Warrior's Ransom (The First Argentines #2) - Jeff Wheeler Page 0,114

“The Occitanians have withdrawn back over the river again, but they wait there, watching the city burn. The men abandoned the outer walls because of the flames. There are no defenses now.”

Devon looked at Ransom with a bleak expression. Pain still writhed inside the king—he could sense it—and this foul news made it worse. The stand, which should have lasted several fortnights, had ended on the first day. It was a miserable defeat.

“We ride north, then,” said the king. “Abandon the town.”

“What of the soldiers fighting the fires?” asked one of his knights.

“I don’t think Benedict will murder them,” he said. “Only those with horses can escape.” He looked at one of his knights. “Axien . . . ride back to Kingfountain. Tell them we’ve abandoned Dunmanis and are heading to Glosstyr.”

The knight balked. “My lord, your life is more important than this news. Do not send me away. It’s my duty to protect you.”

“It is your duty to do as I command!” barked the king. His eyes flashed, but then the intensity guttered out. “Somehow you need to get past Wigant’s army. Do your best. Fulfill my command.”

Sir Axien looked stricken, but he nodded in capitulation.

Devon turned to Ransom. “You are my bodyguard. We fight from Glosstyr next with what little strength is there. The knights are scattered and bewildered. Leave a man to send word for all who are left to rally at Glosstyr Keep. Avoid Benedict’s army if they can. But we must ride now. Every moment we wait increases the chance we’ll be captured.”

“As you wish, my lord,” Ransom said. He turned to look at his small mesnie. “Dearley, you and Guivret ride with me. Dawson, fulfill the king’s orders. Gather as many knights as you can and meet us in Glosstyr.”

Dawson nodded and turned back to ride into the burning town. Those who would be riding to Glosstyr had already removed their armor, Dearley and Guivret included. If they were to flee the distance required to escape, they would need to travel as light as possible. The horses were already weary enough from the fighting of the day, and there were no fresh mounts. Every beast had been taken, some stolen, in the commotion.

With lances poised, they rode out of Dunmanis into the midmorning, reeking of smoke and determined to reach their destination swiftly. The king had six knights left from his guard and a half-dozen lesser nobles traveled with them, including Ransom’s brother, Marcus. It felt wonderful breathing clean air again, hearing the noise of birds and the thump of the hooves against dirt instead of cobblestones. Pervenshere River snaked on their left, but they rode away from it, leaving the Occitanians behind.

“My lord!” called one of the lesser nobles from behind.

Ransom turned in the saddle, and his stomach dropped when he saw men giving chase on horseback, their tunics that of the Lion.

The king looked back as well, recognition dawning in his eyes. “It’s him,” he declared over the wind rushing past them.

Ransom saw Benedict at the head of the pursuers, his beard noticeable, and his wild hair fanning out behind him. There was a reason they hadn’t fought any of the duke’s men during the fight. They’d come around from behind to cut off escape, and now their quarry was running for it. The trap had been sprung.

One of the king’s knights, Sir Thatcher, turned around and went to face their pursuers. He did this without being commanded to. His action was misinterpreted by a few of the others, who suddenly broke ranks and fled, abandoning the king. Ransom stayed alongside Devon, but he looked back. One of Benedict’s knights rode ahead and met the charge. He took the lance on the shield, and it shattered but didn’t dislodge him from the saddle. Sir Thatcher was quickly captured while Benedict continued his pursuit. He was farther ahead than his other men, coming at them with purpose and determination to halt the conflict quickly.

Ransom’s heart rushed in his chest. If Devon were captured, it would be the end of his reign and the end of Ransom’s hopes. He would never be allowed to marry Claire, and the Occitanians would have free range on Ceredigion. The heir the Fountain had spoken of might never be born. They were in the meadows now, rushing through the tall grass, trying to get a lead. But Benedict’s horse was fresher, and he was gaining on them. However, he’d separated himself from the rest of his men, leaving