As he reached the gate, he saw Dearley and other knights had assembled to guard it. A huge stone was flung down, hitting Sir Chauvigny on the arm he’d lifted to defend himself from the blow. The knight let out a bark of pain, and Ransom saw that the stone had broken his arm.
Ransom tugged the man through the gate and handed the bridle to Dearley. “Disarm him,” he ordered. “He’ll make a good prize.”
“Aye, my lord,” said Dearley, beaming with pride at Ransom’s feat. The smoke from the burning town rushed in through the gate, but Ransom turned back to join his comrades who were still battling the Occitanians. A small group of knights from Ceredigion was holding off the vanguard, thanks to the narrow street, the smoke, and the determination to prevail. Indeed, neither side was prepared to relent.
Ransom brought two more hostages back to Dearley, and each time he arrived with another victim, cheers went up from the men.
One of his fellows turned to Ransom. “Shall we stand our ground longer, my lord? I think we can defeat the whole army!”
Ransom chuckled at the man’s bravado. “We’ve held it long enough. Back to the gate before we cook inside our armor.”
The heat from the flames grew more oppressive as the fire spread. The homes outside the walls of the town were blazing, but at least Estian wouldn’t be able to use them for firewood or shelter.
He motioned for the others to follow, and they rode back to the gate, where Dearley and the other guards awaited them. Ransom tried moving his left arm, but the armor was so dented and battered around his shoulder that his range of motion was severely limited. He imagined his helmet had also been mangled during the fight. But he was proud to have stopped the advance.
As soon as Ransom and the others reached Dearley, the men on guard shoved the doors of the gate closed and settled the crossbar into place.
“Your horse is wounded,” Dearley said to him.
Ransom raised his crooked visor so he could see better. He looked down and then back, and saw that the horse’s rear flank had been scraped by a lance he hadn’t even seen. The beast was bleeding profusely, but it had not wavered during the battle.
Ransom quickly dismounted and patted the horse along the neck. Memories of Gemmell, the horse that Ransom had lost after his first battle, brought a throb of sadness. “You served Sir Terencourt and me well.” He turned to Dearley. “Get this beast back to the castle and have him tended to. I hope the wound isn’t fatal.”
“I will,” Dearley said. Then he pointed to another horse, the one that Sir Chauvigny had been riding. “This one can serve in its place.”
King Devon strode up, still not wearing any armor. Ransom was surprised to see him. He’d expected the king would ride up to the castle.
“My lord,” Ransom said in concern.
The king gripped Ransom by the shoulders, his big hands grasping the dented armor. “You fought like ten men out there,” he said, beaming with pride. “I’m agog at what I saw. You are Fountain-blessed. I’ve no doubt on that any longer.”
“I did my best,” Ransom said. “The smoke will hold them back for a while, but we need to guard all the gates.”
The king shook his head. “This is the strongest one. The others will fall, and we can’t defend them all at the same time.”
Ransom’s stomach shriveled. “What do we do?”
The king shook his head. “I didn’t think they’d get past the river so quickly. You saw what happened. We must abandon Dunmanis. There might be a way into the castle we don’t know about. I don’t trust that it’s safe.” The king grunted, his face blanching with pain. “My guts are flaming again. If they lay siege, I will die in this place.” His eyes burned fiercely. “And I do not want to die here. I’m taking my son and riding out of here. You’re coming too.”
Ransom lowered his head. He wanted to argue, but there was logic in the king’s strategy. If they went to the castle, they’d be trapped inside. At that point, it would only be a matter of time and suffering.
“You were right,” the king said, hooking his hand around Ransom’s neck. “You were right about the armor. I should have listened to you. This pain has made my mind a fog. I don’t have the strength to flee all the way to Kingfountain.”
“Let’s go to Glosstyr,” Ransom said. “We can take a ship from there.”
The king’s expression turned dark, brooding. “I hate this,” he said. “Everything I’ve built is crumbling. It’s slipping through my fingers.”
Ransom suppressed a coughing fit, his throat sore and rough from all the smoke. “I understand what that feels like, my lord.”
The king pursed his lips, eyeing Ransom with a look of wisdom. “Defeat is worse than poison. I’d forgotten its bitter taste. Let’s round up those who are still loyal outside the castle. We must go while we still can.”
The king mounted his horse, and Ransom lifted himself into Chauvigny’s saddle. His mesnie gathered around him, even Dawson, who had returned after hearing about the fight raging in town. Guivret looked particularly worried.
“We ride with the king,” he told his men.
“What about the gate?” Dearley asked.
Ransom shook his head. “Leave it.”
As they rode up the street, Ransom took in the disorder and chaos. People were dragging things from their homes and shops, frantic to save their possessions. Smoke filled the air.
The king gazed at the wretched conditions, his expression bleak. “The fire spread within the gates,” he said to no one in particular. “There will be nothing left here by morning. Everything I touch bursts into flames.”
Truth is rarely pure and never simple. There was a commotion at one of the city gates last night. A group of merchants who were feeling the pinch of confinement, which spoiled the cabbages in their carts, thought to break through the gate and flee Kingfountain. There were enough to make a mob, but it was quickly quelled by the night watch. They care not who rules them. Their only wish is for the gates to be open. Nothing will drive a man madder than uncertainty.
—Claire de Murrow, Duchess of Glosstyr
(on the consequence of spoiling cabbages)
CHAPTER THIRTY
The Fate of Choice
There was so much smoke in the air that the sun looked like a shield of pale bone in the haze. Flames scoured the city relentlessly, and the townsfolk were drawing buckets from the wells to douse the houses and shops that had not been burned yet, to prevent them from being lost to the fire. Dunmanis would be left desolate.
Ransom sat astride his new destrier, the one taken from Chauvigny, holding a fresh lance in one hand and the horse’s reins in the other. The Elder King coughed into his fist, his lungs plagued by the smoke. His son Jon-Landon sat astride his own horse, his expression that of a greensick lad. A few other nobles had gathered with them at the rear gates of the city.
Dearley suddenly appeared through the gloom, his face blackened with smudges from where he’d rubbed his face. When he reached them, he shook his head.
“The town is lost,” he said. “The Occitanians have withdrawn back over the river again, but they wait there, watching the city burn. The men abandoned the outer walls because of the flames. There are no defenses now.”