the way she did. He would destroy Durotriges merely because they’d abetted her. Their only chance was Innogen, and Gwendolyn knew his mother well enough to know how her mind worked. She didn’t care about Durotriges or its people. This was a strategic move on her part, certain as she was that Locrinus still held the advantage.
Well, he was bound to be angry, but perhaps with some persuasion, she could make clear to her son that Gwendolyn was not a threat to his rule—at least not for now.
With the fall of Trevena, he already controlled much of the southernmost regions—all the Dumnoni territories, and Atrebates and Durotriges. And now, because he’d retained control of Westwalas, it would make his advance into Catuvellauni territory all the easier, allowing for his armies to approach both from the north and south.
