Warrior's Ransom (The First Argentines #2) - Jeff Wheeler Page 0,26

true. His sword arm. “I plan on keeping it, my lord.”

“I’m going to pull the piece out. It’ll hurt. Do you want something to bite on?”

Ransom remembered the injury he’d sustained in that long-ago battle with Lord DeVaux. The pain of a lance wound . . . that was a memory he wouldn’t forget. He opened his eyes and looked at Lord Bryon.

“I’ve had worse. Pull it out.”

Lord Bryon nodded and looked over at Dearley. “Hold him down.”

The young man wiped his nose on his arm and came to the edge of the cot. His eyes were watery and swollen from tears.

“He’s not going to live?” the young man choked.

“I intend to,” Ransom answered, glaring at his ward. “I’m wounded, not deaf!”

Lord Bryon chuckled. Someone shoved open the curtain of the tent, letting in a blinding shard of light that made Ransom’s skull throb and his teeth ache. He grunted and turned his face away.

“What is it?” Lord Bryon demanded, his patience faltering.

“The Duke of Bayree is dead!” the newcomer announced. Ransom recognized the voice as that of Sir Jude. “Ransom killed him!”

The Duke of Bayree was one of Estian’s most powerful supporters. Another wasted opportunity to ransom a nobleman. Gritting his teeth, Ransom exhaled sharply.

“Has Benedict returned yet?” Lord Bryon asked.

“Not yet. He’s riding after King Estian, who fled the field. Everything is still in chaos. We’ve routed them, and the king is rallying the men to give chase.”

“If we catch Estian, everything changes. Praise the Fountain. Bring me word when Benedict returns. Tell the king I’m trying to keep this young man alive.”

“I will, my lord. Thank you.” The tent flap closed, and shadows smothered the space again, causing a pang of relief.

“Prepare yourself,” Lord Bryon said. “I don’t have tongs. I’ll have to pull it out by hand.”

“Just do it,” Ransom said, feeling himself grow weaker with each breath. When he opened his eyes, he saw darkness closing in around his vision. His inner stores of Fountain magic were all spent. They’d kept him alive during the fight, but they’d run out at the end. He felt like a coil of rope dropped to the floor—lifeless, inert.

And then he felt it when Lord Bryon gripped the piece of the lance sticking from his armor. Dearley shoved down against Ransom’s body to hold him as he started screaming in pain.

Everything went dark.

It was a humming that awoke him. At first he thought it was the drone of bees, but this was a deeper, more resonant sound, almost like the throb of a deep horn coming from the bottom of the sea. Something about it was achingly familiar, although he couldn’t place it.

Ransom opened his eyes, realizing he’d passed out. He vaguely remembered the shard of wood coming out. The tent was brighter now, the sun falling heavily from its midday position.

A little grunt came from his lips when he tried to move.

“Sir Ransom?” croaked Dearley, suddenly rising from a stooped position on a camp stool. He turned and dropped to his knees by the rim of the cot. “Are you awake?”

“Yes,” Ransom said, his throat dry, the sound gravelly.

“Bless our Lady!” whispered Dearley. He looked down on Ransom’s face, his mouth slowly turning to a wide smile. Tears of relief came to his eyes, and he brushed them away.

Ransom lifted his head to glance at his back, relieved to see the wooden spur was indeed gone. A crumpled cloth lay on his flesh, but it wasn’t red with blood. That fact astonished him.

“Where’s Lord Bryon?” Ransom asked.

“He went to the king. He asked me to stay and watch over you.”

Ransom’s stomach gurgled. “Fetch me a drink.”

“Do you want some wine?”

“No. Just water.”

He could still hear the hum, the source of it quite near. Dearley went and fetched a water flask. After unstoppering it, he gently put his hand behind Ransom’s neck and lifted his head higher so he could drink. Ransom expected a jolt of pain from his wound, but he only felt a deep soreness. Strange blue light shone on half of Dearley’s face. Ransom shifted his left elbow to support his weight, a maneuver that caused him a little pain, although nowhere near as much as he would have expected. The water was cool and refreshing. He took a few swallows and then noticed the raven’s head on his scabbard was glowing. Although he’d seen it shed light before, it had never glowed this brightly.

He stared at it, remembering vaguely that it had started glowing during