Medieval 03 - Enchanted

galloping anywhere unless a pack of wolves was in close
pursuit. Despite smart kicks from her rider’s heels, the mare
was just cresting the rise when Simon’s blood-freezing shout
of warning rang back to Ariane.
    “Renegades! Flee to the keep,
Ariane!”

13
    A s soon as Ariane heard Simon’s
warning shout, she hauled back on the reins. The unexpected
pressure on the bit made the mare rear back onto her thick
haunches. Ariane swayed effortlessly in the saddle, balancing
herself even as she stared intently down the rise and into the
misty trail ahead.
    One sweeping look told it all. Scattered oaks and
grass, a lake gleaming like quicksilver between gaps in the mist,
and two groups of outlaws spurring their horses toward Simon. The
closest men were perhaps six furlongs away from her and only one
from Simon. The two quickest outlaws wore old battle helms and rode
horses like Simon’s, long-legged beasts bred for the hunt
rather than for the battlefield.
    But there were three more outlaws a furlong farther
back, and those men were fully protected by chain mail from lips to
heels. Even their horses had chests and rumps covered by mantles of
mail. Though the men were knights, their shields and lances were
barren of any lord’s colors or symbol.
    Simon made no attempt to flee the renegade knights.
Grimly he held his mount at a standstill, guarding the approach to
the rise.
    Guarding Ariane.
    Before Ariane’s horrified eyes, the first two
outlaws thundered up to Simon, broadswords raised for a killing
blow. Ariane screamed her husband’s name, but the sound was
lost in the clash of steel on steel as Simon’s broadsword met
and slashed right through an outlaw’sinferior weapon—and through far more vulnerable
flesh and bone as well.
    The outlaw fell in bloody ruin onto the grass.
Panicked, his mount raced off among the trees.
    The second outlaw shouted a curse. Enraged, he
swung mightily at Simon. Fighting one-handed with a broadsword
meant for two hands, Simon wheeled his horse to meet the
outlaw’s blow. Then, with a quickness so great the eye could
barely follow, Simon dropped the rein and swung his broadsword
two-handed.
    The second outlaw died even more swiftly than the
first.
    Three renegade knights spurred their war stallions
from a heavy trot into a canter, eating up the distance between
Simon and themselves.
    “Flee, Simon!” Ariane shouted.
“Your horse is faster than theirs!”
    The brief battle had taken Simon farther from
Ariane. He could not hear her cries. He heard only the renegades
thundering closer to him with each heartbeat. One hand wrapped
firmly around the rein, the other grasping his heavy broadsword,
Simon waited.
    As he waited, he wished for Dominic’s oaklike
strength, or that of Duncan of Maxwell. But Simon had only his
quickness of hand and his wits and a driving need to protect the
violet-eyed girl whom fate had given into his keeping.
    Ariane’s whip whistled through the air and
cut across her mare’s haunches. Before the startled animal
could collect itself, Ariane’s arm rose and fell once more.
The mare broke into a lumbering canter, then a gallop, dodging
between trees and around boulders.
    But it was down the slope toward Simon that Ariane
galloped, not toward the safety of Stone Ring Keep.
    Intent on the attacking knights, Simon kept his
back toward the slope. There was no question that the renegades
meant to fight three against one, though Simonhad neither armor nor war stallion with which to
defend himself.
    Simon was hopelessly overmatched, and he knew
it.
    Even worse, he wasn’t certain he could stay
alive long enough to give Ariane’s heavy-footed mare
sufficient time for her to outrun the powerful war stallions and
reach the haven of Stone Ring Keep.
    Tautly Simon waited, eyes searching for any
weakness in the trio charging toward him. One of the knights was
already dropping back a bit. His horse ran as though stiff in the
hindquarters. Another of the men, the biggest of the three, was
pressing ahead of the pace, obviously eager for the kill. The
smallest man sat his mount awkwardly, protecting his ribs as though
he had recently taken a blow across his left side.
    Whoever fought you last gave a
good account of himself , Simon thought bleakly. He must have worn armor .
    Lance leveled, the most eager renegade shouted in
foretaste of victory as he spurred his stallion at Simon. With a
harsh grip on the rein and unrelenting pressure from his powerful
legs, Simon held