“When was battle, Sir Sallust?” the garrison captain said, walking up to the Atabyrion with a pleased look. “How many fell? We had no word there was an army even close to Averanche. Was it a surprise attack?”
“Oh, it was a surprise attack,” the Atabyrion responded with a chuckle.
As soon as the young duke saw the last of the soldiers enter the city, he swung off the saddle in a practiced, easy move, and the garrison captain looked at him askance, his brow suddenly furrowed, as if he knew he should recognize Alensson’s face but could not quite recall it.
“It was a short battle,” Alensson said. “Because it was unexpected.”
“You’re Occitanian!” the garrison captain said in shock.
“It’s the duke!” someone blurted.
“That’s not Deford!” someone else countered.
“No, it’s La Marche!”
Alensson drew his sword and bowed graciously to the garrison captain. “Good morning, Captain,” he said. “The rightful duke has returned to Vernay. This is my city. Be so good as to surrender it back to me.”
First, the sound of ropes sloughing off, then, complete pandemonium as the Atabyrion prisoners jumped off their horses with weapons in hand, ready to completely overcome the guards within the city.
The garrison captain was brave. Foolish, but brave. Alensson could have run the captain through before the man’s sword was clear of its scabbard, but his training in Virtus would not permit him to kill a defenseless man who wanted to fight him. The two men crossed blades. The garrison captain was easily double Alensson’s age, with a receding hairline and a few flecks of gray in his otherwise blond goatee. His eyes were wide with horror—he’d handed his garrison over to the enemy because of a trick, and Deford would doubtless be furious and vengeful.
Alensson parried the captain’s panic-impaired attempts to kill him, then kicked him hard in the stomach and knocked him down on his back. The fight was over in seconds, Alensson standing above him with the sword pointed at his chest.
“Yield,” Alensson said.
“I surrender,” the captain gasped, for his sword had fallen out of his hand and was well beyond his reach. His face was white with terror. “Are you even a knight yet?” the captain said as he cowered.
“Not yet,” Alensson answered brusquely. “Will someone ransom you?”
“My father will ransom me,” the captain said in a quavering voice. “Sir Giles of Beestone castle.”
“Then I accept your surrender and your ransom,” Alensson answered. He lowered his sword and then extended his hand to help the captain to his feet. The Atabyrions had overcome the Ceredigion guards and were now stripping away the badges of Westmarch they had worn on their tunics. The derision they had faced upon entering the gates was now turned back on the guardsmen. The men had gone from being oppressors to prisoners in one fell swoop.
Alensson could not help but smile in pleasure. Not a single man had fallen. He gripped his sword hilt, savoring the joy of his triumph.
“I’ll send word to my father at once,” said the garrison captain. His tone was changing now that his life was no longer in jeopardy. Then a hard edge came to it. “But you won’t be holding this city for long, boy. The duke is at Averanche with six thousand men.”
Alensson turned and scowled. His blood boiled with fury. “I am the duke!” he roared.
CHAPTER THREE
Revenge
Alensson’s heart fluttered with fear and excitement as he bounded up the steps to the battlement walls. The Atabyrion and Occitanian soldiers clustered together as they filled the rampart and shoved against one another for a view.
“Stand aside, it’s the duke!” Boquette grumbled as Alensson finished climbing the steps, his hair suddenly tumbled by the breezy height. Soldiers shuffled past each other, trying to clear a space for him to look over the wall.
Then he saw it, a glimmering centipede of soldiers bristling with spears and pennants marching toward Vernay. The colorful flag of Deford’s banner fluttered in the breeze.
“No hiding his approach,” Alensson said to Boquette. His innards were seething with anticipation and eagerness.
“No, he’s not hiding it at all,” Boquette drawled.
“How many does he have?”
“The scouts say no more than seven thousand.”
A thrill of confidence ignited inside the young duke. “We outnumber him then. We’ve drawn in nearly twenty thousand!” He laughed. “He’s a proud fool. He should have sought reinforcements from Kingfountain. The rest of his men are stretched out across La Marche, trying to hold it. Seven thousand! I feared it would be fifteen.”