Page 49 of To Love a Dark Lord

Although, he did not miss the gleeful smile on her face as she looked at her handiwork as though it was a piece of art. Made of onyx, its eyes glowed a smoldering, fiery red. When it snorted, sparks flew from its nostrils. It was a mare, and smaller than his stallion, but no less frightening. The horse’s mane and tail were like Gwendolyn’s hair when she was ablaze—more fire than not.

She climbed onto its back, and patted it on the neck, not caring for the fire that touched her. “We’re supposed to be scary, right?” She wiggled her fingers at him. “Spoooooky horses.”

It took every ounce of self-control not to slap his hand over his face. “Come. We have a long night of travel ahead of us.”

“Do you know where we’re going?”

“Thorn is not…subtle.” He kicked the sides of his stallion and headed off into the field, urging the animal to a gallop as soon as they were clear of the keep. He did not look over his shoulder to see if Gwendolyn was following. He was certain she was.

He also did not wish to mention that it was the scarecrow’s scouts who’d told him of Thorn’s location. He had already given the villagers enough credit. He did not need to give them more, lest Gwendolyn get ideas in her head about them being welcome to stay long term.

Which he would not allow.

Under any circumstances.

Build a town nearby? Very well. But he would have his home back, and he would not hear any arguments otherwise. Even if it did make Maewenn happy, and he had caught one of his guards playing with a pack of children. I am a miserable old bastard, after all.

They rode in silence, with the sound of nothing but the pounding of hooves on the compacted dirt of the road beneath them. Gwendolyn kept pace, following close behind and never falling back. She was an impressive rider. He glanced back at her now and then, simply wishing to catch another sight of the woman he loved, his firefly, so very much having come into her own.

She would be a force of nature in a hundred years, perhaps fewer.

He could only pray to the Ancients that he would be around when that happened.

Hours passed like that, before they reached their destination. He slowed his stallion before stopping at the edge of the wood where it met a field. “Please extinguish your horse, Gwendolyn. I do not wish to give away our position.”

Gwendolyn stopped beside him and leaned over to rest against the neck of her onyx horse. The fire of its mane and tail went out as she did, leaving only gray-black hair in its wake. “Ow.”

The chuckle that left him was one of amused sympathy. “We will ride back slower. Or perhaps we will fly home.”

“My ass is going to be bruised for a month.” She sat back up with a sigh. “Did we really have to do that?”

“Thorn may yet believe I am still a captive of the Iron Crystal. The more time passes, the less likely that becomes.” He kept his gaze ahead of them. Snow was falling now, drifting in thick flakes to the frosted grass. But it did not obscure the faint lights of an encampment. He estimated a dozen elementals and hangers-on, or thereabouts.

Summoning his sword to his hand, he glanced at Gwendolyn. “Do you wish to remain here, or join me in the fray?”

She frowned, pulling her coat tighter around her. Snowflakes were landing on her but melting quickly. “I…I’ll come.”

“Very well. Then stay out of the way if you do not wish to fight. I will not reject your assistance, should you choose to give it.” Manifesting the rest of his armor, feeling its familiar weight settle on him, he turned his attention back to the camp. The restriction of his vision by his helm had bothered him once. Now, it was easy to ignore.

Kicking his stallion, he drove toward the camp at a trot. The quickly falling snow was dampening the sound of his approach—perfect. He did not want to alarm his enemy until it was too late.

They would be easy kills. He would seek out Thorn first—cut the head off the proverbial snake. The others would likely scatter once their leader was dead. He might not be able to catch them all, but those who fled would serve to spread the news.

Mordred the Prince in Iron had returned.

And the elementals were safe from his wrath no longer.

Gwen followed Mordred, staying about fifty feet behind him. He was a nightmare against the darkness and the snow. Her eyes had adjusted, but it was still proper dark. With no moonlight or starlight, the only way she knew where to go was the fact that Mordred was somehow an inkier blackness against the drifting white snow and distant firelight.

Honestly, she heard him more than she could see him.

This was going to be a massacre.

She wanted to shout. To warn the elementals to run. But while Mordred had begrudgingly put up with her antics before, anything close to betrayal now wasn’t going to go well for her. At all.

And she knew, deep down inside, that this was the right call. That Thorn was going to be, well, a thorn in her side for the rest of her life. There was no jail, no Crystal, that was going to keep that from happening.

Lady Thorn had to die.

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