Warrior's Ransom (The First Argentines #2) - Jeff Wheeler Page 0,25

him in the middle and would have knocked him off his saddle if they’d been riding faster. It knocked him sideways instead. Ransom delivered a counterstrike as they passed each other, his sword biting into the man’s neck, and the royal slumped from his saddle.

Ransom searched for Estian, but there were so many riders now, many of them in black, and it was impossible to identify him in the crowd. The Occitanians had completely broken ranks, and the remaining soldiers were fleeing. Cheers of victory came from the throats of the warriors of Ceredigion. Men with faces contorted in fear rushed past him, dropping weapons, trying to escape the carnage with their lives.

Ransom slowed, his right arm feeling strangely weak. It was hard to keep his grip on the handle of his bastard sword. Dappled let out a shriek and snapped at a soldier who had come too close. Everything felt sluggish and slow. A buzzing noise sounded in Ransom’s ears. He wanted to lie down and sleep on the trampled grass. Where was Estian? His mind fogged over, the buzzing growing louder. Was it in his head?

No, he realized, it was coming from his left side. He looked down and saw the raven’s head symbol on the scabbard was glowing.

“You’re hurt,” said Dearley, riding up alongside Ransom. He’d dispensed with the shattered lance at some point and now held a bloody longsword.

Ransom turned to look at the young knight and felt a spear of pain in his shoulder. Dearley was staring at Ransom’s back in horror.

He lifted his visor so he could see better, which was when he saw the broken end of a lance protruding from his flesh.

Good news, at long last! A fierce battle was fought between the Elder King and Estian, not with Benedict as we feared. The cause is one anyone can support—the Occitanians were horrible to Devon the Younger, and I suspect they also killed my father—and it was a major victory for our people. Many people are undoubtedly dropping coins into the fountains to celebrate our good fortune against our enemies. Emi’s son Benedict turned the tide of the battle when he arrived with the men of Vexin. Their stout hearts and sharp blades and shattered lances brought the victory. I was told that Benedict himself rode after Estian, hoping to capture him, but he gave up on the chase when it led too near the Occitanian border. We are all relieved. Well, those of us with sense. When Jon-Landon was told the news, I heard he threw a chalice against the wall and stormed off. What an ill-bred eejit.

My joy has turned into sour dregs. Since writing the news of the victory, I have learned that my Ransom was grievously wounded in the battle and may not survive. Witnesses claim he nearly defeated King Estian after being pierced by a lance. He also slew the Duke of Bayree, and they said the duke’s head was nearly taken from his shoulders in a single blow. Ransom was brought off the battlefield by his young ward. That is why I’ve had no news from him myself.

I’m sick inside. I can’t bear to lose him, even though he isn’t mine. Everyone else is praying to the Fountain for those they love. But I have made a petition to the Aos Sí to spare his life.

—Claire de Murrow

Accursed Tower of Waiting, Kingfountain

CHAPTER SIX

The Raven Scabbard

The pain had set in as soon as the Fountain magic deserted him. Dizziness and nausea roiled in Ransom’s stomach, and he turned his head and vomited noisily. Each spasm made the anguish from the broken lance dig deeper into his wound. Each breath of air was a lungful of fire. His back ached, his left elbow throbbed, but it was the agony embedded in his shoulder that made him groan.

Lord Bryon knelt by the side of his cot—How had they gotten him back to his tent?—his expression grave, his cheek spattered with dried blood. “I’ve sent for a barber, Marshall. But there are none to be found here, someone’s gone to the nearest town to fetch one.”

Ransom squeezed his eyes shut. “I’ll wait,” he grunted.

Dearley choked on his tears. The sound of his anguish made Ransom feel even worse.

“I’ve never seen a man survive such a wound,” Lord Bryon said. “That piece of lance has to come out. But your arm . . . you won’t be able to use it again.”

Ransom heard the words and silently dreaded they might be