Chapter 25
Go home, Dragonslayr
They paused on the landing at the top of the stairs. Gwen was shaking, and when she turned, Isobelle was there. But instead of pulling Gwen into her arms, Isobelle reached up and took her face between her hands in a surprisingly fierce grip.
‘We’re not going anywhere,’ Isobelle said, with all her old force of will. Like she was casually picking up the reins of reality and giving them a twitch to let it know who was in charge.
Gwen reached up to curl her hands around Isobelle’s wrists, and held them there. ‘He can’t make us go, not by force, not all of us. But if we get back to Darkhaven and he says we defied him—’
‘Let’s worry about that when we actually do get back to Darkhaven,’ replied Isobelle.
Gwen drew breath as if to reply, but halted, watching Isobelle, her expression strangely unreadable.
Then she gave herself a shake and said, ‘Brilliant, suggesting that Orson go down and fill him in. He’ll listen to another man with far less …
’ She reached for the word but couldn’t find it.
The weariness of the battle against the monster was settling back in, now Isobelle had stopped the brewing clash between her and Grimshaw.
‘Prejudice?’ Isobelle suggested. ‘Stupidity? Unbridled male ego?’
Gwen laughed – or made a sound somewhere in that same family at any rate – and let Isobelle tug her from the stairs. But as soon as they turned the corner into the corridor, it became immediately clear that something was wrong.
Jane and Hilde were standing there in the hall outside Gwen’s door, directing twin wide-eyed stares into the room. Jane glanced their way as they approached, but only shook her head at Isobelle when she asked what was happening.
Gwen felt her heart sinking as she stepped up to the doorway, as if some part of her knew what she’d find.
Sylvie was seated on Gwen’s clothes chest, head bowed, the midday light caressing her brown skin, painting red highlights in her black hair. Orson knelt before her, face as grim and concerned as any knight in an old portrait. He had one hand raised to her face.
It would’ve looked very romantic indeed, if not for the fact that Orson’s hand held a handkerchief, and a thick trickle of blood stained Sylvie’s cheek.
Isobelle gave a sharp cry of alarm and pushed past Gwen, who’d frozen in the doorway. Sylvie waved her hand and said briskly, ‘I’m fine, head wounds always bleed far too much. I’m fine, I tell you.’
Isobelle shoved Orson aside so abruptly that he lost his balance and went toppling sideways. Orson, who knew Isobelle better than anyone, usually grinned and rolled his eyes at her impetuosity. This time, though, Gwen saw the muscles in his jaw clench, worry tightening his features.
‘What happened?’ Isobelle asked, anxiously inspecting Sylvie’s head, which sported a small gash above her hairline.
‘I was doing a bit of tidying – the maid won’t come up anymore, even when we’re out.
’ Sylvie’s voice had only a fraction of its usual scorn for such obvious weakness.
If anything, she sounded the tiniest bit anxious herself.
‘I had just opened the shutters to let in some sun, when that came hurtling in from below and knocked me down.’
She gestured to something lying on the rug a few feet away.
While Isobelle took the handkerchief from Orson and took over cleaning and dressing Sylvie’s injury, Gwen unfroze enough to cross the room, stoop and pick up the object.
It was a stone about the size of her fist. It must have struck only a glancing blow – if it hadn’t, Sylvie would not be conscious and speaking. The rock was the same nondescript limestone that formed the sea cliffs, but as Gwen turned it over in her hand …
Her sharp breath rang like a cry in the silence.
Orson stood and came to Gwen’s side, looking down at the object in her hands. Painted on the stone in the same whitewash that marked the houses were three words: ‘GO HOME, DRAGONSLAYR.’
Gwen could not take her eyes off the stone, winded; her hand started to shake. Orson reached out and took the stone from her, giving her hand a surreptitious squeeze as he did so.
Isobelle and Sylvie had been having a low-voiced altercation about how to bandage the gash on Sylvie’s head. (‘If you cut my hair, I will murder you in your sleep,’ Sylvie had said calmly. ‘Leave it, it’ll stop bleeding on its own.’)
Now, Isobelle was watching Gwen and Orson, her face grave; the white lettering on the stone was easily visible.
‘Ignore it,’ she said, her voice as calm as Sylvie’s had been, though her eyes were flashing in a way Gwen knew quite well. ‘How dare they, when you’re risking your life to save them!’
