give way. Smoke drifted through the scene, but Ransom could still see Sir Chauvigny’s eyes through the opening in his helmet. They were wide with fear as he realized his skills and stamina could not match his opponent’s. There was no way to retreat, the two blocked in on every side.
The battle cry was shouted all around him as the knights of Ceredigion began to drive the Occitanians back. The heat from the fire was stifling, and the smoke stung Ransom’s eyes. It felt as if the whole world were burning, but it was nothing compared to the flames raging inside him. The Occitanians gave ground again, shoved back by the sheer might of will coming from the knights who had rallied to Ransom’s side.
Smoke obscured the road and the oncoming soldiers, but Ransom saw some of the Occitanians turn and flee. Perhaps they feared they’d be burned alive in the blazing town. Sir Chauvigny turned in his saddle, looking to see what had become of his knights, and Ransom lunged forward and grabbed the other man’s horse by the bridle strap. He clenched it in his hand and then turned his own steed and dragged the other toward the gate. Sir Chauvigny nearly fell off the horse at the sudden lunge but managed to keep his seat. Ransom hauled both horse and knight toward the gatehouse, where he saw and heard cheering men atop the walls.
Sir Chauvigny tried to wrest control of his horse again, but the beast followed Ransom docilely despite its rider’s objections. Stones were hurled down from the walls, several of them striking Sir Chauvigny on the helmet and breastplate. Ransom gritted his teeth and kept pulling, hearing the cheers grow louder.
As he reached the gate, he saw Dearley and other knights had assembled to guard it. A huge stone was flung down, hitting Sir Chauvigny on the arm he’d lifted to defend himself from the blow. The knight let out a bark of pain, and Ransom saw that the stone had broken his arm.
Ransom tugged the man through the gate and handed the bridle to Dearley. “Disarm him,” he ordered. “He’ll make a good prize.”
“Aye, my lord,” said Dearley, beaming with pride at Ransom’s feat. The smoke from the burning town rushed in through the gate, but Ransom turned back to join his comrades who were still battling the Occitanians. A small group of knights from Ceredigion was holding off the vanguard, thanks to the narrow street, the smoke, and the determination to prevail. Indeed, neither side was prepared to relent.
Ransom brought two more hostages back to Dearley, and each time he arrived with another victim, cheers went up from the men.
One of his fellows turned to Ransom. “Shall we stand our ground longer, my lord? I think we can defeat the whole army!”
Ransom chuckled at the man’s bravado. “We’ve held it long enough. Back to the gate before we cook inside our armor.”
The heat from the flames grew more oppressive as the fire spread. The homes outside the walls of the town were blazing, but at least Estian wouldn’t be able to use them for firewood or shelter.
He motioned for the others to follow, and they rode back to the gate, where Dearley and the other guards awaited them. Ransom tried moving his left arm, but the armor was so dented and battered around his shoulder that his range of motion was severely limited. He imagined his helmet had also been mangled during the fight. But he was proud to have stopped the advance.
As soon as Ransom and the others reached Dearley, the men on guard shoved the doors of the gate closed and settled the crossbar into place.
“Your horse is wounded,” Dearley said to him.
Ransom raised his crooked visor so he could see better. He looked down and then back, and saw that the horse’s rear flank had been scraped by a lance he hadn’t even seen. The beast was bleeding profusely, but it had not wavered during the battle.
Ransom quickly dismounted and patted the horse along the neck. Memories of Gemmell, the horse that Ransom had lost after his first battle, brought a throb of sadness. “You served Sir Terencourt and me well.” He turned to Dearley. “Get this beast back to the castle and have him tended to. I hope the wound isn’t fatal.”
“I will,” Dearley said. Then he pointed to another horse, the one that Sir Chauvigny had been riding. “This one can serve in its place.”
King Devon strode up,