Shadowsinger

Chapter 36

The sky was still dark when Gwyn woke, her fingers automatically reaching out for the bedroll beside hers, finding it cold. Still half-asleep, she wandered out of the tent, buckling her weapons on over her leathers as she moved, finding the camp silent, the shadows cast by the tents the only movement in the pale moonlight. She stared out over the barely-visible soon-to-be battleground, steeling her mind, her courage.

I am the rock against which the surf crashes. I am Gwyneth Berdara and I cannot be broken.

She repeated the phrases over and over in her mind, controlling her breathing as she allowed her consciousness to drift away from the battle, to ready herself for the coming bloodshed. She allowed her gaze to fall across the village behind their lines, remembering all the females and children that they'd spent all of yesterday evacuating, and those that had refused to leave their homes.

The sky started to light, tendrils of fire shooting across the blackness of the night as the sun lifted its head above the horizon. Gwyn couldn't tear her gaze away as she stood, her gaze fixed on the enemy camp, so close, so, so close, if she could just get there, she could, what could she do? Assassinate one of their leaders? She'd be captured and killed, and the battle would go on. Plant some letter to spread mistrust of the humans? She'd be captured and killed. There was nothing she could do now, nothing but fight and bleed to protect her home.

The camp started to wake, cooking fires lighting the world around her further, but Gwyn's stomach had tied itself into a tight knot, and the thought of food disgusted her.

"Not hungry?" Emerie.

"No,"

"Me neither, my stomach feels like it might explode," that was about right, "You know he'll be okay, Elain doesn't always know exactly what she saw,

"I know, it's not just that, it's this anticipation, I'd rather fight than wait for one," Emerie huffed her agreement and pressed closer, her shoulder pressed against Gwyn's, the silent solidarity all she needed. No words were needed between them, not as they stared over the battleground, not as Nesta joined them, stepping in front to clasp both of their hands in her own, her steely gray eyes burning with the remnants of Cauldron-born power. The moment Nesta chose to unleash that ember of power, the rebel lines would break. Gwyn just hoped she timed it right so that Cassian could capitalize on the subsequent panic.

*****

It was hell. There was no other way to describe it but hell as she parried one sword blade, only to be almost gutted by another, diving to the ground to avoid a warrior swooping down from the sky. Gwyn groaned as she rolled on her side, desperate to catch her breath, but someone fell towards her, she couldn't see who, but she kicked out at them, desperately trying to push them off as their weight crushed her into the ground, the air around her filled with mud and blood and pain. She gasped in a breath as a hand clamped around her wrist, yanking her to her feet, face to face with Nesta. Blood streaked her face, mud covered her leathers, caught in her hair, the strands falling loose from the braid whipping wildly around her face. Her sword was stained red, and she shoved Gwyn behind her as she stepped forward to parry a blow, opening the guts of another warrior. Gwyn nodded her thanks, falling into rank beside her as they fought to re-form the buckling lines. Even here, even at the edge of the battle, she could see hardly two feet in front of her, this was nothing like the blood rite, like any fight she'd been in before, this was bloody, and brutal, pure mindless killing.

She wouldn't have thought herself capable of it, but her sword moved almost of its own volition, cutting down countless warriors that faced her, instinct guiding her movement, the product of careful training and repetition. Her breath came in ragged gasps and pants as she struggled to get enough air, struggled to find the energy to move her aching muscles, the effort of lifting her sword greater each swing. She stumbled once, then her sword fell from her hand as something slammed into her stomach, she flew backwards, the air punched out of her lungs, and scrabbled to stand again. The same thing knocked her off her feet, and she recognized it this time, not a thing, but a piece of Illyrian magic. Her vision blurred as it hit her again, and again, and again. She struck out at it, but her dagger didn't harm it, and she snarled in frustration, making out the same green glow a few paces in front of her, the warrior controlling the magic. As hard as she could, she hurled the dagger blindly at him, grunting with the effort. A cry of pain reached her ears, and the pressure on her lungs eased as the magic faded to nothing.