When he overtook Robert’s horse, he leaned from the saddle to grab the man. Robert attacked with his sword. Sir Terencourt’s horse bit Robert’s beast, and the other capitulated and stopped running. It hung its head, swooning with exhaustion, and no matter what Robert did, the beast wouldn’t move. Ransom swung about and watched as Robert dismounted, holding his sword out in front of him, his eyes wide with fear.
Ransom had no weapon himself, but he didn’t care. The man’s obvious fear indicated he knew it wouldn’t save him.
Swinging off the horse, Ransom stalked toward his enemy, holding his arms out in a gesture of defenselessness.
“You’ve always wanted to beat me,” he said angrily to Robert. “Now is your chance.”
Robert was panting. “I don’t . . . want to fight . . .”
“I don’t care what you want!” Ransom shouted at him. “Do your best, and I will do mine.”
Robert stared at him, his face chalky with dread. Ransom sensed he was planning an attack. He was preparing to fling himself at Ransom. He would come from the left.
“They say you don’t even bleed,” Robert said. “It’s all stories and fables.”
“Do your best,” Ransom taunted.
Robert lunged at him from the left before twisting around and swinging his sword, trying to decapitate Ransom.
But Ransom sensed all his actions before they unfolded. He paused, ducking so that the blade sailed over his head, and then tackled Robert onto the meadow grass. The two wrestled for a few moments, but Ransom was stronger and easily pried the weapon from his hand.
Robert tried to knee Ransom in the groin, but he sensed that too and twisted his hips in time to avoid it. He hefted up the sword and rose with it. Robert lay on the grass, panting heavily, and gazed up at him.
“You won . . .” he panted. “I yield.”
Ransom stared at him with contempt. He took a step closer, feeling his strength grow.
“I said I yield!”
Ransom shook his head. “For shame. I was there when Devon died,” he said. “You betrayed your king. You cannot beg for mercy now.”
Robert Tregoss squeezed his eyes shut, lying on the meadow grass and waiting for death.
It came swiftly.
The army of the North is coming. Instead of venturing south to connect with Benedict, James has swung east and marches on the palace. Lord Kinghorn is set to defend it. The Elder King has taken his army to confront his son, who has left Beestone and marches east. There are a number of castles along the way, the question is which one the king will choose to defend his crown. He must choose one of them because he is so outnumbered. He will force Benedict to besiege the castles one by one as he retreats back to Kingfountain. That is what Sir Dalian said the strategy was as he heard it from his father. The best way to stop a sword from cutting off a limb is blunting it. Will this buy us enough time? I offered to go to Glosstyr and summon those willing to fight to aid the king. Lord Kinghorn was grateful. There just wasn’t enough time to get there and back to make a difference.
—Claire de Murrow, Duchess of Glosstyr
(the painful silence before the storm)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The Guardian’s Ring
After Ransom finished strapping the scabbard to his waist, he saw the raven sigil begin to glow and felt the first stirrings of relief. He took Terencourt’s horse by the reins and then walked back to the remains of the battle. Of the two dozen knights who’d clashed in the meadow, only six remained upright, five standing and one kneeling. Each had a shield with the Raven on it, so he knew which side had won and decisively so.
The knight kneeling was doing so by Sir Terencourt, who lay in the trampled grass, his breathing shallow and ragged. Blood trickled from his chapped lips. They were moving slightly, as if he was whispering something, and Ransom hurried toward them as the knight uttered his plea: “Bring my body . . . to Ploemeur.”
If he used the Raven scabbard to heal the knight, he risked revealing its nature, but this man had saved him, and Ransom was willing to take that risk. But as he started to unbuckle the sword belt, he felt a gentle push to stay his hand.
Kneel, Sir Ransom. His time is at an end.
Ransom obeyed and knelt by the fallen warrior. One of the knights standing nearby sniffled. This was his mesnie. Ransom understood the grief and pain they felt at the loss of their master and their brothers-in-arms. In his mind, he heard the rushing of the waters.
Sir Terencourt’s eyes found his, and the bloodied lips twitched with a smile. “I am dying,” he whispered.
Ransom grasped the fallen knight’s gauntlet in his hand, adding gentle pressure to it. “You rescued me, Sir Terencourt. I am grateful. I am sorry you had to trade your life for mine.”
Terencourt pressed his lips together and shuddered. “The Fountain . . . bid me come. Take off my gauntlet. Quickly.”
Ransom did so, tugging off the metal glove. Terencourt’s hand was pale from lack of blood, his knuckles scarred from a warrior’s life.
“The ring,” said Terencourt, seizing Ransom’s hand.
Ransom’s brows wrinkled in confusion. He saw no ring.
“You will feel it, Sir Ransom. It cannot be seen when worn.” His blue eyes looked at Ransom fiercely, his voice straining as it became weaker. “It is yours. You are the champion of Brythonica now. Protector of the family. Master of the wood and keeper of the Gradalis.” His breath began to fail.
Ransom stared at him in concern. “What does this mean?”
“The duchess . . . will explain. Good-bye, Sir Ransom. Until we meet in the Deep Fathoms.”
The knight squeezed Ransom’s hand, but his energy soon failed him, and his grip went slack. Ransom squeezed it in return, trying to lend the man some strength. But the knight had finally yielded his life. The sound of the waters faded to a trickle, and then it faded away.
With curiosity, Ransom touched the base of the man’s fingers, feeling for the ring, and found a metal band around his forefinger. It did not take effort to pry it away and when it slipped off, the ring could be seen. It was a simple band of white-and-yellow gold. Around the band were overlapping circles. He stared at it in his palm, feeling the weight of the ring and the sense of responsibility it imposed. Then he rose and stuffed the ring in his pocket.
“His last wish was to return to Ploemeur,” he said to the others. “It is on the way back.”
“Are you coming with us, Sir Ransom?” asked the young knight who had knelt by the body. His face was grief-stricken, but he had a look of hope.
“I am,” he said. “But I cannot stay long. Our king is in danger.”
They reached Ploemeur at dawn, having ridden all night. He sent one of the knights ahead to inform the duchess of what had happened and that they were coming. He was utterly spent by the time they reached the city, but the scabbard had healed his infirmities. He rode Sir Terencourt’s horse, and they’d strapped the old champion to another mount for the journey back to his home.
When they reached Ploemeur, the streets were full of soldiers and knights. They were informed that the duchess was at the Hall of Justice in the town proper and not up at the palace, which would have taken them longer to reach. Ransom dismounted and followed the knight to meet with her. He was ashamed to encounter her, filthy as he was, but there was no time left.