The boy looked at him sagely and nodded. “The Fountain is with us, Lord Ransom. Because you are.”
His words caused Ransom’s magic to awaken. He felt his bond with the boy grow stronger.
“Thank you, lad,” Ransom said huskily.
“How will we know when you’ve broken through?” Dawson asked. “It will be difficult to communicate.”
“Then let’s save our battle cry for that moment,” Ransom said. “If luck is on your side and you break down the north gate, let out that cry, and we’ll hear it. We’ll do the same if we can breach the west gate first. Understood?”
Faulkes nodded. “The cry of the Elder King. Dex aie.”
“Get all in readiness. First, we need those battering rams.”
“It’ll be done in a trice,” Dawson boasted. They gave each other the knightly salute, and Ransom felt a kinship with them that made his heart throb with pride. Yes, they were outnumbered. Yes, the field was a muddy mess. But they were true knights, and he doubted not their courage and resilience.
Both would be needed before the night was over.
Ransom sat astride his impatient destrier and watched their plan unfold. They were a good distance from the walls, but Dawson and the knights were making an unholy racket. Two battering rams took turns, and the grunts and groans of men were followed by the distant thud of the rams striking the gate, one and then another. Arrows clattered off the stone walls, but occasionally a cry of pain announced one had found a victim.
Staring up at the darkened keep, Ransom imagined Lady Deborah and the others huddling in darkness, observing the night siege from the narrow windows.
He was anxious to join the fray. He had one lance at the ready and his scabbard and sword at his waist. The chill of the night hadn’t penetrated him even after the hours they’d waited. Each time one of the horses grunted, he worried that the enemy would hear them and know that they were perched outside the town. He had scouts monitoring the encampment. No one was sleeping, and reinforcements were being sent into the town to defend the northern walls. Ransom wondered what the Wizr board looked like, and if Estian had discerned their strategy, or if the pieces were already so close together he could not tell the difference. No word from the Espion and laborers. All was deathly quiet.
“The sky on the horizon is brightening,” Dearley whispered. The prince sat astride his own horse next to him, an animal that had been used for baggage on the way.
Ransom knew what he was saying. The sun was rising, and they were still not in, either through the west gate, which was their chosen approach, or the north. The north gate had proven to be sturdy, and no doubt the defenders were barricading it from the inside.
“They can do it,” Ransom insisted. He’d lowered his chain cowl so he could hear better, and his helmet hung around his neck by the strap.
The horses were getting restless and hungry. More of them started to grunt, and the knights riding them whispered soothing noises. They had no more provender with them. They had to win the day, or all would be lost.
A shadowed figure came slinking up from the western gate. Ransom recognized the crossbow strapped across his back. It was Hans Dragan. He jogged the rest of the way to them and was breathing heavily when he arrived.
“It’s nearly done, my lord,” he said. “Sir Simon will have the rest cleared before you get there. Ride on!”
Ransom glanced at Dearley, smiling, and then returned his attention to Dragan. “No one heard you?”
“Nary a one,” the Espion replied. “We already have men inside the city, keeping watch for any sentries. The street is empty, my lord.”
Ransom felt a surge of relief. Yes, the eastern sky was starting to brighten, but so were his hopes. Not for himself—he’d accepted his fate—but for those he had pledged to protect. “Your plan may work yet.”
Turning toward the men, he lifted his voice so the other knights could hear him. “We go to save the queen,” he said firmly. “Once this battle starts, it will not end until one side prevails over the other. May the Fountain be on our side. Courage, men. I know you’re weary. I know you’re spent. But this is the moment you have trained for your entire lives. When we breach the city walls, scream Dex aie!”
He looked at Dearley, who stared at him with pride tinged with disappointment. He wanted to ride into battle with his master for this crucial battle.
“I’m counting on you to save the boy,” Ransom said to him. His throat thickened. “You will tell Claire what happened here.”
Dearley’s brow wrinkled with concern. “My lord?”
“We go. Now!” Ransom said, straightening in the saddle. He grabbed his lance and rested it in the crook of his arm.
Dearley said something else to him, but he ignored it. The excitement of battle was spreading through the ranks.
“Lord Ransom!” called the prince. “Your helmet!”
Ransom realized he’d nearly ridden into battle without it on. He grinned at his own mistake and quickly set down the lance. He heard some chuckles around him as he arranged his chain hood and then pulled on the helmet. The moment reminded him of another one, when he’d faced Estian in a tournament with his helmet askew. He’d been half blind, but he’d still won. He’d win this one too, by thunder!
Ready at last, he picked up the lance again and led his knights in a charge across the sodden meadow. Clumps of mud flew everywhere, but the scent of manure faded as they left their camp.
The eastern sky was a sliver of gray. Rain pelted them. Still, they rode on.
As they reached the walls of Thorngate town, he saw Simon and the Espion waving them through the open breach. Spontaneous cries of joy came from the men.
After crossing the gate, he let out the battle cry he’d shouted so many times before. “Dex aie!”
His knights’ thunderous reply came as they joined in the call to arms. The muddy field was replaced by wet cobblestones. He saw men emerging from the shadows, waving to him and pointing to the nearest street.
“This way, my lord! This way!”
Was it a trap? Even as the thought occurred to him, he dismissed it. His Fountain magic was thrumming through his veins, rejoicing. The enemy was aware of them now as they rode through the street to the keep. After turning the corner, they saw a cluster of Occitanian knights who’d gathered at a distance from the keep wall. Up close, he could see the damage caused by the enemy so far. Parts of the wall were sagging dangerously. But the several trebuchets were at rest, although the men were not asleep.
“Alarum! Alarum!” shouted one of the knights, pointing at them. “Vite! Vite!” He spoke in Occitanian. Hurry. Hurry.
Ransom lowered his lance and charged the startled knights. One was on a horse already, and he turned to face Ransom with his own lance. Fire from pitch-soaked torches illuminated the area. He sensed his opponent’s skills—his training, his youth and vigor—but Ransom was much more experienced. He aimed the tip of his lance and unhorsed the knight in the first pass.
The chaos of battle erupted around them, and Ransom drew his bastard sword and charged into the thick of it. He slashed at the knights who came at him—some mounted, some on foot—his Fountain magic pouring into him, wave after wave. He heard the battle cry rise up behind him as more of the men of Glosstyr poured into the city. Perhaps fifty had been guarding the keep, and they were all soon dispatched. None of them surrendered or cried to yield. That didn’t surprise him given the way the last Occitanian hostages had been treated.