Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)(24)

—Claire de Murrow

Connaught Castle, Kingdom of Legault

La Victoire (an Occitanian saying)





CHAPTER EIGHT

Broken Knight

The soldier with the knife tried to jam the blade into Ransom’s thigh, but it deflected off his armor. He tried again, his face a mess of rage and hatred, and this time the blade slid beneath the groove of armor but was stopped by the chain leggings beneath.

Ransom knew he was in serious trouble. The man with the pole and hook yanked hard, and Ransom had to grip the saddle horn to keep from toppling backward off Gemmell. His horse snorted and flailed his hooves, knocking back a man who grasped at his reins.

Squeezing his knees, Ransom tried to direct his horse to turn in a circle. He had to turn Gemmell around to the exit. He had to get out.

A spear struck his side, again deflected by his armor. He brought the pommel of his sword down, and it broke the haft of the spear before it could shove him off his steed. Gemmell thrashed, buffeting a man and knocking him down. Ransom could feel no rush of water as had happened in his previous battles. The sensation of being in command of himself, of his weapons, was gone. He felt hollow inside, an empty cauldron.

He was truly alone, surrounded by enemies.

He heard some of the men grunt in the Brugian tongue. The only word he could make out was kill. Ransom thrust down with his bastard sword, killing a man who stood too close, but the man with the hook was persistent. He yanked even harder, and Ransom felt his armor twisting, bending, exposing his back to the blows of his enemies. A battle axe struck his side. He felt pain in his ribs and worried the blade of the axe had pierced his armor.

This would end badly for him. He still fought to turn Gemmell full circle, and his field of vision was obscured by the darkness of the shadowed entrance to the barn. Another yank on his armor by the accursed hook rent it further. He felt the night air seep through the leather and links, which were now punctured and open.

Someone threw a dagger at him. He felt the blade hit his back, but he’d turned at the last moment, and it struck metal instead of leather. He struck another man with his blade. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the fellow with the pole and hook, who followed the turn of the steed and kept wrenching his pole to wrest Ransom off his horse.

More shouts, more blows. Ransom felt something strike his helm. It rattled him, making him dizzy. But he was finally facing the right direction. Someone grabbed his arm, but Ransom hoisted the man off his feet and launched him atop the saddle before his strength gave way. The man squirmed, trying to get free, but Ransom swatted Gemmell’s flank with his sword. His rouncy charged, knocking aside two men who had moved to bar the exit. The horse screamed, a deathly, horrible cry as it charged. Both men were flung aside. The man with the pole and hook was dragged by the horse as they left the barn, but he let go. Ransom felt the loss of weight on his back and realized he was free. The man on his saddle horn tried to grapple with him, but Ransom clubbed his skull with the pommel of his sword. He flung him off and heard the impact of his body hitting the road.

Ransom’s heart raced as dread and relief battled for dominance in his chest. He’d almost been killed by the Brugians, but he’d made it free of the barn. He leaned forward, gasping for breath, experiencing a dull emptiness in his chest. A void. It was eerie and frightening. He’d been utterly alone during that fight, weakened in a way he couldn’t explain or identify.

Gemmell slowed from a gallop to a trot, snorting, grumbling, heading back toward Lord Kinghorn’s encampment. Ransom stroked the rouncy’s neck as he leaned forward, grateful the horse had saved his life.

“That was close, Gemmell,” he panted. “That was much too close.”

The trot ebbed even slower, as if the rouncy’s strength was flagging more than Ransom’s. That was most unusual for him.

“Almost there. Come on. I’ll get you some oats. Hmm? Does that sound good? We’re both tired tonight.” His gaze lifted to the horizon, watching the sky slowly brighten.

Gemmell slowed and stopped. Ransom sat up, worried, and lifted the visor of his helmet. He looked backward, seeing the barn in the dim light. His arms trembled with exhaustion.

“What’s the matter, boy?” Ransom whispered, rubbing his gauntleted hand across Gemmell’s neck again.

He could feel the muscles of the beast quivering. Ransom kicked loose from the stirrup, afraid his horse might collapse and pin him to the earth, but he didn’t dismount. If he got off the horse, he might not be able to get back on it again, not without help. He looked back again, wondering if the Brugian men-at-arms could see him.

Gemmell grunted. It was a different sound, almost a wheeze. Ransom did dismount then, his instincts telling him something was very wrong. With his visor up, from the perspective of the ground, he quickly found the horse’s wound. Gemmell had been speared by one of the soldiers.

“No,” Ransom said, aghast, gazing at the animal’s bloody flank. There was a trail of dark blood in the road. The steed swayed, trying to steady himself. Ransom had seen wounds like this after the first battle. The horses hadn’t survived.

Gemmell swung his neck, and his huge eye looked at Ransom. He looked afraid.

Ransom shook his head in disbelief. He’d trained with Gemmell for the last five years. The horse had been a gift from King Gervase. Pain bloomed in his heart. He heard sounds coming from the barn. He looked back and saw the men-at-arms were stalking up the road toward him. At least eight men, each holding weapons. Did they know his horse was wounded?