Page 87 of Arise the Queen
And, if Bryn survived, those two would be… interesting… together. The thought gave Gwendolyn a lift to her lips.
So that was that.
They retired early and rose before dawn.
And then, as Caradoc suggested, they skirted the coastline for two days… only to arrive and discover black plumes rising over the Iceni village.
41
The Iceni village lay in ruins, buildings destroyed, wooden beams strewn about the landscape like splintered, broken bones. Smoke rose from the ashes, the air thick with the reek of death. At the stench, Gwendolyn was assaulted by a wave of nausea so powerful it nearly made her retch from the saddle.
Fresh bodies littered the streets—men, women, children, their once-vibrant lives reduced to twisted, grotesque forms, with eyes open, and staring vacantly at a bright, blue sky they could no longer see.
Children lay twisted—one with a black dog at his feet, its belly ripped open by the sharp edge of a blade.
Looking like the tired, bent-up old man he was, Emrys dismounted, his soft boots crunching over splintered shards. He stooped then, his trembling fingers lifting a small toy from the ashes—a sack baby, its wooden face charred beyond recognition. A symbol of innocence destroyed. He raised it higher to show Gwendolyn with tears glistening in his aged eyes—but of course, he had been sheltered all these years in his Druid village, and no matter the tales Gwendolyn had heard about his ilk, she had found these men to be gentle, erudite souls. Swallowing hardagainst the lump that rose in her throat, she felt a deluge of anguish welling within her, hot and raw, her heart crying out for justice—for retribution against the beast who had perpetrated this atrocity…
Locrinus.
She knew it for certain—knew it to the marrow of her bones, recognized his signature in the heartless slaughter of innocents. And, in this place of unholy desecration, amidst the remnants of life so violently extinguished, a new resolve coiled within her. “He will pay,” she whispered.
Again, she thought about Habren, his boy, and in a moment of white-hot fury envisioned drowning that child in the river before Loc’s own eyes, all traces of her humanity lost and for good reason.
They found no survivors, only more dead—more innocents whose lives had ended too soon. Loc’s executioners spared nothing—no structure left intact, no home left unburnt. In the grey morning light, the wind howled mournfully through the desolation as though it, too, grieved for what was lost, and Gwendolyn dismounted, at last, with the taste of ash heavy in her mouth. She had not known these people beyond the emissaries they’d once sent to attend Trevena’sdawnsio, but her heart wept for them just the same.
Had Locrinus attempted to conscript their warriors, and the Iceni refused?
She crouched down, lifting a scrap of a shattered pottery, a design she recognized from their trade fairs. Her finger trembled as she traced the intricate swirls. The people who had fired this clay, and decorated it with such care—were they, too, reduced to ash like their village? Or did some of them flee?
Her gaze drifted into the heart of their village—the mound atop which now stood the charred remnants of the Iceni’s Konsel, distinguished by the justiciar’s symbol, the sword andscales. The wind shifted, stirring up another wave of ash and smoke and the grit clung to her lashes, bringing a new sting of tears. In times of peace, that hall would have been a bustling center, filled with delegates negotiating trade deals, guildsmen settling disputes, or common folk seeking justice. Now, it was gone but for the echo of their screams—desperate ghosts to Gwendolyn’s ears, and still she heard them, and promised to avenge them.
If she failed, there would be no one else who could.
Against Gwendolyn’s wishes, her party abandoned the ruins, returning solemnly to camp. It was determined they could not risk a pyre, nor the time to bury Iceni’s dead. And, in the end, she was forced to relent. If Locrinus’ scouts were still in the area, it would not bode well. After the battle was done, if they emerged victorious, they would return to place those poor folks to rest.
Taking no chances, she ordered her troops to retreat into the nearby woods, to conceal their numbers within. And meanwhile, one last time, she gathered her Konsel by the forest’s edge, with only a sliver of moon to lend its light.
By night, the spring air still held a bitter chill, but they dared not burn even a small campfire. They wrapped themselves in cloaks and skins, and those who had not lost their appetite, supped on cold victuals.
The mood was doleful as they drank from flagons—not for merriment but for courage, and to chase away a chill that had little to do with the weather.
Poor Emrys sat silently, his eyes vacant. Gwendolyn could not blame him; he had perhaps witnessed the barbarity of men for the first time in seven hundred years, and she noticed he was still clutching the charred toy in his gnarled, old hands as though it were a talisman to ward off evil.
It was Caradoc who spoke first. “We can but guess Locrinus had his fill of their attacks.”
Gwendolyn drew Borlewen’s blade from her boot, picking at the skin beneath her nail. “How can you be sure that was the case?”
“Because I know the Iceni,” he said, his black eyes glistening against the moonlight. “They could scarcely tolerate my presence on these lands. The attacks were relentless. In the end, with Cantium, they had more than twice our numbers, and after a year of quietude, they caught us with our cocks in our hands.”
“I can well imagine that of you,” Esme quipped. “You can scarcely leave it be.”
Caradoc narrowed his gaze at her. “I did not tell you to barge into my chambers,” he said. “I will make no apologies for what you encountered—but perhaps art jealous?”
Gwendolyn lifted a brow, trying not to imagine what had transpired between those two in Trevena. Esme had no boundaries, and Caradoc was a hound for women.
Esme laughed without humor, casting Bryn a glance, then said nothing more, her sore attempt at humor falling far from its mark.
“Enough,” said Gwendolyn quietly. It was no time for discord amongst themselves. “Caradoc, how many do you believe were lost?”
