“I will, my lord. Thank you.” The tent flap closed, and shadows smothered the space again, causing a pang of relief.
“Prepare yourself,” Lord Bryon said. “I don’t have tongs. I’ll have to pull it out by hand.”
“Just do it,” Ransom said, feeling himself grow weaker with each breath. When he opened his eyes, he saw darkness closing in around his vision. His inner stores of Fountain magic were all spent. They’d kept him alive during the fight, but they’d run out at the end. He felt like a coil of rope dropped to the floor—lifeless, inert.
And then he felt it when Lord Bryon gripped the piece of the lance sticking from his armor. Dearley shoved down against Ransom’s body to hold him as he started screaming in pain.
Everything went dark.
It was a humming that awoke him. At first he thought it was the drone of bees, but this was a deeper, more resonant sound, almost like the throb of a deep horn coming from the bottom of the sea. Something about it was achingly familiar, although he couldn’t place it.
Ransom opened his eyes, realizing he’d passed out. He vaguely remembered the shard of wood coming out. The tent was brighter now, the sun falling heavily from its midday position.
A little grunt came from his lips when he tried to move.
“Sir Ransom?” croaked Dearley, suddenly rising from a stooped position on a camp stool. He turned and dropped to his knees by the rim of the cot. “Are you awake?”
“Yes,” Ransom said, his throat dry, the sound gravelly.
“Bless our Lady!” whispered Dearley. He looked down on Ransom’s face, his mouth slowly turning to a wide smile. Tears of relief came to his eyes, and he brushed them away.
Ransom lifted his head to glance at his back, relieved to see the wooden spur was indeed gone. A crumpled cloth lay on his flesh, but it wasn’t red with blood. That fact astonished him.
“Where’s Lord Bryon?” Ransom asked.
“He went to the king. He asked me to stay and watch over you.”
Ransom’s stomach gurgled. “Fetch me a drink.”
“Do you want some wine?”
“No. Just water.”
He could still hear the hum, the source of it quite near. Dearley went and fetched a water flask. After unstoppering it, he gently put his hand behind Ransom’s neck and lifted his head higher so he could drink. Ransom expected a jolt of pain from his wound, but he only felt a deep soreness. Strange blue light shone on half of Dearley’s face. Ransom shifted his left elbow to support his weight, a maneuver that caused him a little pain, although nowhere near as much as he would have expected. The water was cool and refreshing. He took a few swallows and then noticed the raven’s head on his scabbard was glowing. Although he’d seen it shed light before, it had never glowed this brightly.
He stared at it, remembering vaguely that it had started glowing during the battle. Through the fog of war, and that of his injury, he had forgotten that.
“Do you see that, Dearley?” Ransom whispered after his drink.
“See what?” His ward looked at him inquisitively.
“Do you see my scabbard?”
Dearley glanced down and looked at the empty scabbard wrapped around Ransom’s waist. The raven’s head was glowing blue as clearly as the moon on a frosty night. “Yes,” the young man said. “Are you worried about your sword? It was brought in from the battlefield. I’ve already cleaned it.”
“Does the scabbard look . . . strange to you?” Ransom asked, still staring at it.
He cannot see the light.
The whisper from the Fountain alarmed him, and he stiffened. He’d not heard the voice since he’d retrieved the scabbard from the well at the oasis. A gift for a gift.
Dearley frowned. “It looks . . . old. Where did you get it?”
“It was . . . never mind.” Ransom tried to sit up, but he felt that same aching soreness.
Dearley gripped his arm and helped him up. The rag fell away from the wound, dropping onto his lap. He glanced back and could see flesh through the hole in his tunic. His breastplate had been removed. The skin was livid, inflamed, but there was no scab, no dried blood.
He looked at Dearley, who stared at him in shock, his lips quivering.
“What happened?” he asked the young man.
Dearley’s voice was but a whisper. “When Lord Kinghorn removed the broken lance, he told me to press the wound hard. He told me to be prepared that you might bleed to death. I did as he said. After you fell unconscious, we removed the armor so we could tend to the wound better. There was . . . there wasn’t any blood leaking out. I kept lifting the rag, unable to believe it. The skin was torn, and I could see blood inside the wound, but none came out. Lord Kinghorn looked at me and told me to tell no one what we had seen. He said that you were Fountain-blessed.”
A tingle of apprehension shot down to Ransom’s hungry stomach. The wound had sealed itself. He swiveled his shoulder in a circle, feeling the muscles groan, but it didn’t hurt. It was only sore. His left elbow, which he suspected he’d broken, felt the same way. The scabbard had healed him, not his Fountain magic.
Ransom swung his legs off the edge of the cot, amazed that he wasn’t light-headed. Gratitude thrummed in his heart for the gift he’d been given at the oasis. Part of him wanted to reveal its power to Dearley, if only to explain what had happened, but he remembered something Lord Kinghorn had told him long ago. He’d said the Fountain-blessed of old had sometimes been killed for their relics, and a scabbard that could heal mortal wounds was indeed the kind of prize someone would kill for. While Dearley would never do such a thing, of course, he might mention it to someone else—either unwittingly or under duress. It was too great a chance for him to take.
Dearley was still on his knees, staring into Ransom’s face. He looked haunted by what he’d seen.
“It’s all right, lad,” Ransom said. He reached with his right arm, which obeyed, and put his hand on his ward’s shoulder.
Dearley bit his lip and sniffed. “It’s not. It’s my fault.”
Ransom wrinkled his brow.
“It’s my fault that you were injured,” he blurted. He looked down in shame. “I froze. I was so terrified. They were coming at me . . . I saw them . . . two knights with their lances drawn. I just sat there, watching it. I’m so . . . I feel so terrible.” He lifted his head and looked into Ransom’s eyes. “You took a lance for me, Sir Ransom. One that nearly killed you. It’s a miracle of the Fountain that you were healed.”
Ransom saw the shame in the young man’s eyes. But he also saw the respect, the commitment, and the sense of purpose. How young he looked. He reminded Ransom so much of how he’d felt as a new knight.
He squeezed Dearley’s shoulder. “Of course I did, lad. You are in my mesnie now. It is my duty to protect you. I couldn’t let those Occitanian miscreants kill my first knight during his first battle, could I?” He smiled at his ward. “Battles are chaos. Everyone flinches. You’ll be better prepared next time.”
Dearley breathed deeply, then he clenched a fist and pressed it to his mouth. His shoulders quivered. “You s-saved my life,” he croaked. “I cannot thank you enough. But I will try.” He looked at Ransom again. “I swear on the Blessed Lady I will make you proud of me someday. You won’t regret what you did.” He lowered his fist and swallowed. “I swear it. I will be faithful to you in all things.”