‘But do you think …’ Hilde began, her voice uncharacteristically tentative. ‘That maybe, if they wish us to leave, we ought to go?’
‘Nonsense,’ retorted Jane, though her gaze was troubled. ‘People do stupid things when they’re scared.’
Gwen went to the window, whose shutters were still open.
Whoever had thrown the stone had been long gone before they’d arrived, and the street below was deserted.
The map of the town, with its large ‘THOU ART HERE’ lettering, stood up from the square like a gravestone with an epitaph in the chilly winter sun.
‘Maybe we should go,’ she murmured.
‘What?’ Isobelle’s voice was sharp, and when Gwen turned around, the other girl was staring at her as though she’d proposed taking wing and flying back to Darkhaven. ‘You’re going to cave to Grimshaw?’
‘Grimshaw?’ Orson repeated the name, eyes widening with confusion.
Isobelle blinked. ‘Oh, yes – Master Grimshaw’s arrived to try to force us to go back to Darkhaven. He’s downstairs, and you’ll need to go tell him what’s been happening and why we can’t leave yet. Try to, you know, be manly and sympathetic to his ego.’
Gwen cut off Orson’s further protests of confusion, and looked across the room at Isobelle. ‘I’m not talking about caving to Grimshaw – I’m saying maybe we should go.’
‘But these people need us. They need you.’
‘Do they?’ Gwen was still wearing her leather breastplate, her hand still resting on the hilt of her sword.
She forced herself to let go of it, taking a deep breath that filled her nostrils with the briny, earthy smell of the sea monster’s blood that had splashed onto her trousers.
‘They seem to think I’m the jinx who brought these misfortunes upon them. How do we know they’re wrong?’
Isobelle moved from Sylvie to stand with Gwen at the window.
‘You stop that right now,’ she said, her voice tense, gaze intent, fixed on Gwen as though the others weren’t there.
‘You didn’t make Bingleton into a necromancer.
You didn’t bring the sea monster back from the dead.
You didn’t cast spells on the town. None of this is your fault. ’
Gwen glanced back at the deserted street, avoiding Isobelle’s eyes. ‘Tabitha said magic follows the logic of stories. Who’s to say I’m not cursed?’
Isobelle didn’t answer. When the silence stretched out, Gwen looked back at her and was shocked to see tears in Isobelle’s eyes. Galvanised, Gwen reached out and took her hand.
‘I’m sorry – you’re right. I’m just … I’m just tired from the fight, and wallowing a bit. Of course we’re not going anywhere.’ Gwen heaved a breath, forcing her tight ribcage to open, and then let it out audibly.
Jane cleared her throat. ‘Maybe we should talk about …’
But Sylvie shot her a look that stopped her mid-sentence. All three girls wore expressions that made Gwen wonder if, perhaps, this was not the first time one of them had proposed leaving. It was just the first time they’d done it in front of Gwen and Isobelle.
Gwen’s heart ached, for how frightened must they all be to want to go, even if it meant leaving Isobelle? Her eyes went back to the gash on Sylvie’s forehead, now covered by a neat bandage. ‘Sylvie, are you sure you’re okay?’
‘I’ve got the devil of a headache,’ Sylvie admitted. ‘I think we should take our mind off things while we can.’
Until the sea monster comes back.
The unspoken words hung in the air. Isobelle was still quiet, her eyes distant, with a tiny dimple in her lip that told Gwen she was chewing on it.
Gwen couldn’t help but wonder what she was thinking, why her words had impacted her so acutely – surely Isobelle was used to Gwen’s occasional bouts of pessimism by now.
In the past, she’d seemed to quite enjoy talking Gwen out of them.
Gwen stepped closer, drawing Isobelle’s hand up to her breastbone to cradle it against her – a gesture that would’ve been infinitely more romantic if she wasn’t still wearing a breastplate – and addressed the others.
‘Isobelle suggested we go to the hot springs this afternoon … and I, for one, would welcome a soak.’
‘What about Grimshaw?’ asked Jane nervously. ‘If he finds out we’ve left to soak in a hot spring of all things …’
‘I can keep him occupied,’ Orson said confidently. ‘Give me ten minutes, then go down the back stairs.’
‘Are you up to it, Sylvie?’ asked Isobelle.
