The Lady Penitent

IV. A Rescue

"Please, you have to help!" someone called from off to the right, his voice breaking through the silence of the deep coniferous forest whose needles dampened even the sound of hoof-beats. Holland stiffened in her saddle and tightened her grip on her lance.

"Who comes?" she demanded, looking around for any sign of an ambush. Maël didn't seem too alarmed, though, so she suspected there was little to fear. A demon would have undoubtedly set the warhorse ill at ease and ready for a fight.

The man who hobbled out of the woods was a pitiful sight, his back rent by a single set of deep claw marks. He wore the tattered green and silver of the King of Yssa, though his was spattered with blood. He leaned on a broken half of a lance that looked like it had been snapped cleanly in two. "I am Daimhin. I serve His Royal Highness."

Holland swung down and grabbed her waterskin, closing the distance between herself and the wounded man-at-arms. She had to rush to catch him before he could collapse onto the ground. She could feel by the way he moved in her arms that the claws had actually severed his ribs, miraculously missing his lungs and the great blood vessels in his body. He was a fortunate man, one that they might be able to save...but it would mean using the last of the rejen, which meant a fight with Moloch might well be lethal even if they survived the initial onslaught. "Seva, will you get his back?" Holland said, adjusting her grip on the man carefully. She didn't want to make his wounds worse.

Seva nodded and dismounted before applying the last of their green salve to his wounds. It was barely enough. Together, the two women sat him down on a mossy stone. "Pray tell what happened," Seva urged softly.

"We called out to Moloch in challenge and he came," the man said, trembling at the memory. "He cut us to ribbons. I don't know how I'm not dead."

"And the prince?" Holland asked grimly. She was not overly optimistic that the Prince would be in fighting form, though it was possible he was alive. The why of that would not be something good, however.

"I could still hear him shouting to me," Daimhin said, his face locked into an agonized grimace. "I thought I'd run, get help, see if someone was on the road to Tamaris."

"Moloch may intend on using Fionn to extort what he wants out of more than just the Duke of Sparre," the penitent said, looking over at Seva. "That, or he wants an example made when Sparre's men next show up to re-negotiate."

"We have to save him," Seva said firmly. "Daimhin, canst thou remain to watch the horses?"

"I don't think he's going anywhere either way, my lady," Holland said. She didn't loop the horses' reins around a branch, just in case the worst happened and the horses needed to run rider-less. "Ciar, watch the horses. If anything bad happens, follow the road the way we didn't come until you reach Tamaris."

"I pray it not come to that," Seva said. She gave Ciar a small smile. "Thou wilt see us again before thou knowest it."

The little boy nodded, a sign he was coming out of his shell a little more. His bird-like brown eyes were serious when Holland picked him up and settled him on the back of her horse. She stroked the destrier's neck. "Take good care of him, Maël," she murmured to the warhorse. She knew that if Ciar stayed in the saddle, that horse would not let harm come to the boy.

"I will protect him as well," Daimhin said from where he sat from the ground. Holland didn't trust him, but she knew he was too weak to do anything. Really, the only danger from him would have been him stealing a horse and running.

Before Holland could utter a threat or warning, Seva was pulling her away by her armored hand. The penitent grabbed the lance. Because of its lighter weight, it could double as a longspear on foot. "We must save him," the baroness whispered. "A kingdom in want of an heir does not long stand."