Knight Triumphant. Heather Graham

God, what is happening to them?” Thayer demanded, now on his knees, reaching for his friend.

      “No great mystery!” Anne said with surprising cheer.

      “Aye, no mystery!” a voice said from behind Igrainia. “They’ve been stabbed.”

      Igrainia swung around and saw that Gannet stood behind her smiling. She whirled back in time to see Anne slip a knife from the fold of her skirt and strike with alarming speed and determination, shoving the blade of the weapon into Thayer’s midsection.

      Joseph stepped closer, a huge rock in his hand. As one of the younger men began to attack, the rock was thudded down hard upon his head.

      “No!” Igrainia shrieked. “No!”

      He fell, joining his fallen companions on the dirt road.

      Igrainia saw then that a pool of blood had formed beneath the fallen form, and that it stretched, like a strange band of brotherhood, to Thayer, who had crumpled so close behind him. She marveled at the vicious cunning that had allowed two women to bring down three healthy young males, and the horror of the situation wrapped around her at the same time.

      Gannet, she knew, was at her rear.

      As much as she had once thought that she cared little for her own life, she knew that she wanted to escape these people and live. She felt a fury burn through her, and a longing for vengeance against these people who were surely planning on murdering her, John, and Merry next.

      She couldn’t go to the fallen young men; there would be no helping them now. These people outnumbered her and they meant for the men to die. All she could do was preserve her own life.

      She felt Gannet about to reach for her; she didn’t need to turn. Each member of their party had positioned themselves perfectly to bring this about.

      She didn’t turn and she didn’t hesitate. With a sudden spurt of speed she raced the few steps to her horse and leaped into the saddle.

      Gannet was instantly behind her, reaching for the bridle. She freed her foot from the stirrup and kicked him with all her might, aiming high for his face. He released the bridle, crying out and grabbing for his eye. She kneed Skye and the little horse reared a foot off the ground, found her footing, and started out.

      Igrainia saw John and Merry in the path before her. “Run!” she shouted. “Run your horses, run now!”

      John heard the urgency in her voice; he said something to Merry and the two moved their horses.

      They were not mounts bred for speed.

      But neither was Skye, though she gave good effort.

      But as Igrainia rode, she heard the horse coming from behind her. She felt the thunder of hooves, and the menace that nearly hovered over her.

      A moment later, she risked a glance, and saw that Gannet was at her side.

      “Stop!” he shouted. “We intend you no harm. You’ll come with us; we’ll make you one of us. Stop, and you’ll not need a blacksmith’s son; we’ll make you far richer. I’ll make you my wife.”

      Her glance of horror must have assured him that she would accept no such fate.

      She flattened herself against Skye, trying to allow the little horse a greater speed.

      But Gannet captured the horse’s bridle, and as they dangerously twisted and turned on the path, the mare was forced to slow her gait, and Gannet hurled his own form from his horse to hers, knocking them both to the ground.

      They struggled in the dirt, and she remembered that the knife Rowenna had given her was lodged against her shoe.

      She kicked, scratched and struggled until she had freed herself from his weight, then reached beneath the skirt for her knife. She sprang to her feet as Gannet did. He was ready to leap upon her again, to bring her down, when he saw the weapon gleaming in her hand.

      “A frisky one, eh? And you think you’re going to stab me?”

      He circled around her, apparently amused.

      She knew that in minutes, his companions would be behind them. She had to escape him now, before the rest of his murderous crew could reach them.

      She lunged at him, bringing forth a startled cry as her knife ripped through his shoulder.

      He grasped at the wound, stared at the blood that covered his hand, then looked at her anew, fury in his eyes.

      “Now . . . now, you’ll suffer!” he promised her.

      As he stared at her and she stood, poised and ready to strike and fly, she became aware of the sound of hoofbeats on the road behind them. His companions were coming fast now. Any second they would be upon them.

      She lunged again.

      This time, she caught the man in his midsection. But his force against her was great, and they both went crashing back to the ground.

      He managed to keep his weight heavy on her, and though she brought her knife up again, he caught her wrist with both hands, and exerted such pressure against her to release the knife that she screamed in pain.

      Yet held on.

      She twisted, bringing up a knee against his groin. He rolled to his side, bellowing in pain but still maintaining his deadly grasp upon her wrist. She lashed out with her feet, but he rolled again, leaning half his now bloodied form against her.

      She clawed at his wrists with her free hand, bringing her nails desperately into his flesh. He swore, cursing at her with a fury.

      The hoofbeats came near . . .

      Stopped.

      She could see nothing, but she knew that at any second, he would have help with his companions at his side, aiding him.

      She couldn’t see. There was now too much road mud and dust in her eyes, and she could only stay locked with Gannet, fighting to the end.

      Then, arms wrapped around her.

      Gannet was dragged away from her.

      And she was dragged up.

      “No!” she let out in a scream of rage and fury and desolation. She tried to claw at the hands holding her.

      Her fingers did nothing. She was clawing against heavy leather riding gloves.

      She brought her hand to her face, clearing her hair from her eyes, wiping away the dirt and tears that had so blinded her.

      Gannet was screaming, she realized suddenly. And when she looked before her, she saw that a man in mail and a hood had taken the man and hurled him across the road with such strength that he had landed hard against the trees.

      She heard the snapping of bones.

      And then Gannet was silent.

      The mail-clad warrior who had wrested Gannet from her side then turned to her.

      “You!” she gasped.

      The man behind her released her.

      She had been fighting against his hold with such energy that her own strength and determination brought her surging forward.

      She would have fallen.

      But she was caught against cold, hard, steel mesh.

      And she was staring into eyes that were even colder, and harder.

      CHAPTER 6

      He didn’t say a word to her, but steadied her on her feet and spoke to the man behind her. “Allan, see that she’s not hurt.”

      Then he turned and walked to where Gannet had fallen against the trees. He stooped, turned him over. “Dead,” he said briefly, and rose.

      The man was dead. She couldn’t feel sorrow. He had been trying to kill her.

      He