‘It’s a perfect idea,’ Sylvie said with a sigh, getting to her feet. She wobbled slightly, prompting Orson to make a comically hasty lurch to try to support her, until she swatted him away. ‘You ladies change, and we’ll all go together.’
By the time they all met around the back of the inn, Gwen’s muscles had stiffened up. She had a hard time concealing the slight limp in her walk as they set out for the hot springs. No one else commented on it, though.
Isobelle and Sylvie led the way, discussing possible plans for rescuing Tabitha once the necromancer was weaker.
Sylvie and Orson had been going over strategies together before the rock incident; no doubt Orson was facing a terrible internal struggle, knowing the young witch was a captive, afraid and alone.
Gwen and Isobelle followed, and Isobelle was once again cheerful and chatty, though some of her cheer was tinged with an irritation she didn’t bother to hide any time she glanced at Sylvie and saw the blossoming bruise emerging from her hairline.
Jane and Hilde brought up the rear, and they weren’t speaking at all. They walked arm in arm, and Gwen thought perhaps Jane looked even more worried than Hilde.
For now, there was nothing to be done except rest up for the next battle.
Gwen tried to clear her thoughts, chasing them out one by one as they reached the hot springs.
Gargery was there, but disinclined towards conversation, gesturing them in without a word before vanishing back inside his caretaker’s cottage.
Gwen retrieved a swimming costume herself – she got a green one this time – and had just turned towards one of the changing alcoves when a strange metallic clanging echoed through the air.
Everyone halted, heads turning, ears cocked.
Then Gwen’s eyes met Isobelle’s as she recognised the sound.
It was the distant tolling of the harbour bell.
For a long moment, no one moved. Then Gwen carefully put the swimming costume back in the cupboard and turned towards the road that led back to town.
Isobelle hurried to do the same, and Gwen’s temper flickered, her exhaustion rising up to strike out at the nearest target. She clenched her jaw. ‘Stay – enjoy the hot springs. Take care of Sylvie. You don’t have to come with me every time.’
The others tactfully drew apart a few paces. Isobelle reached out and touched Gwen’s arm, which had gone rigid as she realised she would have to fight again, and so soon.
‘Do you really not want me with you?’ Isobelle asked.
Gwen’s anger fell away, and with it went a portion of her exhaustion too.
In the moment the bell had rung, she’d felt a wave of fearful despair.
It was too soon, she hadn’t been able to rest, at this rate she’d collapse before the necromancer weakened …
Now, Isobelle’s hand on her arm might as well have been the touch of a curse-breaking hero in a fairytale.
To her surprise, she felt her eyes sting with a sudden surge of … something.
Love, said her heart pointedly.
Shut up, said the rest of her. I have to go kill a sea monster.
Gwen slid her hand into Isobelle’s. ‘Of course I need you with me,’ she whispered. ‘Let’s go.’
From here, dear reader, I regret to advise that matters go rapidly downhill.
No, no, fear not – Gwen is not defeated by the ravening sea monster. We do not sharply turn to a tale of Isobelle’s revenge on the beast that slew her love.
Gwen fights the creature, and she defeats it. And then she fights it again. And again.
And again.
And again.
The bell rings each day, sometimes twice a day.
And each day – sometimes twice a day – our hero takes up her sword.
Each night she wakes, sweating, with nightmares.
Each morning she’s a little more stiff and withdrawn.
Isobelle, forced to bear witness to Gwen’s misery, can scarcely stop herself begging Gwen to stop, to let them find some other way to weaken their adversary.
But she can’t bear to force Gwen to carry her fears and worries, too.
Are their efforts weakening the necromancer? Is Lord Bingleton’s strength failing, as he raises his foul minion from the dead each time? Alas, there is no way to know. He has not been sighted in some time.
What of Master Grimshaw’s demand that they return to Darkhaven immediately, monster or no?
Well, they were prevented from departing by the fact that the carriage wheel had become broken mysteriously in the night.
And once that was fixed, two of the horses threw their shoes, and for some reason there was not a single nail to be found in the entire town.
Then the rope for the well snapped, and there was no way to refill the water skins for travel.
And then the statue in the town square managed to topple from its plinth and land – strangely intact – directly across the carriage access.
But as the days pass, Jane, Hilde and Sylvie are beginning to run out of ways to stall Master Grimshaw.
And Master Grimshaw is getting angry.
It is a desperate time, and as the shortest, darkest day of the year approaches, even the bravest soul might start to falter.