Fate's Ransom(The First Argentines #4)

Ransom backed away from the tree and then whistled to get Captain Baldwin’s attention.

“That was unlucky,” Baldwin said, his head protected by a chain hood. “I’m going to send in another score of men to get that ladder back up.”

“I’m going to lead the charge. Tell them to follow me.”

“That’s too risky,” Baldwin said. “The king would—”

“I’m going!” Ransom barked. He lowered his visor and started to jog toward the wall. He heard Baldwin cry out for men to follow him, and a quick backward glance revealed there were more than a score coming up behind him. Ransom felt a crossbow bolt deflect off his armored arm, but it didn’t even slow his pace. More shafts rained down on him, but he was too angry to care about the danger. When he reached the fallen ladder, he saw the knights pinned beneath it, twisting and groaning to free themselves from the weight. Ransom signaled to his men to grab it and help the wounded retreat.

Together, they hoisted the ladder up against the wall, and Ransom was the first to begin the climb. He had no shield himself because he fought with a bastard sword, which required two hands. His lungs burned for air, and his legs throbbed from exertion, but he ignored both sensations as he scrabbled up the ladder. One of the other ladder crews had made it onto the wall, and fighting had broken out. He had a glimpse of the shield with the three lions—somehow Faulkes had made it up before him and was already dispatching opponents with skill.

As Ransom reached the top, a man with a hook and pole approached and tried to upend his ladder. But he was high enough to grab the hook, and he pulled hard, sending the defender into the edge of the wall with a grunt of pain. He let go of the weapon before he could be pulled from his perch.

Three knights charged at Ransom as soon as he breached the wall. He drew the bastard sword, and his Fountain magic roared to life as he smashed into his opponents, knocking them back and barreling forward to provide room for those behind him. Down below, he saw more Occitanian knights trampling through his gardens.

“Dex aie! Dex aie!” he shouted. It was the battle cry of the Argentine family.

His sword bit into armor, eliciting a shriek of pain, and Ransom elbowed the second man, pivoted, then withdrew his blade and whirled around to cut down the third knight. He felt something jolt against him and a tingle of pain, but he was too ablaze with fury to sense it, and he knew the Raven scabbard he wore would begin to heal the wound immediately.

More knights of Ceredigion streamed up the ladder. The momentum was shifting. Some of the knights down below had begun to flee to the interior of the castle, which would make the castle harder to take. But if they could claim the outer walls of Josselin, and hold them, then it would only be a matter of time before the defenders were starved into submission.

And it was right then, in the thick of the battle, that he felt a grinding sensation in his soul, as if a boulder were being dragged. With the sensation came the immediate compulsion to go to Tatton Grange. He recognized the feeling instantly. The king’s Wizr board had been activated. The board’s powerful magic allowed the royal families represented by the pieces—the Argentines of Ceredigion and the Vertuses of Occitania—to summon their loyal supporters where they were most needed . . . and to keep watch on the other side’s moves. Estian, the Occitanian king, had possessed it, but Ransom had stolen it from him.

Benedict had summoned him in the middle of the fight—a fight he knew he could win.

It made Ransom furious. He was so close to accomplishing his objective, to reclaiming the castle he’d lost to Estian. Part of him wanted to rebel against the order. But the mere thought made his Fountain magic shrivel. His power came through loyalty to the king, and any direct disobedience would strip him of his magic.

Silently cursing, Ransom looked around and then ordered his men to keep pressing onward. They needed to take the gatehouse so that they wouldn’t have to scale the walls to get inside. Already his knights, led by Dawson, were fighting down the stairs leading to the interior. Ransom walked back to the wall, still gripping his bloodstained sword, and saw more knights emerging from the woods to join the attack.

Since he couldn’t make it down one of the ladders—too many men were still coming up—he went down the stairs, following his rushing men. Dawson and the others had conquered the guards at the gatehouse, and a cheer went up when the iron door was thrust open.

It pained Ransom to walk away from the battle, from the sweetness of a possible victory, but he did. He returned to the camp, and Captain Baldwin approached him with a worried expression. Although Baldwin had once trained Ransom, back when both of them served Lord Kinghorn, Ransom’s cousin, the man now served under him. Seeing him always served as a reminder of Ransom’s long ties to the Argentine family, for it was Baldwin who had paid for Ransom’s release from Lord DeVaux’s dungeon at the bidding of Queen Emiloh.

“Are you injured?” Baldwin called out.

“No,” Ransom answered. Despite the wound he knew he’d sustained, he couldn’t feel any pain. The compulsion to leave was so powerful he found himself gritting his teeth. “I have to go to Tatton Grange.”

“Now?” Baldwin asked with confusion.

Few people outside the royal family knew of the Wizr board’s existence, so he couldn’t explain the summons. Staying as close to the truth as possible, he said, “Yes. I want to take some men with me. I think the king is in trouble.”

“Is that what the other captain told you?”

Ransom shouted to one of his squires to have his destrier, Dappled, saddled. “Be quick about it!” Turning back to Baldwin, he said, “No, he came on Jon-Landon’s orders, asking for a hundred men. We can’t spare them. I’ll bring a score with me to go to the king.”

“Why not fifty?” Baldwin suggested. “There are Occitanian knights rampaging everywhere in the borderlands. Best to be cautious.”

“Fifty, then,” Ransom agreed. “I’m going now.”

“It’s nearly sunset. Wait until morning.”

But a feeling of dread pulsed through him, and suddenly he was sure the king was in trouble. This was no normal summons.

“I’ve got to ride now. Get the men ready.”

“Aye, my lord.”

In the fading light, the knights were assembled to ride for Tatton Grange. Dappled stamped impatiently as the others mounted. One of Ransom’s squires offered him a leather flask, and he accepted it and drank quickly.

Captain Faulkes strode up, his armor dented in a few places and smeared with dust and blood. “You’re leaving?” he asked Ransom with a tinge of anger. “I couldn’t believe it when I heard.”

“I’ve been summoned to the king,” Ransom said.

“What for?” Faulkes asked with a tone of impertinence.

Ransom gave him a hard look and didn’t answer. Faulkes rubbed his mouth as he gazed at the company. “And you’re taking men with you? Men you couldn’t spare?”

“Return to your master,” Ransom said curtly. “I’ll not suffer your insolence any further.”

Faulkes glared at Ransom and then shook his head and stormed off. Through his Fountain magic, Ransom could tell that the knight was highly trained. He’d fought hard during the campaign in the East Kingdoms. But there was a spot of darkness in his soul. It seemed to suck the light from the fading sky.

Dawson approached next, giving Faulkes a dismissive nod as the man passed him, then said to Ransom, “He’s a brainless badger, isn’t he?”

It was one of the terms that Claire liked to use, and Ransom appreciated its use in that moment. “It’s true. Hold the gatehouse gate, Dawson. I’m hoping I won’t be gone long. Take your orders from Captain Baldwin.”

Dawson nodded, and Ransom could see from his disappointed look that he’d hoped to be placed in command. But he didn’t argue. He was maturing. “Of course, my lord. Ride safely.”