Fate's Ransom(The First Argentines #4)

Estian lowered his lance and began to charge at him.

A knight with a lance had an advantage over one without, for he could strike his enemy from a greater distance. The only chance he had was if he dodged at the last moment, letting the tip of the lance pass by, which would bring his enemy within range of his bastard sword. His magic sensed that Estian’s skill was still prodigious. He didn’t compete in tournaments anymore, but he’d kept his body fit and strong, and while he was slightly older than Ransom, he was still a fearsome opponent.

They locked eyes on each other, and Ransom resolved to finish his life in a final act of knighthood. He lifted his weary sword arm, preparing to deliver a counterstroke if the king’s aim was off.

It wasn’t.

Ransom twisted in the saddle, but the lance struck him in the chest and exploded into a shower of splinters. He felt the weight of the blow sending him backward. His arm muscles strained to hold on. His foot left the stirrup as he swayed and bent, farther, farther . . .

And then Ransom came back up again, just as Estian’s horse was passing him. He swung his sword and smote Estian’s shield arm so hard that his blade cleaved through the shield. The recoil rocked Estian off his horse’s rump, and he landed on his back in the field of mud.

The black-garbed knights turned as one, staring at their fallen king. Estian writhed, trying to get up, but the mud gripped him, and he only managed to sink deeper.

Ransom charged back to the king and met two of Estian’s knights, who attempted to block him. He knocked one off his horse with a powerful blow, and the other, in sidestepping, nearly trampled the king. Ransom grabbed the enemy knight’s bridle and yanked the bit out of his horse’s mouth. The beast, in pain, charged away while the knight fruitlessly tried to stop it.

Ransom swung off his horse and stood over Estian, who barely managed to bring up his broken shield. His legs found no purchase as he scrabbled weakly and then collapsed, trapped by the weight of his armor and the mud. They were surrounded by Occitanians, almost on every side. There wasn’t much time before the numbers would overwhelm him.

Rain pattered against Ransom’s armor and dripped down his blade. For years he had hated the Occitanian king. Estian and his father had destroyed the Younger King, the Elder King, Benedict, and, finally, Jon-Landon. Four kings lay dead because of their influence. The anger in his heart was fierce.

Estian’s visor had been knocked open during his fall. He sucked in his breath, his eyes wide with dread. Ransom lifted his visor so his face could be seen too.

“Don’t kill my son,” Estian breathed out. He didn’t plead for his own life. He knew he was a dead man. That he could expect and deserved no pity.

“Do you yield?” Ransom demanded, lowering his sword point to Estian’s throat.

Surprise widened the king’s eyes.

“You will . . . spare me?” Estian grunted.

“Do you yield?” Ransom repeated, stepping closer. The battle raged on around them still, but no one was near enough to stop him from killing the king. The tide had shifted, even though their numbers had not changed.

“I yield,” Estian said, lowering his shield a little.

“Louder,” Ransom insisted. “We won’t slaughter your men if you surrender. You are my hostage. The rest may go free.”

A look of disbelief washed over Estian’s face. He would not have offered the same grace, and both of them knew it.

“I yield!” Estian bellowed.

Ransom reached out with his left hand to help Estian rise. It took all their combined strength to free him from the muck.

Ransom still held his bastard sword, though he no longer felt the temptation to slay Estian. His anger had burned away. He wasn’t the monster inside him. He was his own man.

“Order your men to disarm. They must leave all of their weapons here in the field.”

“And you promise they’ll go free? Why should I trust you?”

Ransom gave him a harsh look. “Because you know I keep my word.”

Because of the confusion and threat to their king, the knights of Occitania hesitated, giving the knights of Glosstyr the opportunity to gather around Estian and Ransom, creating a shield of horses around them.

Estian met Ransom’s gaze and then lowered his eyes. “Lay down your arms!” he cried in Occitanian. “It is finished!”

There was grudging obedience. The Occitanians had been defeated by a smaller force, tricked at Thorngate castle, and now their king was being held for ransom by a knight who had been an enemy of their realm for years. Ransom saw the anger in their eyes, the despair, but they complied and threw their weapons into the mud. Jubilant cries rose up from his men as Dawson and his knights arrived on horseback, coming to join a fight that was already over.

Ransom was relieved. His whole body ached, but the scabbard’s magic kept him from falling down. He was afraid of his injuries, but as long as he had the scabbard, they would all heal.

“I want the Wizr board,” Ransom said. “Where is it?”

Estian bared his teeth. “I sent it away during the battle. One of my knights has it.”

“Where were you sending it?”

“Back to Tatton Hall, where Alix is waiting.”

Ransom ordered his knights to find Estian’s horse and bring it to them. He would take the king to Thorngate, but not before the Wizr board was in his possession. Otherwise, he would be leading Alix straight to them.

When Dawson reached him, he looked relieved to see Ransom still alive.

“You have a piece of lance in you still,” he observed. Ransom hadn’t even noticed.

“I’ll be fine. Take some men and fresh horses and ride toward Tatton Hall. Estian sent one of his knights with a special treasure, a Wizr board. Bring it back, Dawson. Don’t fail me.”

“I won’t,” Dawson promised and promptly obeyed.



Estian rode silently at his side, unarmed, spattered with mud. The people of the town cheered them as they came toward the castle, Ransom’s soldiers ensuring the orders were obeyed. The muddy field was now scattered with swords, axes, lances, and the like. When they reached the keep, Ransom found Dearley and the prince already outside with a crew of knights as bodyguards.

As they rode up to the drawbridge, he heard a familiar voice call down. It was Lady Deborah.

“Is that you, Lord Ransom? It’s difficult to tell!”

He chuckled softly, his body aching from the battle. “We bring a guest, Lady Deborah. The King of Occitania requests your hospitality.”

“I think I have just the room for him,” she replied. The winches began to groan, and the drawbridge slowly lowered, bridging the gap. As Ransom rode up the wooden plank, Estian on one side and Prince Devon on the other, he saw the group of knights on the other side. In all, there were perhaps fifty defenders left, and they had a look of dizzied relief.

Lady Deborah stood beaming at him, her eyes twinkling at the rescue. The rain, Ransom noticed, had slackened. The sky was still full of clouds, but the storm had finally begun to ebb. It was a hopeful sign.

“Welcome to Thorngate,” she said to Estian. “Your Majesty.”

From beyond the inner yard, he saw Queen Léa and her daughter emerge from the castle. When the queen first saw Ransom, she didn’t recognize him, but after a moment, her eyes widened with hope. She hurried to him, her face eager. The princess was no less enthusiastic.

The queen reached up and touched his gauntlet. “Where is Jonny?”

Ransom’s heart ached as much as his body. He shook his head slightly, not wanting to dash the little girl’s hopes so quickly.

The queen recognized his gesture, and her mouth drooped in anguish, her brows coming together.

“Come, Léanore,” she said to the princess. “Come back inside.”

“Where is Papa? I don’t see him.”

“Come back inside, dearest.”