Warrior's Ransom (The First Argentines #2) - Jeff Wheeler Page 0,27

the battle. Through the fog of war, and that of his injury, he had forgotten that.

“Do you see that, Dearley?” Ransom whispered after his drink.

“See what?” His ward looked at him inquisitively.

“Do you see my scabbard?”

Dearley glanced down and looked at the empty scabbard wrapped around Ransom’s waist. The raven’s head was glowing blue as clearly as the moon on a frosty night. “Yes,” the young man said. “Are you worried about your sword? It was brought in from the battlefield. I’ve already cleaned it.”

“Does the scabbard look . . . strange to you?” Ransom asked, still staring at it.

He cannot see the light.

The whisper from the Fountain alarmed him, and he stiffened. He’d not heard the voice since he’d retrieved the scabbard from the well at the oasis. A gift for a gift.

Dearley frowned. “It looks . . . old. Where did you get it?”

“It was . . . never mind.” Ransom tried to sit up, but he felt that same aching soreness.

Dearley gripped his arm and helped him up. The rag fell away from the wound, dropping onto his lap. He glanced back and could see flesh through the hole in his tunic. His breastplate had been removed. The skin was livid, inflamed, but there was no scab, no dried blood.

He looked at Dearley, who stared at him in shock, his lips quivering.

“What happened?” he asked the young man.

Dearley’s voice was but a whisper. “When Lord Kinghorn removed the broken lance, he told me to press the wound hard. He told me to be prepared that you might bleed to death. I did as he said. After you fell unconscious, we removed the armor so we could tend to the wound better. There was . . . there wasn’t any blood leaking out. I kept lifting the rag, unable to believe it. The skin was torn, and I could see blood inside the wound, but none came out. Lord Kinghorn looked at me and told me to tell no one what we had seen. He said that you were Fountain-blessed.”

A tingle of apprehension shot down to Ransom’s hungry stomach. The wound had sealed itself. He swiveled his shoulder in a circle, feeling the muscles groan, but it didn’t hurt. It was only sore. His left elbow, which he suspected he’d broken, felt the same way. The scabbard had healed him, not his Fountain magic.

Ransom swung his legs off the edge of the cot, amazed that he wasn’t light-headed. Gratitude thrummed in his heart for the gift he’d been given at the oasis. Part of him wanted to reveal its power to Dearley, if only to explain what had happened, but he remembered something Lord Kinghorn had told him long ago. He’d said the Fountain-blessed of old had sometimes been killed for their relics, and a scabbard that could heal mortal wounds was indeed the kind of prize someone would kill for. While Dearley would never do such a thing, of course, he might mention it to someone else—either unwittingly or under duress. It was too great a chance for him to take.

Dearley was still on his knees, staring into Ransom’s face. He looked haunted by what he’d seen.

“It’s all right, lad,” Ransom said. He reached with his right arm, which obeyed, and put his hand on his ward’s shoulder.

Dearley bit his lip and sniffed. “It’s not. It’s my fault.”

Ransom wrinkled his brow.

“It’s my fault that you were injured,” he blurted. He looked down in shame. “I froze. I was so terrified. They were coming at me . . . I saw them . . . two knights with their lances drawn. I just sat there, watching it. I’m so . . . I feel so terrible.” He lifted his head and looked into Ransom’s eyes. “You took a lance for me, Sir Ransom. One that nearly killed you. It’s a miracle of the Fountain that you were healed.”

Ransom saw the shame in the young man’s eyes. But he also saw the respect, the commitment, and the sense of purpose. How young he looked. He reminded Ransom so much of how he’d felt as a new knight.

He squeezed Dearley’s shoulder. “Of course I did, lad. You are in my mesnie now. It is my duty to protect you. I couldn’t let those Occitanian miscreants kill my first knight during his first battle, could I?” He smiled at his ward. “Battles are chaos. Everyone flinches. You’ll be better prepared next time.”

Dearley breathed deeply, then he clenched a fist and pressed