Page 83 of Arise the Queen
Her grip on Kingslayer tightened as she prepared again to advance. Remembering everything Málik ever taught her, she held the sword ready, sidestepping Caradoc’s fierce advances with grace.
He was bigger, but not faster.
Neither was he nearly as skilled.
Their swords clashed, sparks flying as the two danced a deadly gavotte.
Over and over, Gwendolyn matched Caradoc's attacks, parrying his thrusts, countering with her own. Her heart pounded in her breast, but she pushed on, refusing to yield. Eventually, Caradoc’s breath came in ragged gasps as they moved together, but there was no faltering on his end. He was a formidable opponent, his strength and determination making him a worthy adversary.
The fight went on, each stroke ringing out like a bell in the clearing's stillness, the crowd watching with awe.
At one point, Caradoc lunged, and Gwendolyn sidestepped just in time, allowing him to stumble off balance. She spun toface him again, and he grinned at her as he righted himself, delighted by her tenacity. But it wasn’t long before his advances came with grunts and groans. Still, he parried easily, with a hint of mischief in his eyes, though, as Gwendolyn continued to press him, his expression shifted to one of surprise and then to grudging respect. And still he fought with everything he had, whilst all their warriors gathered to watch.
The crowd grew larger, attracting others who had, at first grown bored with yet another clash between two prideful, old men.
But this was not that—this was their queen, the woman who claimed she should lead them, and, one by one, they gathered to see what she could do.
At one point, Gwendolyn noted even Baugh looked on with a mixture of shock and admiration. She felt the weight of all eyes upon her but didn’t allow it to distract her, keeping her attention solely upon Caradoc, anticipating every swing and every thrust with an uncanny intuition, answering his attacks with swift retaliations of her own. When suddenly he thrust deeply, the sword’s point sliding beneath her armpit, scarcely missing the flesh of her arm, she came close enough to grasp his hilt, then simply took the sword out of his hand. The look on his face was one of unbridled surprise—as though no one had ever taken his sword.
With a grin, Gwendolyn then pulled him close to press Kingslayer’s sharp edge against his throat. “Yield!” she demanded, and she watched with steady eyes, victorious but not gloating, awaiting his surrender.
At last, Caradoc fell to his knees, breathless and beaten. “I yield!” he shouted. “I yield,” he said again, voicing it loudly as sweat dripped from his forehead.
To his credit, he did not explain away her maneuver with excuses, and Gwendolyn would never confess it, but she felt giddier than a child with a tart.
“Care to try again?” she said with a wink, and Caradoc lifted both his brows, and for the first time perhaps ever, refrained from indulging his laddish ego by turning the jest into a lewd suggestion.
“I said, yield,” he said, throwing his hands into the air, and the onlookers erupted into laughter and applause, with ovations echoing across the glade.
Gwendolyn removed her sword from his neck, stepped back, and smiled.
“Long live the Queen!” someone shouted, and soon others began to chant and Gwendolyn’s heart beat against her ribs, triumph coursing through her veins.
She locked eyes with her grandfather, who gave her a nod, acknowledging her victory, and then her gaze searched for Málik only to discover him standing to one side, arms crossed in a manner that said he never once doubted her. His beautiful smile was one of praise, his lips curving wickedly in a dazzling display of sharp—very sharp—white teeth.
39
Aleader must know what he knew but know better what he did not know.
This was perhaps her father’s greatest counsel, and Gwendolyn had long ago determined that the Catuvellauni chieftain would provide her the greatest tactical support for the battle against Locrinus. She might not have the numbers without Baugh, but Caradoc was the first to place his trust in her, and without him, she would not have had any chance for the return of Trevena.
It could also be argued that, without Caradoc, she’d not have made it so far as theunderlands, much less to the north.
All gratitude aside, he knew these eastern lands better than anyone, and with the loss of his Plowonida, he had more at stake than anyone except Gwendolyn. If they could not oust Locrinus, Caradoc would remain king of nothing.
Beyond the battle, Gwendolyn would also need loyal allies, and she sensed in Caradoc a loyal friend, despite his maddening pugnacity. Whether Esme had had any part in rallying him to this battle, he’d come of his own accord with the greatest part of his remaining troops. And, if she intended for these tribes torespect her, and to look to her beyond the coming battle, she must not only show them a powerful leader, but an ally worthy of their trust and capable of heeding their counsel.
And far more practically, neither would it hurt to soothe his sore male pride, and to reassure him she still had faith in him. But considering his pompous way, she wasn’t in any hurry to put him out of his misery.
At first light the following morning, as her men busied themselves with preparations for departure, Gwendolyn took a pass throughout the camp, inspecting the men’s armor, lending an ear to any who sought advice or shared concerns, mindful of the shift in their demeanor. Many of these warriors were youths, and it was a far different combat they would face against Locrinus than the piffling skirmishes they had engaged in whilst defending their provinces. At the least, if Gwendolyn would send them to a battle that could very well put them in a grave, she should know their faces, if not their names. “Wear something beneath,” she advised one lad. “If you wear that without padding, you will find yourself skewered by the first arrow.”
She knew well that Caradoc watched her.
“From now until the battle,” she advised another soldier, tugging at his leathers. “Do not remove this even whilst you sleep. You can barely move your arms, but you need it to stretch.”
To another man, who sat cleaning his sword, she remarked, “That’s quite the exquisite weapon. Do you know how to use it?”
The young man nodded. “My father was a blacksmith. He taught me to polish and sharpen his blades.”
