Ransom whirled in his saddle and saw the foot soldiers jogging through the gate, coming to join the fight. He brandished his sword and cried for his knights to join him.
As they went to the north gate, they saw a stream of soldiers coming from the south to join the fight at the wall. Again the sound of alarm came just before Ransom’s knights crushed them. He could see an endless flood of soldiers coming toward them. Looking around, he saw Simon battling a foe on horseback. The other man tumbled from his mount, and Ransom shouted his friend’s name.
Simon turned his horse, his eyes fearful as he beheld the mass of men coming toward them.
“Get that north gate open!” Ransom shouted. “We need Dawson and his knights right away.”
“What will we do?” Then his eyes widened at something over Ransom’s shoulder. “Look out!”
Ransom sensed the danger too late. A wounded knight had risen with a spear and thrust it at him from behind. He felt the tip pierce through a slit in his armor, puncturing his hauberk, but he didn’t feel any pain.
Ransom swiveled his horse around sharply, and the spear was yanked out of the knight’s hands before the destrier trampled him.
Gritting his teeth, Ransom used his other hand to pull the spear loose. There was still no pain, but the Raven scabbard began to glow. He turned back to Simon.
“We need Dawson’s men,” he said, breathing fast.
“You’re injured,” Simon said worriedly. “You’ve done enough. Come. Others can lead this fight.”
Ransom shook his head. More soldiers were rushing toward them, roaring with anger, but they were running up a slant. Ransom and his knights had the higher ground. If they pushed, and pushed hard, they could drive the Occitanians out of the village.
But they couldn’t end the battle that way. The Occitanians had men to spare. They were more rested and well fed. The only way they could hope to win—or at least not to lose—was to break the Occitanians’ will to fight.
“I will fight . . . as long as I have . . . breath,” Ransom said to him. “Get Dawson. I’m going after Estian.”
There was a hush in the wind today. It sounded like a sigh. Please, please, don’t let him die.
—Claire de Murrow
Connaught Castle
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Dex Aie
The rain did not cease its relentless aggression. Even the clouds seemed angry, and the thunder that started to the east was soon overhead. They were outside the town now, pressing into the thickest mass of soldiers to reach the center. For there, deep within the throng, he thought he saw the banner of Estian Vertus. Ransom felt nothing beyond wet, aching muscles, and raw determination. He deflected a blade aiming for his neck but kept pressing through the thickest part of the enemy, going deeper into the maelstrom of mud, shooting, and clashing arms. In his heart, he was determined to peel the fruit and expose the seed. He would not stop until the Black King was his.
“Pour le sang!” shouted a knight, charging at his flank. He recognized the battle cry of the royal house of Occitania—for the blood! He was too slow to block the strike and felt the blade shear through his armor. A hot, stinging pain stabbed into his chest. The knight pressed harder, and Ransom twisted in his saddle and struck the man’s helmet with the pommel of his sword, the blow hard enough that it dented. The knight sagged off his horse into the slick mud, facedown, and didn’t move. But his fall had dragged his sword out of Ransom’s chest, and the pain quickly faded as the scabbard’s magic continued to heal him. He’d been struck repeatedly, and whether any of the blows were mortal, he didn’t know. He couldn’t dwell on it.
A foot soldier rushed forward with a halberd to impale his horse, but Ransom urged his destrier forward and got past the man’s reach. Mud was smeared on every face. Some of the men and horses were tripping over themselves. Ransom used his mount to press through the fray, although the din of the battle raged around him.
More thunder rippled through the air, followed by a blinding shard of lightning. Some soldiers winced, shielding their eyes. Others were already fleeing, only to be turned back by the rush of advancing men.
Ransom risked a backward glance and found his knights hacking through the mob. They were trying to keep up with him, but it was like riding against a river’s current. An axe struck against his back, the blow hard enough to leave bruises but the weapon too dull to cut through his steel. The knight attacking him drew the weapon back again to make another swing, but Ransom stabbed the man with his bastard sword, his stroke finding a gap. He heard a gasp of surprise and pain, and the axe fell from the knight’s hands.
Yanking on his horse’s reins, Ransom turned the destrier about and knocked over two foot soldiers in the process. They’d been reaching for the bridle. If they’d managed to seize it, he would have been helpless. He whacked the flat of his blade against his destrier’s armored rump, and the two surged forward again, forcing others to dive away or be trampled.
“Dex aie! To Lord Ransom!” came a shout from behind.
His knights were gaining ground and shoving their way through the press of men. He clenched his teeth with pride. The mettle they’d shown that day went beyond his wildest hopes. They’d been driven past the point of exhaustion, yet still they fought, and still they conquered.
Reaching out with his magic again, Ransom altered his course to intercept Estian. The Black King was in the center of his army, so there was no way he could flee. Ransom’s lungs were burning for air, but he continued to slash and block his way to his quarry.
Then suddenly, the Occitanians pulled back. A row of foot soldiers with spears quickly formed into a wall, the tips of their blades pointed out like the spikes of a hedgehog. Behind them, Ransom saw the muddied black tunics of Estian’s personal guard, each man mounted and with a lance couched and ready. Estian, with a crown fixed to his helmet, sat astride his great stallion in the middle, holding a lance made of ash wood and a pennant of the Fleur-de-Lis.
Hoisting his sword into the air, Ransom pulled back on the reins of his destrier to make it rise and flail its hooves. He brandished his sword in several sharp circles before pointing it at the wall of spearmen.
“Dex aie!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, his voice hoarse and straining.
There was a cry again, a bellowing of voices to match his own.
A knight near him cried out, “Let’s end this! Ride on! For the Fountain! For Lord Ransom!”
Ransom saw that his knights had caught up to him, maybe a score of them—no more. Gazing at the wall facing them, he jabbed his destrier with spurs, and the beast lunged forward. The quickly assembled phalanx charged.
Through the openings in the spearmen’s round, shield-like helmets, he could see their fearful eyes. They grimaced with dread as the knights bore down on them. A few even closed their eyes, fixed their spears, and looked away.
Ransom’s destrier jumped, smashing through the spearmen, and he swung his sword down when it landed. Several horses screamed in pain, and he worried his mount would crumple from a wound to its chest, but it didn’t. He’d made it through the wall.
Estian lowered his lance and began to charge at him.
A knight with a lance had an advantage over one without, for he could strike his enemy from a greater distance. The only chance he had was if he dodged at the last moment, letting the tip of the lance pass by, which would bring his enemy within range of his bastard sword. His magic sensed that Estian’s skill was still prodigious. He didn’t compete in tournaments anymore, but he’d kept his body fit and strong, and while he was slightly older than Ransom, he was still a fearsome opponent.