Page 91 of Arise the Queen
Out of the corner of one eye, Gwendolyn spied the newly arrived banners—Iceni! They came from the north, their numbers diminished but fearless.
Hope flared.
Spinning, she spied more banners to the south—Cantium warriors numbering in the hundreds. They spilled from thewoodlands onto the battlefield and Gwendolyn couldfeelthe tide of the battle change as, once again, the sky filled with the glint of steel as swords clashed and sparks flew.
But through it all, where was Locrinus? She had lost sight of him amid the fray.
With renewed purpose, she searched the field for her father’s crown. His men were fighting for fear she knew in her gut. With his death, this battle would be done.
Swords came flying at her, but she burned through them.
And there he was…
With the myrtle crown.
There was no mistaking the desperation in his actions as he sought to extricate himself from the conflict he had created, his eyes darting about for an avenue of escape.
Until…
Gwendolyn knew the moment his eyes lit upon her, and he raised his sword, his resolve returned, his face a mask of villainy. A wave of hatred pummeled through her—as black as those plumes he’d left of the Iceni village.
She lifted her sword, and for a moment, he hesitated, drawing back on his reins, his gaze fixed upon her sword—its flames unmistakable even at this distance. But again, with a sneer of contempt, he charged her—arrogant to the end.
But of course, why would he fear her—despite the army she’d raised, despite the sword she held, despite the turn of this battle.
To his eyes, she wasÆmete—worthy only to be stomped beneath his feet.
A woman—one discarded.
A child, no more—arise a queen!
Horses, with their coats lathered with sweat, galloped wildly with their riders, attempting to bar her way, but Gwendolyn fought her way toward Locrinus, her steel singing through theair, her blade at last meeting his with a clarion ring that spoke the promise of her retribution.
He matched her every move with a dark grace born of malice. “Yield,” he taunted, his voice a serpent’s hiss as their blades crossed again and again, sparks igniting at the impact. “Your magician’s sword means nothing to me!”
But it should, Gwendolyn thought, and her lips curved viciously, determined to end him once and for all. But perhaps he did not believe his own eyes, or his Outlander-self could not comprehend the meaning ofClaímh Solais.
Her grip on the Sword of Light tightened as she fought him, her fingers clasping the hilt as their blades clashed again and again.
His blade flashed dangerously close to her face, as he spat, “You will regret crossing me, Æmete. Now, yield!”
And there it was—if she doubted for a moment.
Cruel, ugly bastard!
“Never!” Gwendolyn swore, her words edged with spite.
With the flaming sword in hand—a promise from the Fae to the Sons of Míl that its bearer would lead this land—her arm surged with new strength, guiding her blade in a relentless arc that bore the weight of her wrath.
Again and again their blades collided, Locrinus undaunted by the flames she wielded, meeting her attacks with such force that both she and Locrinus tumbled from their mounts. Gwendolyn hit the ground, rolling in the bloody muck, rising to her feet covered in filth. Locrinus was the first to regain his footing, lunging towards her with a snarl. But Gwendolyn rose in time and parried his brutal swing with the strength and fury of someone who’d fought her way through hell and back—because she had.
She’d shed blood—mortal and Fae alike.
Suffered Locrinus’ cruelty—the violation of her person, cruel taunts, his odious mother and mistress!
She had escaped his prison.
Nearly drowned to retake Trevena.
