Page 88 of Arise the Queen
He shrugged. “Between the Iceni and Cantium, I cannot see that we could have gained more than a thousand men. But, whilst I did not see the destruction, it does not sound to me as though he slew them all.”
“A thousand more is still a thousand fewer than Loc’s ten,” pointed out Taryn, and she huffed a sigh. “IF that’s all he has, and he has not conscripted more.”
Gwendolyn asked, “What news had you in Trevena of the Brigantes?”
“None,” Taryn replied, shaking her head.
“If you ask me, those fickle bastards joined him long ago, and those who would not found themselves kissing a blade.”
Remembering the ravaged village they’d encountered on their way north, Gwendolyn was forced to agree. She would never have believed that Westwalas alone could produce ten thousand warriors. And Durotriges was only a small province, and most of those he’d slain.
Alas, the prospect was grim. For all their bluster, they were still the weaker party and, so it seemed, at first light, they would descend upon Plowonida. They could hesitate no longer if the Iceni were gone. Delaying the battle would gain them little, and the best strategy they had was to attack while they still had the element of surprise—before they had the chance to finish bolstering their defenses.
“My warriors will hold their own,” assured Málik.
Esme said nothing, but she nodded agreement, and Bryn, too, cast Gwendolyn a nodding glance, having already shared his thoughts with her. But, alas, he was mistaken. The Fae did not have the strength of a hundred men, and no matter, she did not intend to disappoint him—not tonight. He would fight with greater confidence and courage if he still believed in Esme’s strength—not merely because he had grown to care for her, but also for what hope he’d placed in the Fae.
“The tide may yet turn in our favor,” said Caradoc. “Those lands are mine. I know them well. We’ll use this knowledge to our advantage. We can defeat him.”
“Should we send a scout, but quietly, to see how their troops have fared through the winter, perhaps poke about to see if any might join us?” Gwendolyn suggested.
“And give the bastard fair warning?” asked Kelan. “Nay, My Queen. My father speaks true. We may have two thousand fewer, but we’ve much else to our favor.”
A hush fell over the camp, and once again, the eerie sound of blades being sharpened could be heard rising against the silence.
“That bastard!” declared Esme suddenly. Shaking her head, she kicked away from the tree she’d been leaning upon, casting Gwendolyn a backward glance as she left. She didn’t have to explain who she meant, because Gwendolyn felt the same.
Locrinus.
Gwendolyn gave her a nod as she left, flicking the soft pad of her thumb against the sharp edge of Borlewen’s blade as she watched Esme walk away—realizing that, for all Esme’s gruff demeanor, she had a truly soft heart.
Re-sheathing Borlewen’s blade at her boot, she wrapped her arms about herself, feeling the chilly night air seeping into her bones. Some might say this was a fool’s mission, that she was sending warriors to their death for the mere chance of a victory, but looking into their eyes—Taryn with that gaze that never wavered, Kelan with his stony resolve, and Caradoc with his well-earned wisdom—she saw no fear or regret, only a fierce desire for vengeance. “It’s past time for our bed,” she announced. “If we do not rest, we’ll be dead men walking on the morrow.”
She charged Taryn and Bryn to assign the watch for the night and then ordered the rest to their pallets—no tents. They need not bother. They would not remain here a moment longer than it would take to restore her men for battle.
Thereafter, finding a private spot to sit with her back against a tree, Gwendolyn wrapped Arachne’s cloak about her shoulders and sat staring toward the decimated village—at the black plumes silhouetted against the moonlit sky. Even now, her nostrils were sticky with ash and the scent of smoke—and worse.
It reminded her only too well of that village they’d happened upon last fall—where then, too, nobody bothered to bury the dead and she herself had worked all day long to lay them to rest,only to leave that devastation with charred flesh beneath her fingernails—a sensation that harried her for weeks.
But at least the Iceni were not set to the torch. As it was in Chysauster, except for the children, they’d taken their final breaths with a weapon in hand, defending their families and homes…
A soft footfall alerted her to the presence behind her, but Gwendolyn knew it was Málik. He had this way about him—silent as death. But even if she had not recognized his furtive step, she would never mistake his scent.
“I couldn’t sleep either,” he whispered, settling himself beside her, putting his strong back against Gwendolyn’s tree. He then grasped Gwendolyn by the hand, clasping it, his voice gentle. “You did not come so far to fail,” he said, and though Gwendolyn’s nod was forced, her hand squeezed his with unspoken gratitude. “Come what may, my heart is yours, even as I pledge my sword,” he continued, and then he pulled her close, forcing her to face him, reaching up to trace soft lines along the length of her jawline… down the curve of her neck…
Gwendolyn shivered as she gazed at into his eyes… loving him fiercely… hoping against hope they would survive tomorrow’s battle… and then love each other forever…
Their breaths, mingling as one, fell into a gentle rhythm—easy at first, then quickening with desire. With the specter of death peering over their shoulders, Gwendolyn had never felt more alive—or more determined to stay this way.
Her heart aching with love and longing, she traced every feature of his beautiful face with her eyes—the sharp, chiseled angles of his aquiline nose… the full, sensual curve of his lips… the alluring points of his ears… the dangerous glint of his fangs… and the shimmering silver of his soft hair under the waxing moon.
Gods. Every magnificent detail of him was a bittersweet torture, reminding Gwendolyn of the danger he posed to her heart… if she should live, and he should die. But if the worst should come to pass, the one regret she would not have was to let him go without telling him the truth. “I love you,” she whispered.
It wasn’t difficult to say.
And she meant it.
He leaned closer, smiling, lifting a finger into the air, giving it a swirl… summoning a mist. In seconds, they were shrouded. It was the first time in so long Gwendolyn had witnessed hishexereiand she gave him a crooked smile and a questioning look.
