the animal rode like a lightning bolt. It was a magnificent chestnut, a heavily muscled warhorse bred for stamina. The knights were still embroiled in a bitter fight, but he ignored them and went after Robert.
The two raced each other, but Robert’s horse was already fatigued from the strenuous ride of the day. Terencourt’s was fresh, and it followed Ransom’s lead as if it had served him all his life. He gained ground with every stride. Robert glanced back, seeing who was bearing down on him, and used the flat of his blade to swat his horse again. But it wasn’t enough. There was no pain in Ransom now, even though his wrists were worn raw and he’d been weakened by the journey. He had to kill Sir Robert. The need for retribution burned so hot inside him, it blinded him to all else.
When he overtook Robert’s horse, he leaned from the saddle to grab the man. Robert attacked with his sword. Sir Terencourt’s horse bit Robert’s beast, and the other capitulated and stopped running. It hung its head, swooning with exhaustion, and no matter what Robert did, the beast wouldn’t move. Ransom swung about and watched as Robert dismounted, holding his sword out in front of him, his eyes wide with fear.
Ransom had no weapon himself, but he didn’t care. The man’s obvious fear indicated he knew it wouldn’t save him.
Swinging off the horse, Ransom stalked toward his enemy, holding his arms out in a gesture of defenselessness.
“You’ve always wanted to beat me,” he said angrily to Robert. “Now is your chance.”
Robert was panting. “I don’t . . . want to fight . . .”
“I don’t care what you want!” Ransom shouted at him. “Do your best, and I will do mine.”
Robert stared at him, his face chalky with dread. Ransom sensed he was planning an attack. He was preparing to fling himself at Ransom. He would come from the left.
“They say you don’t even bleed,” Robert said. “It’s all stories and fables.”
“Do your best,” Ransom taunted.
Robert lunged at him from the left before twisting around and swinging his sword, trying to decapitate Ransom.
But Ransom sensed all his actions before they unfolded. He paused, ducking so that the blade sailed over his head, and then tackled Robert onto the meadow grass. The two wrestled for a few moments, but Ransom was stronger and easily pried the weapon from his hand.
Robert tried to knee Ransom in the groin, but he sensed that too and twisted his hips in time to avoid it. He hefted up the sword and rose with it. Robert lay on the grass, panting heavily, and gazed up at him.
“You won . . .” he panted. “I yield.”
Ransom stared at him with contempt. He took a step closer, feeling his strength grow.
“I said I yield!”
Ransom shook his head. “For shame. I was there when Devon died,” he said. “You betrayed your king. You cannot beg for mercy now.”
Robert Tregoss squeezed his eyes shut, lying on the meadow grass and waiting for death.
It came swiftly.
The army of the North is coming. Instead of venturing south to connect with Benedict, James has swung east and marches on the palace. Lord Kinghorn is set to defend it. The Elder King has taken his army to confront his son, who has left Beestone and marches east. There are a number of castles along the way, the question is which one the king will choose to defend his crown. He must choose one of them because he is so outnumbered. He will force Benedict to besiege the castles one by one as he retreats back to Kingfountain. That is what Sir Dalian said the strategy was as he heard it from his father. The best way to stop a sword from cutting off a limb is blunting it. Will this buy us enough time? I offered to go to Glosstyr and summon those willing to fight to aid the king. Lord Kinghorn was grateful. There just wasn’t enough time to get there and back to make a difference.
—Claire de Murrow, Duchess of Glosstyr
(the painful silence before the storm)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The Guardian’s Ring
After Ransom finished strapping the scabbard to his waist, he saw the raven sigil begin to glow and felt the first stirrings of relief. He took Terencourt’s horse by the reins and then walked back to the remains of the battle. Of the two dozen knights who’d clashed in the meadow, only six remained upright, five standing and one kneeling. Each had