Is she too late? Is it too little? Will she be forced to watch, the way one does in a dream, running as fast as she can but never coming closer, too late to throw herself between Gwen and that great dark maw?
Perhaps not.
For oh, reader—you didn’t think she came alone, did you?
One by one, they come from beneath the trees, women bearing torches of their own. One by one they kneel, hearts thumping and skin crawling, to jam their torches into the hard earth and strike their flints. The sparks fly, catching and blazing to life in bursts of orange and gold—distant lighthouses marking the shoreline in a great ring around the two combatants.
There is Hilde, fierce as the Viking warriors that lurk deep in her blood, screaming her defiance as she grabs for her flaming brand, and there is Jane, white with fear but never wavering, raising her torch before her like a shield, trembling but holding fast.
There is Sylvie, her own anger burning as bright as her flame, thrusting it up toward the sky. Braver than the man trying to claim her for his own, and made of stronger stuff.
Olivia is there, deadly and determined, nothing of the demure maid about her now as she lifts her torch skyward and faces the creature that would kill the ones she is here to protect.
There is Madame Dupont, her face set, her torch in one hand and her sword in the other, striding toward the danger from which she once ran. Watch as she reclaims the part of herself she thought it was too late to find again.
And they are not the only ones who have come.
Now we see Delia the hedge witch, her coven arrayed to either side, curving around the arc of the great circle the women have formed. With them stand the women of Aberfarthing, returned to their burned and broken home, pushing past their terror to stand in support of the one champion who rode out for them. Some weep as they raise their torches. Some are gaunt with grief, or diamond-hard with anger. None of them waver.
And there is Isobelle, their general, who has placed each of them just so. Who has rallied them and brought them together, and who raises her voice now, bellowing with a roar equal to the dragon’s. “Forward!”
This is the oldest and the wiliest of the dragons—the one that has outlived all its fellows. The beast that has seen off the knights who went before, who took one of its deadly eyes, but fell before its baleful stare.
This creature could not be defeated with bravery alone.
But perhaps withunity...
As one, the women walk toward it, their hearts trying to leap free of their chests, their hands trembling, their faces set.
Thisis what it will take to defeat this last, great dragon. This is why it has never been done, until now.
This, reader, is women’s work.
Now, see as the beast begins to turn its head, imagining itself challenged by a dozen other, smaller dragons. Hear the low rumble of momentary confusion as it tries to size up this new threat, instinct driving it to protect its territory against these interlopers.
Watch as the statue of a knight shakes her head, like she’s coming out of a dream.
Hold your breath, as Gwen realizes that this is her moment....
Chapter Forty-Nine
You were never alone
Isobelle had half blinded herself with her own torch, waving it in desperate arcs that left white stripes dancing in her night vision, but she saw Gwen adjust her grip on her spear. Saw Achilles snort and paw at the ground—saw Gwen’s weight shift.
I only need a moment, Gwen had said. But she could see the unsteadiness in Gwen’s movements, the uneven balance of her seat in Achilles’s saddle as she tried to recover from whatever the dragon’s gaze had done to her. Isobelle’s heart caught, sank, stuttered—and then leapt into hope once more.
Take your moment, she silently urged Gwen.
Gwen sat up and touched her heels to Achilles’s flanks, her body weight shifting back as she raised the spear and hurled the ancient weapon with a cry of rage and effort that rang across the field.
An earth-shaking scream of fury and pain nearly knocked Isobelle flat, but as she fell to her knees, she looked up to see the spear drive deep into the creature’s eye, the molten gold bursting and shrinking in around the metal shaft. Isobelle wanted to look away from the gruesome sight, but she could not stop staring until her eyes began to water—not until a ragged cry of triumph went up around the ring of torchbearers did Isobelle dare believe what she’d seen.
The creature was blind—the power of its paralytic eyes was gone.
Achilles blew hard, prancing backward, then wheeling away to canter across the field as the dragon thrashed, flailing with its long forearms and spraying a gout of raging flame into the sky. Gwen clung to Achilles’s saddle, still staggered, gathering her wits—and the dragon turned blindly toward the sound of Achilles’s hooves.
Isobelle dragged herself back to her feet, her torch no use as a distraction now the creature could no longer see. “Over here!” she cried, as the dragon threatened to turn toward Gwen.
