Medieval 03 - Enchanted

sword bit into flesh, a mailed fist
descended on Simon from behind, knocking him aside. If it
hadn’t been a left-handed, looping blow, it wouldhave knocked Simon senseless. As it was, he was
merely dazed.
    Instinctively he turned to face his enemy as he
fell. He was rewarded by a glimpse of a stallion’s strong
legs, a sword, and ice-blue eyes glaring out from beneath the first
knight’s hammered steel helm.
    Though slowed by the blow, Simon managed to roll
aside as he hit the ground. At that, he barely got beyond the reach
of the first knight’s sword.
    The big renegade cursed savagely and struck again
at Simon. The blow was awkwardly aimed, for the man’s hand
was still half-numbed from the strike that had broken his lance.
Despite that, Simon barely raised his own sword quickly enough to
deflect the blow.
    Before Simon could draw a breath, the
war-horse’s mailed shoulder slammed into him, knocking him
off his feet and sending his heavy sword spinning beyond his reach.
Winded, all but senseless, Simon sank to the ground. With a
triumphant shout, the renegade lifted his sword for the killing
blow.
    A peregrine’s uncanny cry split the air. The
bird plummeted down with blinding speed, talons held forward as
though to rake prey from the air.
    But a war-horse rather than a fat partridge was the
bird’s target.
    Talons slashed at the stallion’s unprotected
ears. The horse reared wildly, ruining the renegade’s aim. No
sooner did the stallion recover than the peregrine attacked again,
this time going for the war-horse’s eyes. Retreating, the
stallion screamed in fear and fury, but there was no way for the
earthbound animal to attack the peregrine that hovered just beyond
reach, waiting for another opening.
    In the distance came the shouts of men. Much closer
came the full-throated howl of a wolfhound on a fresh trail.
    Cursing, the renegade made one last, futile slash
with his sword before he spurred his horse away from thevoices. The stallion leaped forward, eager to leave
the savage, unexpected peregrine behind.
    No sooner had the war-horse turned to run away than
Simon lurched to his feet. His sword was but two strides distant.
As his hand closed around the cold, familiar haft, the world spun
dizzily around him.
    Simon sank to his hands and knees and crawled
toward Ariane, dragging his sword alongside, knowing only that he
had to protect her.
    Dimly he realized that Ariane’s mare and the
war-horse had both scrambled onto their feet once more. The
remaining renegade knight had managed to remount, but neither he
nor his stallion had any heart for fighting on alone. Awkwardly,
favoring his left haunch, the stallion cantered off and was soon
lost among the trees.
    Simon didn’t spare the fleeing renegade so
much as a look, for Ariane was lying on the battle-churned ground.
Blood trailed like a ragged scarlet ribbon down the left side of
her body.
    “Ariane,” Simon said harshly.
    The word was almost a groan.
    “I am—here,” she said.
    Ariane’s voice was thin, her face pale, her
eyes huge in her ashen face.
    A peregrine’s uncanny, sweet greeting trilled
through the silence. It was answered by a wolfhound’s
deep-throated bay.
    Stagkiller raced down the slope, scanned eagerly
for enemies, and found none. The hound’s presence told Simon
what he had already guessed from the peregrine’s attack.
    Erik was nearby.
    As three war-horses thundered down the rise toward
Simon, he braced himself upright on his sword next to Ariane.
    “Nightingale,” he said hoarsely.
    It was all he could say.
    Magnificent amethyst eyes focused on Simon. Arianeopened her mouth. Nothing came out but a choked
cry of surprise as pain and darkness closed around her, taking the
very breath from her lungs.
    When Erik, Dominic, and Sven galloped up, they saw
the bodies of two outlaws. Just beyond, Simon lay on the ground,
his wife in his arms.
    “There were five,” Erik said
flatly.
    Dominic didn’t ask how Erik knew.
    “Track them,” Dominic said curtly.
    At an unseen signal from Erik, Stagkiller raced
off, coursing the trail of the bandits. Sven followed without an
instant’s hesitation.
    The two remaining war-horses came to a sliding,
ground-gouging stop a few yards from Ariane and Simon. Both knights
dismounted as Simon had earlier, a muscular leap that set them
upright on the ground, running. As Erik ran, he stripped off his
chain mail gauntlets and stuffed them into his belt.
    “Simon?” Dominic called