Eyes burning, Rhiannon’s gaze returned to Jack. Sadly, he would die without ever having told Marcella his true heart, and he would die before earning his sword.
Behind her, Giles seized the brat Prince by his hair and dragged him over onto the edge of the parapet. “You want the King’s son, Morwen? Give us Jack and we’ll give him to you,” he offered. “If, indeed, you wish to rule, you will not do so without him.”
“Rule?” said Morwen, laughing. “Rule!” She laughed to her leisure, then stopped, and then, again, when they believed she would speak, she laughed a moment longer, and finally declared, “What need have I for a poppet when I am already a queen?”
She waved a hand. “Do you not see who follows me, Prince of Paladins? Here, I have brought you Wales!” she exclaimed. “I am the Chosen One. I am the key to Heaven on Earth. What have you but a snotty little boy—the weakling son of a usurper, who, even now, slumps in his throne, heavy with defeat!”
A frisson of fear rushed down Rhiannon’s spine as Giles held the King’s son closer to the edge of the parapet, his temper rising. “P-Please d-don’t!” whined the Prince. “P-Please! My father will treat with you. He’ll give you aught you ask for. I will give you gold!”
Giles ignored him. “Neither have we any need for a sniveling fool, who cares more for his own turds than he does for his people!”
“Of that we are in accord,” said Morwen evenly. She lifted a hand. “Therefore, let us be rid of the wretch!” she declared, and waved a hand, commanding her bowmen.
A host of arrows flew at the Prince’s breast, every one finding its mark, narrowly missing Giles. Alas, their own bowmen could not answer in kind. The Welsh were famed for their precision; their arrows more deadly and their projection farther than England’s. The impact gave the Prince’s body a succession of violent twitches. Looking like a pinpush, he crumpled to his knees. Startled, Giles de Vere released him, and Eustace fell forward, tumbling lifelessly into the motte.
So swiftly the King’s heir was gone.
So swiftly a father’s legacy was done.
If, indeed, he’d meant to reconsider a treaty with Duke Henry, this would be the death of his waffling. And yet, Morwen was only toying with them as yet, perhaps realizing they hadn’t proper numbers to fight her. First, she would have her fun, and then she would have her vengeance. Still, Giles insisted. “We’ll not treat with you! Free the boy!”
Morwen shrugged. “I see no boy,” she said. “I see a man, fledgling though he might be. A grown man with choices, and he made one. So mote it be.” Without warning, she unsheathed her sword and turned to run it through Jack’s heart.
Fight and prevail, said Jack, even as the blood gurgled into his throat, the fresh tide turning the cloth in his mouth even more crimson yet. He slumped forward in the saddle, and Morwen shoved his lifeless body off the horse, into the muck.
Seeing this, Marcella’s scream rent the air; it was the beginning of chaos.
A bolt of lightning struck the keep behind them, the sound like a god’s fury.
Morwen’s soldiers silently marched forward, closing in on the castle, like mindless lemmings. The first line of defense fell into the motte, then turned upon their brethren, and seeing this unexpected sorcery, Morwen raged anew. Her scream sent forth a host of locusts swarming toward the castle, only to meet the sisters’ wards and be thwarted.
Down in the field, the battle was fully engaged. Beguiled and confused, some of Morwen’s soldiers fought each other, hand to hand. Up on the ramparts, Warkworth’s archers waited for the seneschal’s command. Knowing their missiles were scarce, he waited until the second line of Morwen’s army was close enough, then shouted, “Loose!”
A flight of arrows whizzed through the air, and Seren waved a hand and said:
Fire in the air, fire on the ground!
The arrows erupted with witchfire, leaving smoke in their wake as they descended. Every mark they met igniting with searing blue flames. Men screamed, but those horrifying sounds that came from their mouths were akin to squawks.
Thunder cracked, the skies emptied. Lightning brightened the fields as a swarm of creatures launched into the air, bodies morphing from man to bird. Some flew away, some tested the wards, breaching their defense with little effort, only to dive upon their prey.
Elspeth hadn’t the same level of skills as her sisters. She focused on the horses of those Welsh soldiers, commanding them all to unseat their riders. In answer, a wave of soldiers flew from their mounts, rolling into the muck, and she did it again, and again, until all of Morwen’s reinforcements were forced to fight afoot, slogging through boggy fields in the downpour.
Only Morwen’s horse held its rider, but she struggled to retain it. “I should have snuffed your first breaths!” she raged, shaking her fist at the daughters.
Only now that her soldiers were grounded, Rosalynde focused on the fields, and all those remaining puddles, turning each one into quagmires, so that they sucked at the boots of passing soldiers, pulling them down into quicksand.
More screams and squawks rent the air. Swords clashed, metal rang. Somewhere down in the fray, Jack’s body lay trampled.
The thought made Rhiannon’s heart ache, but clearly not more than Marcella’s. At one point during the melee, whilst everyone was otherwise engaged, Marcella flew down the stairs. Shouting vengefully, she cast open the gates. Sword in hand, the witch-paladin marched out from the inner bailey, straight toward her once beloved, intent upon doing what she knew best—wresting the head from Morwen’s body. She might not have the same affinities as the Pendragon sisters, but she knew how to use a blade, and with deadly precision. As though called upon by her wrath, more soldiers arrived on the battlefield and Rhiannon feared the battle was done.
“D’Lucy!” shouted Wilhelm. “D’Lucy!”
Rhiannon’s heart quivered, thinking that Cael had finally arrived to join them on the ramparts. But nay… nay… those were Drakewich’s standards marching toward them—hundreds of men, all sporting a similar dragon banner as Cael’s. And then, from the woodlands came yet another wave of reinforcements, all bearing Scotia’s standard, with Malcom Scott at the helm.
Flanked between them, Morwen’s soldiers crushed themselves together, pushing the first line into the motte as Marcella fought her way across the bridge, here and there shoving Morwen’s soldiers into the motte. They emerged time and again, only to fall behind her, and by the time she’d made her way into the crush, their numbers had grown.
But it was not enough.
Like Jack, she would die if she dared to face Morwen alone, and foremost in Rhiannon’s mind was the fear that now that the gates were open wide, their wards would all be breached. Once those circles were broken, the magik used to protect them would be useless.
She and her dewine sisters shared a look, and a shiver rushed up Rhiannon’s spine as each of her sisters unsheathed a sword…
No time for kisses.
No time for embraces.
No time for good-byes.
No time for regrets.
No time for uncertainty.
It was impossible to say how many new warriors had joined the battle, but the match was still heavily skewed in Morwen’s favor. One last look passed between the sisters as the battle entered their gates. And then, one by one they turned to engage, and Rhiannon hadn’t any more time to wonder about Cael. She had a fleeting thought that his would not be the last arms she would fall upon, and then a dark shadow crossed the sky—a great, winged creature. A bird, no… an angel, descending from the heavens.