Warrior's Ransom (The First Argentines #2) - Jeff Wheeler Page 0,24

fought in the tournament circuit.

Ransom’s blood screamed as the magic tingled through him. He knocked the first man off his horse without losing his lance. Another knight tried to skewer him, but Ransom leaned to the side and then couched his lance again and struck a different knight. The timber shattered, raining broken fragments onto the field. Distantly, he registered that his men had joined the attack. He acted on instinct, grabbing his second lance and using it to knock down another man, but it shattered on impact. Dappled screamed with rage and took a bite out of another horse’s withers.

When he had no more lances, Ransom drew his bastard sword. One of the black-clad knights charged him with a lance, and Ransom was able to deflect it with his blade and then strike a blow as the knight rode past. A throb of warning struck him, and he turned to the left. There was Dearley, the stump of a lance under his arm, as two knights bore down on him with fresh lances. The young knight looked stunned as he watched the two men charging at him.

Ransom felt a throb of protectiveness. Two against one was unfair in any contest, but against such a stripling? He swatted Dappled with the flat of his blade and charged forward to intercept.

The clatter of arms swelled around him as he urged his horse to greater speed. Ashel’s men were pressing the Occitanians back, sending them toward Ransom and his men. Despite the confusion of the battle, he sensed what was happening, like the tune of a song that was familiar to his ears.

Dearley leaned forward, gripping his shattered lance in preparation to receive the attack. His face looked calm, as if he were expecting to die.

Ransom arrived, putting himself and his horse in front of Dearley’s. A lance pierced his armor and the force of the blow nearly toppled him off the saddle. Cracking wood. Agony. He gripped the saddle horn, feeling his body sliding off the seat, but he clenched and grimaced and managed to remain on his horse. His interference had broken both of the attacks.

Suddenly he was surrounded by Occitanian foot soldiers, pushed back by Ashel’s front, trying to retreat. They surged around his horse, fleeing, but some took aim at him. Spears began to dent his armor, and one such blow actually helped him regain his balance.

Black knights astride their horses struggled to reach him, caught in a swift current of fleeing bodies. Another blow hit Ransom from behind, and he felt the second sting of pain. He swung his sword arm around, deflecting a halberd tip and then slaying the man who held it. Clinging to the saddle horn, having lost hold of the reins, he fought against the surge of foot soldiers. One of the mounted knights in black managed to get past the flood of fleeing men, and he attacked Ransom with a bastard sword.

Ransom’s arm felt strange and weak, but he blocked the blows and tried to change position so he could use his other arm. Another blade struck his armor from behind. The chaos was overwhelming, but he narrowed his focus on the knight he could see and parried two more blows, looking for a weakness. The knight was highly skilled and a relentless attacker. But he’d been fighting for hours, and Ransom had not.

They traded blows, their horses alongside each other, and Ransom fought until his arm went numb from the effort. He felt more attacks against his back, but his armor protected him, somewhat, and he was past feeling pain. His blood raged with the passion of war, and he felt himself carried on a current of determination.

The knight couldn’t defeat Ransom, and so he turned his horse aside and fled. And as the man left, Ransom realized it was Estian himself, disguised as one of his men.

Ransom went after him, knowing their victory would be complete if they could capture the Occitanian king, but another warrior immediately rode forward to bar his way. The man wore ceremonial armor, with fluted designs and elaborate frills. It was the armor of a royal knight, one who could afford such a costly expense. A count or a duke.

That a duke was interceding told Ransom he had guessed correctly about Estian’s identity.

The royal knight lowered a lance and came straight at him. Ransom tried to block it, but his own limbs weren’t responding as quickly or efficiently as they usually did. The lance caught