At midday, they halted, dismounting from their horses and sating their hunger with bread and cheese. Otto saw that the horses were watered and allowed to crop at the lush green grass. The mood amongst the knights had grown more somber now they were so close to Sir Leon’s stronghold. A strong wind whistled around them, making conversation difficult. The men ate steadily, with quiet purpose, filling their bellies so they could reap the strength in the upcoming battle. Otto had posted lookouts ahead, but he still felt a sharp sense of unease and was unable to keep his gaze from the distant trees, fearful of archers’ arrows reaching them unawares. As soon as the horses were rested, he ordered his men back into the saddle and they resumed their march east.
Marching towards Ariana.
He remembered her cloud of hair; the way her lips would curl into an understanding smile. The softness of her curves and that instant spark of a connection between them.Why,he demanded of himself,had he left her at the mercy of their enemies for so long?
And not just at the mercy of Sir Leon, but mayhap Althalos, too.
It took all his inner steel not to urge his horse into a gallop.
After an hour of steady riding in strong sunlight, he beckoned Gaius forward and their two horses fell into step across the unprepossessing moors. The wind had died down, and fliesbuzzed around them from a stagnant, stinking pond somewhere nearby.
“What is your plan, my lord?” enquired the old knight.
“In truth, Gaius, my sole plan is to rescue the Lady Ariana and be gone from this grim place. I have oft wondered what beset Sir Leon’s ancestors to situate their stronghold in such inhospitable surroundings.” He nodded towards the bleak expanse of sparse moorland all around them. “Much as the desire for revenge boils in my veins, I have no great wish to spill more blood in battle with Kenmar. We have already lost too many men to this senseless fight.” Otto held his reins in one hand so he could swat away an insect, closing his mind to thoughts of young Benedict. “But nor can Sir Leon’s actions go unpunished. And I know not what will greet us over the next hill. We must be prepared.”
“Sir Leon’s ranks must be depleted after the battle at the gates,” Gaius observed, spurring on his horse who was spooking at an oddly shaped gorse bush.
“Aye,” Otto agreed. “And what caliber of man serves a master who kidnaps his own daughter?” He frowned as a hot rush of anger passed through him.
Gaius pursed his lips together, but wisely allowed a few beats to pass. “We await your orders, my lord. Mayhap one contingent should keep Sir Leon’s men busy while you search the keep for the countess?”
“’Tis not a bad idea,” admitted Otto, his mind racing. He opened his mouth to add more detail to the plan, but his attention was caught by the unmistakable thunder of approaching hooves. Glancing quickly over his shoulder to see that his men were attentive, he held up a hand to halt their progress. As one, the knights of Darkmoor reached for their swords, bodies tensed, eyes fixed on the track ahead. A growing cloud of dust announced approaching horses, but how many?“Stand ready,” commanded Otto, hearing rather than seeing his men shift into formation behind him.
Before them, the barren moors rose to a brief incline which impaired their vision. Otto could do nothing but wait with growing impatience to see what manner of threat was about to descend upon them. His horse snorted and shied to one side when over the hill came a powerful warhorse in full charge. The horse’s head was low, its eyes wide and distressed, its stirrups flapping freely. Behind it, galloped another two such riderless horses.
“Stand aside,” shouted Otto, hauling at his horse’s reins. With seconds to spare, the knights of Darkmoor cleared the path, and the three out-of-control battle chargers careered through their midst.
“Whoa,” breathed Gaius, reaching down to soothe his horse’s neck as she half-reared in protest.
“What are we to make of this?” Andreas de Montain twisted in his saddle to look after the departed horses.
Otto took a deep breath. The horses bore no colors or standards, but they were streaked with sweat as if they had been ridden hard all day. “I do not believe they are horses from Kenmar,” he said, putting voice to his fears.
“Some other army has arrived ahead of us then?” Gaius cocked an eyebrow at Otto, leaving his unvoiced question hanging in the air between them.
The army of Sir Althalos.
“Then there is no time to lose,” Otto declared, concern for Ariana twisting like a dagger in his gut. He swiveled in his saddle to rouse his men. “We ride into battle, as we have so many times before. You know your positions, gentlemen. On me.” Plunging his heels into his horse’s sides, Otto urged him into a gallop, crouching low over his neck as behind him, the Darkmoor battle horn sounded.
In a tight V-shape, with Otto at the head, the knights crested the hill and poured down upon the open plain leading to the craggy gray fortress of Kenmar.
The massive outer gates stood open. But Otto had no sooner acknowledged this, than his senses were assaulted by the sights and sounds of a battle recently ended. The stench of blood and death and the sounds of groaning men. He made out the purple colors of the house of Kenmar as his eyes swooped over the broken bodies scattered over the muddy ground. But among them he spied a couple of scarlet red outer tunics. His heart pounded hollowly in his chest as he recognized the yellow cross as the standard of his uncle.
“These men are sworn to Sir Althalos,” he warned in a harsh voice, pulling back on the reins to slow his horse as they passed, unchallenged, through the barbican and into the inner bailey. “Be on your guard.”
Castle Kenmar was apparently deserted, bar the injured and dying, but Otto held his sword aloft, ready for any surprises. Their horses picked their way through the detritus of battle and into the cobbled courtyard, where the granite keep rose from the weeds. He cast his eye up and down the squat tower, making out a series of shuttered windows in the bare stone. Could Ariana be within? A dreadful fear that he was already too late had clamped around him like a vice, but he would search every inch of this cursed place for the woman he loved.
Althalos had come here. Otto’s fist tightened on his sword. He would never forgive himself for allowing Althalos’s poison to infect his thoughts and actions against Ariana. But worse, he would never forgive his uncle for his treachery. Resolve tightened in his belly. The man would pay for what he had done.
A sudden movement to his left had him reining in his horse further. Young Tristan had dismounted at speed and now heldthe tip of his sword to the chest of a torn and bloodied figure who he had pulled from behind an abandoned barrel.
Otto shifted his position in the saddle as Tristan marched the trembling man out towards them. He staggered slightly and held tightly to his left arm, which was bleeding profusely. The man had a gray beard and wore the ragged clothes of a villager.
“Who are you?” Otto demanded, straightening up to his full height.
The man’s watery eyes flickered over the assembled knights, taking in their shining plate armor and powerful horses. “My name is Arthur,” he said weakly, his voice thick with pain and exhaustion. “I am but a farm worker, milord.”
“What has happened here?”
