Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)

Ransom began to scream it himself. He spurred Gemmell forward, wanting to be one of the first to engage. The two forces collided in a cacophony of sound. Ransom’s lance shattered on his opponent’s shield, but the force of the impact knocked the other knight clean off his destrier. Ransom discarded the broken lance and dodged a lance coming straight for him, nearly coming off his own saddle as he did so. It missed. He grabbed his other one, couched it in his arm, and pressed forward into the next rank of charging knights. He spotted a rival, adjusted his aim, and went straight for him. The lance caught the man in a vulnerable spot, the edge of his breastplate, beneath the arm, and killed him instantly, sending the knight down to the dust-choked ground. Ransom pulled his weapon free, using the length of the lance to block another man aiming for him. The two horses nearly collided, but they passed each other instead.

Ransom found another Brugian facing him and spurred Gemmell on. The two struck each other, and Ransom’s second lance shattered against the knight’s. They whacked each other with the stumps, Ransom managing to club the man over the head and unseat him before the tide of battle swallowed them both up, like the surf on the shores outside the castle of Averanche. He heard the battle cry being shouted still. Disoriented, he turned and saw many of Lord Kinghorn’s knights had gathered in a circle. They were fighting with swords now, their lances used up or useless at such close proximity. Horses trampled fallen men, flailing their hooves against armor. Knights fell and didn’t get up again.

Ransom wrenched his bastard sword out of its scabbard and charged into the fray. Chaos reigned supreme. It felt like they were outnumbered by the Brugians three to one. The enemy was everywhere. A knight slashed at Ransom from behind, and the blow glanced off his armor. He twisted in the saddle and engaged, battering the knight so hard the man fell off his horse and added to the bodies already on the ground.

The rushing noise of the waterfall drowned out the cries of battle. Ransom spotted another enemy and pressed into him, knocking him from his horse too. Then another. And another. He could not keep track of how many foes he’d conquered. A war hammer came at Ransom’s helmet, but he managed to deflect it with the flat of his sword and used the hilt to return a blow to his enemy’s helmet. Despite the grueling pace of the battle, he felt no weariness, no exhaustion. He felt alive, in complete command of his emotions and his situation. Gemmell heeded his every thought, guided by pressure from Ransom’s knees instead of the reins. Another knight fell. Then another.

Ransom felt a broken lance batter against his sword arm. The knight facing him hadn’t drawn another weapon, or perhaps he lacked one. Ransom grabbed the bridle of the man’s horse with his free hand and yanked. The stallion reared in pain, spilling the knight onto the ground, and then backstepped and trampled him.

A ringing blow rattled against Ransom’s helmet, but it didn’t stun him. He turned, saw a knight with hate in his eyes strike out again with a flanged mace. He only had time to lift his armored elbow to absorb the blow, the feeling of metal clanging against metal ringing through him. But it did not slow him down. Ransom, pivoting his bastard sword, nudged Gemmell, and struck the knight in return. A look of surprise crossed the fellow’s face as the sword bypassed a gap in his armor, the blade piercing the metal chains of his hauberk. The knight slumped forward in the saddle, resting on the armored neck of his destrier, and then, face contorted with pain, rode away. A moment later all the Brugians were riding away.

Ransom turned in his saddle, surprised to see so many dead sprawled on the ground around him, as if he and Gemmell were an island amidst a sea of wounded and dying. Lord Kinghorn raised his fist into the air, and a triumphant shout began to rise up from the knights of Averanche.

Again the battle cry sounded. “Averanche! Averanche! Averanche!”

Ransom shouted it until he was hoarse.

Lord Kinghorn lowered his fist, looking at Ransom. There was a strange expression in his eyes. He was grateful, yes. But there was also a hint of fear as he stared at his young knight and all the dead piled around him.

It was a fear that wormed its way into Ransom’s own heart.





As soon as Da left for Glosstyr, it began. A noble by the name of Purser Dougal came to visit Connaught with a large escort. That was the word he used. And with a name like Purser Dougal, it’s no surprise he turned out to be a complete maggot. I barred the gates and lifted the drawbridge. He demanded the right of hospitality for himself and his men. I did give him a warning before I fired an arrow at his horse. The castellan thought me a bit brazen, but why by the Aos Sí would I invite an armed knight and his retinue into my father’s castle mere days after he left? Lord Purse-Face was angry. He made some threats that Da would not be coming home. I think this attack from Brugia is more than it first appeared. Like in the game of Wizr when you move a piece to draw attention from your real aim.

—Claire de Murrow

Connaught Castle, Kingdom of Legault

(the Isle of Dissembling Eejits)





CHAPTER SEVEN

The Game of Wizr

Ransom paced within the barn, stomping on the dirty straw as he went, but nothing could quell the feeling of unease that thrummed inside him like a taut bowstring. Gemmell nickered impatiently, and he gave his trusted steed a knowing look.

“We have orders, Gemmell. Be patient.”

The rouncy tossed his head in response and kicked up some straw.

The barn door was open, offering a view of the road toward Menonval, which wasn’t far. The family who owned this barn had evacuated their farm after the fighting broke out the previous day. The Brugian knights had retreated but then charged again with even greater numbers. Lord Kinghorn had held the bridge, however, limiting how many horses the Brugians could get across, and the knights of Averanche had won the second conflict.

Sir Beckett had died during that skirmish, along with four other of his cousin’s household knights. But many more of their enemies lay dead. The wounded and those who’d been captured during the fighting were being guarded in a barn in Menonval, watched over by the townsfolk. From the captured men they’d learned the size of the Brugian host that had landed in Westmarch. It wasn’t a raiding party. It was an army.

And it was bearing down on them still.