The Cornish Princess by Tanya Anne Crosby
ChapterTwenty-Nine
In the courtyard, where last night’s casks of wine were opened and drunk, and Borlewen flirted with Kitto, the battle waged—so near to her uncle’s table, and the hearth where his wife only yesterday morning stood baking bread.
The flashing of swords against the bright morning sun stabbed her eyes, even as the crack of metal rang in her ears. Dust rose with the scrambling of feet.
No time for tears, no time to be afraid. A true leader would not run; neither would she. All her life she had prepared for this moment, and she would not fail her uncle and his family.
You can do it, she told herself. You can do it.
Don’t scream!Don’t run!
Her uncle’s battle cry was unmistakable. It sent tendrils of fear snaking about Gwendolyn’s heart, squeezing so hard she thought she might cease to breathe.
Fighting beside her, Borlewen raised and slammed down her great hammer. It cracked a man’s skull like an egg. More blood sprayed. His knees buckled as he rolled atop Gwendolyn’s boot, and with a furious bellow, Málik rushed forward to kick the man away, once more jerking Gwendolyn behind him, and cutting down another man who sprang at Borlewen.
Keep your eyes on the sword.
Don’t spin.
The courtyard was red with blood.
Cunedda wielded his sword with a mighty bellow, commanding his wife to fight. “Fight!” he encouraged her. “Fight, damn you, fight!”
Beside him, Lowenna did the best she could, struggling to lift her sword. Alas, her arms were not practiced for war, and neither had she the strength to wield it.
She lifted it, at last, in defense of her husband, but missed her mark. The man turned to face her, but she didn’t raise her sword again in time, and the man’s blade found her breast, running her through. She buckled to the ground, clutching at her breast once he removed his blade.
Blood.
Screams.
Dust bit Gwendolyn’s eyes.
Blood spattered her face.
Aim diagonally!
Move your sword with your body!
Raise the pommel!
“Lowenna!” her uncle cried. “Lowenna!”
More blood.
More screams.
The smell of smoke thickened about them.
With horror, Gwendolyn realized the garner was on fire. From that moment on, she heard nothing more than her uncle’s vengeful roar as he cut down one man after another, trying between parries to drag his wife’s twisted form aside.
Gwendolyn saw Lowenna didn’t stir, and it tore a sob from her throat, even as she hoisted her own weapon to thwart another man who rushed Málik. She missed, and if she thought her muscles burned before, with only their morning’s practice, they were weak now with pain. Your arm is weak, but your body is strong!
Don’t close your eyes!
Raise the pommel!
Move your sword with your body!
If only she could find a way through the tangle of flesh to open the door to that garner. But they were surrounded—she was surrounded. Only Málik was her shield.
Another man rushed at them, and as big as he was, it took both Gwendolyn and Málik fighting together to bring him down, although Málik didn’t seem grateful.
He cast Gwendolyn a withering glance, commanding her once more to fall back, and then returned his attention to the battle, defending against another man who rushed them.
These were not her father’s men. They were mercenaries, wearing no man’s livery. Neither were they poor. Their swords were among the finest to be had, their armor shiny and new, the look in their eyes, not hunger, but greed.
How many had descended upon them by now?
Twenty, more?
Revulsion warred with relief as Gwendolyn ducked a swing to take the blade from her boot. She sprang up to cut her blade across the man’s throat, so cleanly and furiously it nearly severed his head. Blood spurted from his wound, spraying her face and tunic—her mother’s gown. More’s the pity, she’d left the breast plate at home, never imagining this could be their fate. And where was the other guard who arrived with them?
He was not here. Come to think of it, she hadn’t seen him for days.
By now, the rich, red-dyed buckskin of her tunic was painted full red. Covered in sweat and oily with blood, her hands could scarcely wield the sword. Every moment it threatened to fly from her hands, but Gwendolyn clutched it desperately, grateful for the grade of her steel, even as she watched Jenefer’s sword snap and spin away.
Gods.
This was like nothing she had ever experienced—a taste of war she’d only ever heard tell of through bards’ tales. Neither did these men intend to leave survivors—a fact that became apparent and sent a surge of outrage through Gwendolyn.
What treachery was this?
Who would dare?
Lifting Lowenna, dragging her to safety—as safe as a dead woman could be—Cunedda was suddenly blindsided by a heavy broadsword. It cut through his bare shoulder, leaving one arm limp. Still, somehow, he cut down his assailant, even as he bellowed with pain, and, leaving his wife, he rushed into the melee to defend his daughters.
Gwendolyn’s heart wrenched at the sight of them all battling together. Borlewen cut down one man—piercing him once through the gut and another good slice to the throat with a dagger she produced from her belt. Thereafter, she turned her back to her elder sister, and she and Jenefer fought together, shoulder to shoulder.
Gods!
What is happening?
Gwendolyn cried out as the sharp edge of an axe whizzed by, nicking her thigh, and barely missed severing her wrist. Málik rushed at the man who hurled it, taking him down with a single swinging blow. Yet another man went after Borlewen, and a sickening fear rushed through Gwendolyn’s heart with a sudden, inconceivable revelation.
The torc.
Her eyes scanned the embattled courtyard, and she noted how many more had their eyes on her cousin’s throat.
Whoever these men were, they came for Gwendolyn. She had led them here, and her uncle had surmised this as well. He cut down one more man who rushed at Borlewen, and sidled over to Gwendolyn and said, “The fogous. Now! Go!”
