Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)

Ransom felt the prince’s weakness. He was a skilled swordsman, but he was weaker on his left side. Ransom used his legs to guide his destrier to rear up, hooves flailing. The prince’s steed backed away, screaming in rage, and when Ransom’s horse came down again, he’d shifted position to the prince’s left side. He directed his destrier forward and started hammering against Estian’s armor. The prince blocked two blows, but he failed with the third and fourth.

A preternatural warning came, and he sensed someone coming at him from behind. Ransom jerked his elbow up and caught the blow of the flanged mace on his elbow instead of his helmet. A blind blow like that would have knocked him senseless.

Then Estian redoubled his assault from the other side. On the defensive, Ransom swiveled his blade through the air, propping the tip on his other gauntlet, and held it up as a staff to ward off the rainstorm of blows. The man with the mace hit his shoulder this time, the blow of metal against metal ringing like a bell. Ransom kicked his destrier to move forward, but he felt someone yank on the edge of his armor. The horse kept going, and Ransom fell off.

His stomach clenched with the rush of air, and he landed flat on his back. A horse stepped on his helmet, twisting it around sharply before dust blinded him.

Ransom’s heart was racing, and he knew he’d be trampled if he stayed on the ground. He couldn’t sit up, so he rolled to one side, hearing the thump of hooves against the dirty yard. The fall had not knocked the air out of him, and somehow he was still holding his sword in one hand. He dragged himself to his knees, and when he started to stand, a mace glanced off his helmet.

He heard the crowd cheer as he reached up, grabbed the mace, and pulled the knight right off his horse. Still gripping the man’s arm, Ransom knelt and raised his sword with the other hand.

“I yield!” shouted the knight, his voice hoarse and thick with dust.

Ransom let go of him and rose. He couldn’t see anything. His helmet was askew, leaving him with only peripheral vision from one eye. He turned around in a circle, finding himself in the midst of a sea of horses and fighting men. He caught a glimpse of another knight and reached up and grabbed him next, yanking him off his horse. Another cheer went up from the crowd. He didn’t know why at first, but then he saw the black armor of the fellow he’d unhorsed. One of Estian’s men.

A warning feeling came from behind again. Ransom pivoted on his heel and raised his blade defensively.

“Yield, Ransom,” said Prince Estian. The words came from above. “You can’t even see.”

“I respectfully decline, Your Grace,” he said, his breath coming fast and labored.

He sensed the downward thrust of a sword. And, despite his temporary blindness, he blocked it. Prince Estian struck at him again, but Ransom parried the blow. He sidestepped, hearing the hot snort of the destrier just in front of his face. He went to the prince’s left side and stabbed at him. His sword hit armor, and he heard a grunt of pain.

The mount swung about, its rump coming straight at Ransom. He heard the noise of it, his mind filling in the details, and he backed away as the horse spun around. Someone came up behind him, and Ransom swung around in a full circle. His blade struck the attacker, shearing through armor and hauberk. The crowd screamed in excitement.

Despite his inability to see, Ransom’s other senses felt stronger, and the water rushing in his ears imparted a calming sensation. He turned back just as Estian charged at him. Ransom jumped at the horse, grabbing the bridle with his left hand, tangling his fingers in the straps of leather. The force of the mount toppled him, but he clung to the harness and beat on Prince Estian with his sword until there was nothing left to hit. He heard a crunch of armor and a gasp of dismay from the crowd.

The destrier, still in his grip, slowed and stopped, stamping angrily. His rider was gone, and Ransom controlled the bit in his mouth.

“Easy there,” Ransom said in Occitanian to the beast. He stroked the flank, but the horse turned and bit his arm, its teeth glancing off his armor.

Ransom swatted the destrier on its rump with the flat of his blade, sending it off running. Turning his head, he thought he saw the prince lying on the ground nearby. He approached, listening for any sounds of danger. He heard Devon laughing. It was then he sensed a presence in the throng before him. The woman he had encountered in the past. She was not near him, but she was somewhere in the crowd. He turned to the side, trying to catch sight of her, but his helmet blinded him.

Prince Estian tried to sit up, struggling to breathe, and Ransom used his boot to knock him down on his back. He put his sword to the prince’s chest, running the tip of the blade higher until he reached the edge of his helmet. He twisted his shoulders until he could somewhat see the prince below him. He could feel the woman coming closer.

Was she here for Devon? Or was she merely keeping watch, as she had done in Ceredigion? For all he knew, she was simply there for the show. This could be proof that the woman was, in fact, Occitanian.

Although he doubted Devon was ready to hear it.

“Are you going to kill me, Sir Ransom?” Estian asked.

“Yield,” Ransom said, his voice echoing inside his own helmet. He didn’t know if he’d spoken it loud enough, so he shouted it. “Yield!”

No one had defeated Prince Estian before. Not in a tournament.

He knew what it felt like to be humiliated, so he could imagine what the prince must be feeling. Would his sense of honor prevent him from submitting in defeat? Ransom worried about leaving Devon unguarded for very long.

“I yield!” the prince finally thundered.

Ransom backed up a few steps, lowering his sword arm, feeling dizzy. Then Devon was there, still astride his destrier and laughing with joy. They’d grown even closer after the rebellion. Ransom considered him a true friend. And while Devon was prone to emotional decisions, something Ransom attempted to steer him away from whenever possible, he was a good man. He turned again, trying to catch a glimpse of the elusive person he could still sense. But she had not come closer—indeed, she was slipping away.