Chapter 17
The drawbridge of the city of Acquitaine slowly lowered.
Laszlo reined his horse tightly. His steed sensed his anger and hatred. His brother had been killed in the night by a coward, an assassin. He wanted revenge. He wanted to slaughter every last person in Acquitaine, especially their leader, Damien. After they had butchered the lady of Acquitaine in the forest, the lord had retreated into the castle, hiding behind stone walls and closed doors for days now. Finally,finally, someone would come forth to be killed.
His men were nervous behind him, but they would not defy his orders. Half wanted to return home. Half wanted the same revenge he wanted. As the new leader of the Hungars, he had to prove himself, as well as seek vengeance for his brother.
A man on a black horse wearing ebony armor led an army of men across the drawbridge. The sound of their horses footfalls on the wooden planks of the drawbridge sounded like loud drums.
Laszlo tightened his fist in the reins and his horse danced anxiously. It could only be Lord Damien. It could only be the ruler of Acquitaine. He gritted his teeth. The weak ruler would die this day.
The group of Acquitaine armored knights and footmen came to a stop across the field from the Hungars. For a long moment, the two armies faced each.
Finally, Damien cantered his horse forward.
Laszlo spurred his horse, moving forward to meet the weak ruler.
Damien stopped his horse before Laszlo.
Laszlo moved his horse from side to side before him, anxious to strike. Anxious for blood to be spilled.
“You will not win,” Damien promised. “Surrender now and return home.”
“There will be no surrender,” Laszlo growled. “My brother is dead, murdered by one of your cowards. I will take Acquitaine and all inside will be killed.”
Damien flipped up the visor of his helmet to stare at Laszlo. The same hate and fury burned in his eyes. “You’ve been warned.” He whipped his horse around and charged back toward his army.
Laszlo returned to his men. He sized up the Acquitaine army with a quick, sweeping glance. They two armies had the same amount of men, evenly matched. Except his men were feared and trained in blood where the Acquitaine men were weak and soft. Chivalrous, he thought with contempt.
Suddenly, from behind him, his men began to murmur. He looked at them, all fine, battle-hardened warriors. One man pointed to the top tower of Acquitaine’s castle. The sun rose, directly behind the tower, illuminating a figure in white.
“An angel,” one of his men whispered.
If Laszlo didn’t know better, he would have believed the woman was an angel. Her golden hair waved in the breeze; her white dress flowed around her. Laszlo recognized her, even from this distance. Confusion and disbelief swelled inside of him. “It can’t be,” he snarled. “It can’t be. I killed her! I cut her braid from her head!”
Damien heard him. He glared at him with hate and fury.
“It’s not her!” Laszlo screamed. He turned back to his men to see fear in their wide eyes. Some whispered in uncertainty, some silently prayed. Their horses moved beneath them nervously, pacing. One steed reared onto its hind legs.
“But you killed her,” Kiprian, his first lieutenant, hissed.
Others around him nodded agreement.
Laszlo swung around to look again at the woman at the top of the tower. It looked like her. No one could have the same hair, so golden it rivaled the rays of the sun.
“You killed her,” someone repeated from behind him.
“We can’t win against an angel,” another said.
“No!” Laszlo shouted. “It is a trick! That is not Aurora of Acquitaine.” He drew his sword and kicked his steed, hard. His horse charged forward.
Damien answered his charge. His horse galloped forward, and his sword flashed in the morning sun as he drew it and held it high. Behind him, the Acquitaine army followed, racing into a battle where the odds did not favor their victory.
Rage snarled Laszlo’s lips. He chanced a glance over his shoulder. Half of his men followed him forward, the other half retreated toward the forest. A howl of rage issued from his throat. Even half of his men could slaughter the Acquitaine men. He pointed his sword forward. He would not back down from this fight. They had killed his brother, Hogar. The deed would not go unpunished.
Before he could reach the lord of Acquitaine, the sound of clanging swords echoed behind him. He swiveled his head. Shock washed over him. Another army appeared from the depths of the forest, descending into the clearing toward his retreating men.
They were trapped, caught between the Acquitaine men and this new army.