“Nay,” she refused. “I’ll not leave you to fight alone!”
Cunedda’s eyes bulged with rage as he turned to Málik and demanded, “Do your duty, Shadow! Take her! Go!”
Málik nodded, and Gwendolyn shrieked with protest, “Nay, Uncle! I’ll not leave you!” she screamed furiously. “I’ll not go!”
The smoke thickened so it was impossible to see anything beyond the courtyard, and the screams in the garner suddenly ceased.
“Under my bed,” hissed Cunedda. “You’ll find a door there—go!”
Gwendolyn shrieked with outrage, even as Málik seized her by the arm, dragging her backward into the house. To no avail, she fought his unrelenting grip, even as she watched Jenefer crumple to a hammer—her lovely face twisting with surprise and pain.
Gwendolyn bellowed in outrage, and this was the last coherent thought she had.
“Gwendolyn!” Málik shouted, shaking her hard. “Gwendolyn!”
Briallen was the next to fall. Gwendolyn watched it happen with eyes wide and filled with fright. Her father intercepted a downswing, cutting the man’s belly with his sword, then turned to Gwendolyn to say, once more, “Go! Damn you! Go!”
“Borlewen!” Gwendolyn sobbed, if only to warn her. “Borlewen!”
Gods.
Did none of these men recognize their princess?
“To me!” she cried, beating her breast with a fist, only hoping to divert their attention from these innocents. She dug in her heels, fighting Málik’s grip. “To me!” she shouted. “To me! I am—”
“Gwendolyn!” hissed Málik, slapping a hand over her mouth so hard it stung.
Only this time, when she tried to fight him, he lifted her up and tossed her over his shoulder, heading into the house.
The last thing Gwendolyn saw was Borlewen unsheathing the little blade at her waist. With his foot, Málik slammed the door behind him, somehow seizing a massive bench and spinning it about as though it were only a child’s toy, settling it in front of the door.
He moved swiftly, with sure feet, toward her uncle’s bower, and once inside, he swung another heavy coffer to bar that door. The sound of it landed with a boom.
“I cannot leave them to fight without me,” Gwendolyn begged him, pummeling his back as he threw her down on the bed, but still he grasped her by the arm, his grip unyielding, holding her away from the door.
“Stop!” he pleaded. “Stop!”
When Gwendolyn fought him still, he reasoned with her, “Would you have them die in vain?”
“I would have them not die at all!” she returned madly.
“Gwendolyn!” he said, shaking her again. “They will die—everyone will die! The question is, will Pretania’s future perish as well?”
Pretania’s future?
A strangled sob escaped Gwendolyn’s tightening throat, but finally comprehending, she allowed him to pull her away from the barricaded door, and then watched haplessly as he shoved her uncle’s heavy bed aside with a boot, revealing a hidden entrance to the underground passages—the fogous he guarded so well.
This was just like her uncle to keep the entrance so close. No one would dare enter his bower—and who would think to look beneath the Duke’s bed?
It took Málik only a second to pry open the heavy trapdoor that should have taken two men to hoist, revealing a dark tunnel beneath that appeared to descend into the Underworld.
For a long, grief-stricken moment, Gwendolyn stood, staring without moving, peering back once more at the door, before Málik urged her down.
With frightening clarity, she heard her uncle’s shouts, as the door to his house split and gave way to axes. More smashing and clanging. Swords crossing. Something large clattered to the floor. More crashes, and suddenly, a tongue of smoke licked beneath the door.
“Go!” demanded Málik.
Swallowing a lump of grief, Gwendolyn descended, slipping on a length of the rope ladder in her rush to climb down. She felt loosening rubble rain down over the pate of her head as Málik moved to follow her down, and somewhere above, she heard distant shouts, then the rude splintering of her uncle’s bower door. Panicked for Cunedda’s life, she tried once more to climb up, but her arms burned and Málik pushed her head down with the toe of his boot, and said, “Go, go, go!” With a thunderous crash, he pulled down the door, immersing them in darkness. “Go!” he said again.
Swallowing her grief, Gwendolyn did as she was told—hurrying now, never daring to scream, even when Málik’s boot caught her fingers. Muffled voices and coughing came from above as she reached the end of the ladder and felt blindly about for solid ground.
There was none. Gods. There was none!
Gwendolyn had never actually descended into these fogous before, nor did she know whether there was any way out. What if these tunnels weren’t yet complete?
Anticipating her moment of panic, Málik shoved her one last time, and Gwendolyn tumbled backward into darkness, her sword clattering down beneath her. She fell atop it, landing with a heavy thud on her tailbone, gulping back a sharp cry of pain.
Only an instant later, Málik fell atop her, but he scrambled quickly to his feet, and Gwendolyn could hear him rushing about, but could no longer see him.
“Move!” he said urgently.
Where!
“Move!”
Up above, there was a furious scraping at the trapdoor as though someone might be searching for a handle, and Gwendolyn could see the faintest crack of light through slits in the wood. Having little sense of direction, she turned swiftly to crawl away, uncertain whether she could stand, but her head encountered a stone wall, and she cried out in pain over the force of the blow.
Everything happened so quickly. A loud crack sounded above, and she saw the axe blade penetrate wood. Málik seized her by the leg and tossed her aside, sending her tumbling like a doll against the wall. Then suddenly, without warning, the entire shaft collapsed within itself.