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

“She already knows.”

“Longmont is a fool,” James said, chuckling. “An eejit, I should say. Farewell.”

Ransom nodded, and the two parted ways. The encounter had surprised Ransom with its lack of animosity. James had almost treated him as an equal.



They camped for the night in a grove of pine, the mud having slowed their journey considerably. The next morning they heard rumblings about the marauders, but Ransom wouldn’t let anything distract him from returning home. The weather had finally begun to improve by the time they turned onto the road to Glosstyr, which gave him hope they’d be able to sail out without delay. It was near dusk, Glosstyr visible in the distance, when it happened. He was struck by a forceful feeling of danger. Another summons from the Gradalis.

“No,” he whispered. Not now!

Was the duchess trying to summon him? Or was the silver bowl being threatened again?

Ransom tugged on the reins and stopped his horse. The other knights followed suit and looked at him in surprise.

“Ride on to Glosstyr,” he told them, the wrenching sensation in his gut making him miserable. He knew there was no denying it—he would be yanked away regardless of what he did—and there would be fewer questions if he was alone when it happened. “There is something I must do.”

“My lord?” one of the knights asked in shock.

“Tell Sir Simon I’m coming,” Ransom said. “Ride on.”

“What about the brigands?” another said. “My lord, it isn’t safe for you to be all alone.”

“Do as I say!” he barked, driven to desperation. He could tell it would happen soon. Imminently.

The bark of command brought fear to their eyes. They were disturbed by his behavior, but it couldn’t be helped. He had to protect the grove.

Still, they lingered, their eyes on him.

“Go,” he demanded. They exchanged looks and then rode ahead while he watched them from his steed, wondering what news they’d bring Simon.

He breathed in gasps as he waited for the magic to take him away. Would it leave his horse behind or bring it as well? He didn’t know. And that uncertainty made it all the more bewildering. His heart began racing. He gripped the saddle horn tightly and shut his eyes.

When the magic swept him away, he wanted to scream in anguish. But the pain ended in an instant, and he found himself back at the grove. Water dripped from the trees, fresh from an otherworldly storm. He blinked, realizing he was still on the horse. In the gloom of dusk, he saw men in armor, helmets and visors covering their faces. He looked around, his stomach lurching at the disproportionate odds. The knights were on foot, their armor dented. He sensed that some had been injured, but all were well enough to fight. Ten to one.

“It’s Lord Ransom,” said a voice in Occitanian. He recognized that voice. It was Chauvigny, one of the knights of Estian’s mesnie. A quick glance assured him he was right—although the man’s helmet covered his face, his armor was familiar. They’d fought in the siege of Dunmanis, the Elder King’s last battle, and Ransom had taken the Occitanian knight captive briefly before he was saved by his fellows. It obviously still chafed, for his next words, spoken with contempt, were “Do you yield?”

Ransom drew his sword from the scabbard in answer. He wore a hauberk under his tunic, but he had no helmet. And he hadn’t fought ten knights at once since Lord DeVaux’s ambush on the road to Auxaunce. The Fountain magic began to bubble up inside of him.

“Encircle him,” Chauvigny said to the others. “My lady will get her revenge at last.”

Ransom kicked the horse’s flank and charged the man closest to him, trying to break free before they fulfilled the command. The horse knocked the knight down easily, and he rolled to the side to avoid being trampled. But three others came up and thrust their swords at Ransom and his rouncy. He blocked and countered, feeling his desperation drown in a surge of defiance and determination. He kicked one man in the helmet and slammed his hilt onto another.

Someone grabbed Ransom from behind, and suddenly he was falling. The horse flailed its hooves, letting out a noisy whine as Ransom slammed onto his back. He felt a blade pierce his hauberk at his shoulder. Grimacing, he banged the flat of his blade against the man’s helmet to stun him before he rolled to his knees and sliced the man’s leg off in a single stroke.

He felt the pain in his shoulder but only vaguely. The Raven scabbard had already begun to glow, preventing any blood from flowing. Two more knights came at him, and he ducked a blow to the head that nicked his scalp. Undaunted, he charged forward, holding the flat of the blade and using his sword to push both men at once until they tripped and fell backward. Sensing danger behind him, he whirled around and blocked another attempt to club his unprotected head. He deflected it and skewered the knight, cleaving through his armor.

Then Chauvigny was advancing on him, swinging at him relentlessly. Ransom’s advantage was not being encumbered by armor. It made him faster, but not fast enough—the odds were still overwhelmingly against him. Another cut to his arm made Ransom yell in anger and rush against Chauvigny, who deflected his hail of blows with expert form.

Ransom felt a blade slash his back. He didn’t think it had pierced the links, but he couldn’t be sure. He felt no pain, but weariness began to take its toll. His magic provided a defense, a way of discerning his opponents’ weaknesses, but it wasn’t unlimited. And Chauvigny didn’t have any major weaknesses. Ransom broke off his attack and went after a more hapless foe, trying to reduce the numbers. His horse had ridden off, leaving him alone in his battle. How many were left? Six?

A sword pierced his injured leg, and he felt a thrum of pain shoot down to his foot. He grabbed the man by the collar of his breastplate and shoved him down, then drove his sword through a gap in the side of the man’s armor. But another sword struck him, and his strength began to ebb, dizziness washing through him.

Panic began to quiver in his belly. Thoughts of Claire and her swelling abdomen filled his mind. He thought of the people of Legault and Glosstyr too—they looked to him and Claire as a hope for the future. Ransom bit down on his tongue until he tasted blood and lunged at the next man, begging the Fountain for strength to defeat his foes.

Chauvigny attacked him again. Ransom beat him back, but he wasn’t able to penetrate the man’s armor for a killing wound. Another stab to Ransom’s side made him wheeze in pain. He spun around and took the man down. Sweat stung Ransom’s eyes. His energy was flagging quickly. There were three of them left, including Chauvigny. He gazed at them, feeling drunk with determination and fatigue.

“Yield,” Chauvigny growled, aiming his sword at Ransom’s throat.

Ransom pushed the tip away and lunged forward, kicking him in the chest and knocking him down. He came at Chauvigny in savage fury, but the other two knights grappled with him. Before Ransom could process what had happened, he was on his back. He saw a blade sticking out from his stomach, yet he wasn’t dead. He could barely even feel it. The knight pulled it out and backed away from Ransom. He lifted his visor, his face aghast with shock at seeing Ransom alive despite his grievous injuries. The next moment, he turned and ran away, screaming, into the woods.

Ransom rolled to his side and tried to stand, but Chauvigny kicked him back down. There were only two left. When Ransom lifted his arm to raise his sword, Chauvigny stomped on his wrist. He felt the bones break. His sword arm was useless now.

“He cannot be killed!” groaned the other knight in fear.