Page 76 of The Cornish Princess
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?
