Lady's Ransom (The First Argentines, #3)

Ransom didn’t understand what was happening, but he followed Guivret to the corner of the yard that was partially concealed by the weapons table.

And then he was gripped by the sensation of falling—as if he’d tumbled off a cliff—and a shock wave of pain roiled through him as though a shard of lightning struck him partway down. The episode ended as swiftly as it had begun, and he found himself standing in another place, one sheltered by thick woods. The dawn was just beginning to stab its light through the branches. The pleasant smell of trees surrounded him. Had time gone backward?

For a moment, he was struck by the oddity of the scene before him. A thick grove of trees. A small trickling stream. Some massive boulders, flecked with moss and lichen, were huddled together in a heap that was higher than him. There were hailstones everywhere, and a massive oak tree stood sentinel by the boulders. Several men lay in a heap, groaning and writhing. Through his Fountain magic, he sensed their weaknesses, their injuries.

In a rush, he remembered that the Duchess of Brythonica had told him that when he became the master of the wood, a position Sir Terencourt had passed on to him, he might someday be summoned to defend the Gradalis, an ancient relic of Wizr magic.

“Who is that?” someone asked in Occitanian from behind him.

Ransom turned and saw three knights in hauberks and dusty gray tunics. If they had any affiliation, they didn’t care to show it.

“Kill him,” one of the others said, also in Occitanian.

Ransom lowered the visor of his helmet and felt the churn of the Fountain rush within him. He caught a whiff of sweat as the first man charged at him, swinging his sword around to cut off Ransom’s head. In reaction, Ransom ducked and then smashed the pommel of his sword into the fellow’s skull. A skull that was not wearing a helmet. The man dropped instantly, and the other two swarmed at Ransom, coming at him from either side.

Jumping backward, Ransom swung his sword and blocked a blow from the man on his left, then kicked the one to his right in the chest, knocking him down.

The knight who was still standing grabbed a fistful of turf and tossed it against Ransom’s visor. He managed to turn his head to avoid being blinded, but the sharp edge of the man’s blade bit through his armor and sliced his arm. The man who’d been kicked had already found his feet again and was rushing forward. Ransom caught his downstroke with the bastard sword and then blocked another attack with his arm bracer from the other man.

Driven by a surge of anger, he blocked their next attacks and then skewered one of them with his sword. The survivor started to run toward the boulders. Ransom saw, in the shadows nearby, the dull metal of a large serving bowl etched with designs around the rim. The man raced toward it, and Ransom felt a compulsion to go after him, even though his arm was throbbing in pain.

The fleeing man reached the metal bowl and lifted it. It was attached to a long chain, the other end driven into a stone plinth on the ground, something Ransom hadn’t noticed at first due to the woodland detritus in the grove.

The Gradalis.

With a look of fear and determination on his face, the man tried to wrench the bowl from the chain. Ransom ran up and struck him down with a single blow. The man crumpled and fell, and when the bowl struck the plinth, it made a harsh metallic noise that grated down Ransom’s spine.

He stood near the plinth, breathing quickly, looking around at the bodies strewn about the grove. There were eight in all, some still writhing and moaning. He hadn’t fought that many. The other five had been dead or injured before he’d arrived. Ransom stepped onto the plinth and dropped to a knee by the man he’d just killed, whose eyes were fixed and gazing blankly. He hoped to find a clue, some evidence of who had sent them.

A little flash of metal around the man’s neck hinted at a bit of jewelry. Ransom lifted the knight’s visor and prodded through his clothes until he found it. A necklace, with a charm shaped like a fish.

He was pulling against the chain to get a better look when he felt a swelling of Fountain magic around him. Suddenly, the ground seemed to churn, as if invisible plows were at work in a farmer’s field. Although he felt no sucking sensation against his own boots, the bodies and hailstones began to sink into the ground. One man, still partially conscious, began to wail with terror as he sank beneath the surface, his gloved hands reaching for something to hold on to. Then the earth smothered his screams.

The man whom Ransom had just killed was also sucked into the earth. He felt the tug of the necklace, but he gripped it more tightly. The chain snapped, leaving the necklace in his hand as the body was subsumed by the forest. In a few moments, no evidence of the battle or its victims remained. Ransom knew he had done the right thing in protecting this place. As he knelt there, gazing at the silver charm in his hand, he felt a lifting sensation. No more could he feel the premonition of danger that had weighed on him all morning. Those men had violated a sanctuary of sorts, and they’d paid the price. Now that they were gone, he could hear the birds again and the wind as it rustled the leaves.

He rose and stuffed the necklace into his pocket and sheathed his sword in the Raven scabbard. The sigil on the scabbard was glowing. When he looked at his arm, he saw the deep cut that had penetrated his hauberk. No blood came from the wound. The scabbard, which he had been rewarded with at the Chandleer Oasis, had remarkable healing powers. The wound would mend on its own.

Standing on the plinth, he stepped around in a circle. He sensed he was inside the borders of Brythonica, but he knew not where. Why had these men come? And why did one of them have a necklace with the sign of the fish? He thought of Alix and her castle at Kerjean. The castle of the ancient Fisher Kings. Had she sent these men to steal the Gradalis?

He turned and stared down at the silver bowl. After it had fallen, it had righted itself. In appearance, it was a simple thing, but he sensed the immense power coming from it. There were droplets of water inside. Was it from the morning dew?

Ransom felt compelled to set the heavy bowl back on the center of the plinth, so he did, handling it reverently. Upon closer inspection, he realized the markings on it were decorations. A few of them were animals—he recognized one as a sheep, another as a lion. After setting it down, he turned and glanced around the clearing again.

He had no horse, only his two legs. Did he have to walk back to Glosstyr? Or should he walk to Ploemeur and seek out the duchess? Something told him she was the only one who’d be able to explain what had just happened to him.

Turning around, he gazed at the huge boulders. The plinth looked man-made, but not the boulders. How long had they been there, and where had they come from? He gazed at them and stepped forward, intent on touching one.

As soon as he stepped off the plinth, the feeling of falling and lightning caught him again.

Suddenly he was back in the courtyard of Glosstyr. He stumbled and went down on his knee, finding cobblestones instead of earth. Guivret bent down and hooked his arm.

“You’re wounded,” he exclaimed, seeing the gash on Ransom’s arm. Their eyes met, and a look of understanding passed between them.

“Sir Terencourt used to disappear at times,” Guivret explained. “He never told us where he went. I think only the duchess knows.”

Ransom winced and rose again, rattled by the experience. The warning feeling was gone now, but it had not put an end to his worries. What if he’d been asleep in bed when it had happened? Touching his leg, he felt the necklace in his pocket still. What had happened was real, not some vision.

Tell no one where you were. Or the Gradalis will be stolen.