Page 87 of Peregrine's Call
“You should sleep now,” Angelet said. “Call if you need anything. But please sleep—that’s the best medicine.”
“Tell Robin I want to talk with her,” he said quickly.
At the doorway, Angelet cast a sympathetic look over her shoulder. “When you wake up again, I’ll send her.”
Tav was given a private bedchamber specifically so he could rest uninterrupted for as long as he needed to. As soon as his head touched the pillow, he succumbed to sleep. He’d been deprived of it for too long.
Even in sleep, his arm still ached from the wound he’d received at the bridge. And even though it had been nearly a full day since the fight ended, he still felt the vibrations of every sword striking his shield, and how his shoulders felt permanently bunched up from the effort of parrying and lunging with his longsword for such a long time.
He had sent Robin ahead and told Pierce to enforce the order because Robin had a fire in her eyes. She wanted to fight, and left to her own, she would.
But he couldn’t think clearly when she was in danger, so he forced her away. Then he turned to cover their escape, remaining on foot. The horse he’d got from Willesden was sturdy, but not trained for battle. The last thing he wanted was a horse that spooked during combat, so he sent it off into the woods.
He didn’t want to die, and he didn’t intend to give up, but the odds were not in his favor. One man against many required a miracle for the one man to win.
The first wave of attackers rode up a few seconds later—about eight men on horseback. They saw only Octavian there and immediately split up, riding on either side of the gorge as if they’d find another way across. Only two came up to within twenty paces of Octavian at the end of the bridge. They stopped and waited with grins on their faces, confident that he could go nowhere unless they allowed it.
He just stood there, waiting for the inevitable clash.
Not long after, the other riders returned, reporting that the gorge was impassible. “To get Lord Pierce, we need to cross and chase him down,” one proclaimed.
“Easy enough,” another said, looking at Octavian. “You two. Go take care of him.”
Two riders charged up, swords drawn, expecting little trouble.
Octavian crouched low and struck—not at the men, but at the horses. He hated to do it, but it was necessary. The horses reacted the way all sensible animals did to pain. They reared up and instinctively retreated, ignoring all commands from their riders. Two more attackers tried to stop the retreat, and the result was confusion and chaos.
Octavian defended himself and took opportunities to wound his opponents only when he could. His aim wasn’t to win, just to keep them from crossing the narrow bridge.
And he did, though it got more difficult with every passing moment. Battles were usually short for a reason—not even the strongest man could fight with a sword and heavy shield endlessly.
Then he felt a searing pain in his left arm, just above the top of the shield. An attacker howled in triumph as the blood welled up.
Tav shook off the pain and struck back, though he knew he wouldn’t last long if he got struck like that again.
A fresh fighter edged up at one point, darting between two others. He got close to Tav and said in low voice, “They don’t want you! You can jump over the side and escape into the gorge. They won’t follow.”
He then whipped his sword toward Tav, but in a way that Tav could parry. He recognized Kevan, the young guard back at Willesden.
“I can’t,” he grunted back.
Kevan struck again, and again, he deliberately aimed poorly. “Pierce. Isn’t. Worth. Defending,” he got out.
It wasn’t Pierce who Tav was thinking of. He just shook his head. “Back away,” he cautioned the other fighter.
“More are coming,” Kevan warned, even as he retreated.
Other men replaced him, men who aimed better and more intently. Tav blocked their attacks, feeling more and more tired. He heard distant hoofbeats. Another wave of fighters would be here any moment.
Just when his shoulder dropped, when he knew that he couldn’t stop these men much longer, he heard a few cries of dismay.
He glanced back for an instant and saw a storm of riders. A single figure with night-black hair, wearing mail and a black surcoat, riding a black horse, rode ahead of the others.
Tav redoubled his efforts, despite the weariness taking over. Then he heard a shout behind him as a horse clattered along the bridge span.
“Get the hell out of the way, Tav!”
It was Rafe who yelled, and Tav slid to the right just as a glossy black horse rushed past him directly into the fray. Rafe was followed by more men who fanned out around Tav. Six of them blocked the bridge, and the rest flowed into the skirmish, shifting the balance of the fight.
