The Maid's War (Kingfountain 0.5)

“You might try,” said the old duke. “I will not go back to Pree.”

“Aye, but you will. In a barrow. It’s almost a pity to strike down one so old.”

“At least I’m not a slave,” Alensson taunted.

As Ankarette pulled herself up on her elbows at the edge of the ridge, tearing her sleeve on a jagged piece of root, the two men struck each other with swords. Both were skilled, but it was clear that the younger man was more fit, stronger, and had the stamina to endure the conflict. She noticed the black knight had set the chest down before making his approach. It struck her that this might be the very chest that the Maid had withdrawn from the waters of Ranz on the day of Chatriyon’s coronation. She was keenly interested in seizing it.

The two combatants locked swords, their hilts trapped, and the taller, darker knight pressed his advantage, bending Alensson back. The old duke’s face twisted with pain and anger as he tried to resist but could not. Ankarette brought her leg up and around, then used the twisted roots to pull herself the rest of the way.

Alensson let go of the sword and grappled with the knight, trying to wrest him away. The knight pummeled him viciously in the stomach, then brought his elbow around and smacked the duke’s face. Alensson whirled like a top and then collapsed on the ground.

Ankarette saw the rest of the hunt closing in, at least a dozen soldiers. She drew a thin knife from the sheath in her boot. But just as she brought her arm back to throw the dagger, the black knight plunged his sword into the old duke’s heart.

For a moment, she looked on in disbelief as the blade skewered the old man. There was an almost exultant grin on his face. Then he lay back against the ground, perfectly still, the smile still on his face.

A hot flood of rage filled Ankarette’s heart. “You murdered an excellent man,” she said in a low, dangerous voice.

The black knight was heavily armored. All she needed was a patch of skin for one of her poisons to destroy him, but he wore gloves, thick boots, and a hauberk under his black tunic. Shoulder guards protected him along with bracers. His most open feature was his face. The man looked to be in his thirties, and he had a swarthy look and a pointed beard.

“I would argue with you about his excellent qualities, Poisoner,” the knight said snidely. “He was a traitor to his king.”

“His king is the traitor,” Ankarette said. “But you already know the measure of the Spider King. Spiders are my specialty.”

“Oh, I have no doubt, lass. No doubt at all. You defeated Marrat, who was sent to kill him. We still haven’t found the body.”

“Look in the moat under the privy hole,” Ankarette suggested.

The knight smirked. He kept his blade at the ready, preparing to try to deflect her dagger if she sent it at him. He paced in a semicircle, then switched directions. It was harder to kill a moving target.

“Come on lads,” the knight shouted to the soldiers. “We have a poisoner to kill.”

Ankarette was outnumbered. She eyed the chest. Should she snatch it and try to run? Alensson’s chest was struggling up at down as he lay dying. He gave her a subtle nod, the only way he could communicate in such a moment.

Then the black knight rushed her, swishing his sword around him in wide circles. Without armor, she was completely vulnerable. As he rushed, she dived to the side, doing a front roll that closed the distance between her and the chest. She grabbed the handle.

“Get her!” the knight roared.

Ankarette hefted the burden, much heavier than she’d expected it to be, and then started toward the nearest trees. Two soldiers rushed at her. She flung her dagger at the first, catching him in the shoulder. The blade was poisoned, so she knew he’d die in seconds. The older soldier tried to stab her with his sword, but she spun around and swung the chest, clubbing him on the chin with it. The man flew backward from the force of the blow, his eyes rolling in his head.

Having broken free of the ring, Ankarette started to run, every branch snagging at her wet clothes, ripping and tearing and clawing at her skin. Another man came at her from the side, trying to cut her off. She heaved the chest at him, and he instinctively dropped his sword to catch it. Ankarette snatched up his fallen blade, stabbed him with it, and then grabbed the handle of the chest as he fell. There were too many, and the chest was slowing her enormously.

She heard the twang of a crossbow, but before the curse could leave her mouth, the shaft embedded in the chest of one of the men chasing her. It had come from the woods behind her. Whirling, she saw soldiers wearing the tunic of the Sun and Rose, the royal insignia of Ceredigion. Hope bloomed in her chest.

Thirty knights from the king’s guard came charging onto the scene, swarming around her and engaging the soldiers of Occitania in a skirmish. Ankarette watched as the black knight scowled and fled, rushing away from the onslaught.

Her breath was hot and loud in her own ears, and her strength was flagging quickly. She hadn’t slept in two days and had been in constant peril since entering Occitania. Was it too late to save the duke? She knew the word of power that could bring him back from death . . .

“Ankarette!”

She whirled again and saw the Deconeus of Ely approaching through the woods, wearing a dark cloak to cover his vestments. She recognized his tall stride, his bulk, the hawkish nose and close-cropped hair. A feeling of relief went through her. He was someone she trusted, someone who had been her mentor and friend, and now she also knew him as the young boy who had smuggled the scabbard to Genette on the eve of her execution.

“Where is the duke?” Tunmore asked fervently. “Is he dead?”

“He’s over there,” Ankarette said, pointing. “Come with me.”

Together they rushed through the crowded glen as the soldiers of her king chased after the Occitanian defenders. They reached the spot where the duke lay, blood staining his shirt. His eyes were glazed over and vacant, but still—he smiled. Ankarette felt his neck and there was no thrum of a heartbeat. Her shoulders sagged in despair and sorrow.

Tunmore knelt down next to the body, his own face grim and sorrowful. He laid a hand on the duke’s shoulder, his brow crinkling.

“You knew him, didn’t you?” Ankarette’s voice was just a whisper. “He told me that he always regretted not thanking you.”

Tunmore stiffened with surprise, looking uncharacteristically moved by the sentiment. “I met him when I was a lad.” Then he looked up at Ankarette, his eyes full of emotion. “I didn’t know who he was at first. But then I learned what she called him. He was her Gentle Duke.” He frowned, his lips pursing with deep emotion.