Ferrum fought his way forward and caught glimpses of the Duke, his beloved foster father. He saw some of the King's soldiers breaching the castle doors, and he kicked his horse forward, riding it inside with the surge of invaders. He struck down men with a sword in one hand and an ax in the other, aiming for the kill with every swing. It was a rhythm—a zone. Time slowed, all moves were perfectly precise. The truth was, he loved battle—it was what he was born and raised for.
“Retreat!” The call came from the courtyard, and he swung his horse around, assuming Benton was out there and not wanting him to escape. But another surge of Benton's men surrounded him—soldiers who had heard the call for retreat and were trying to exit now. He worked steadily, blocking their blows and swinging his own, taking them down, one by one. By the time he'd cleared the Great Hall of Benton's men, the battle was over. He paused and looked over the hall. It was ruined with blood and bodies and small fires. He had a fleeting thought that if the Duchess had not died years ago, she would have probably died from the sight of the horses and the carnage in her Great Hall.
He led the horse out and dismounted, looking for Phillip.
“He got away,” Phillip said bitterly when he found him.
“Ferrum! Phillip!” William cried. They followed the sound of his voice and found him crouching over the blood-soaked Duke.
“No,” he choked.
“Help me to carry him,” William said tersely, and Ferrum picked his father up gently, careful not to jostle him. They carried him to his chamber and laid him out on the bed. They removed his leather breastplate and his helmet, and then their own iron helmets to kneel beside him. “My sons… my three sons… one by blood, and two by heart… keep fighting for Briton…” he murmured. His eyes flicked wildly for a moment, his limbs twitched, and then he was gone.
“No,” Phillip said in a choked voice. “NO!”
Ferrum stood and walked to his brothers, pulling them both up by their arms and tugging them in for a simultaneous embrace. The three men stood in solidarity of grief and love.
“This is the way he'd have wanted to go,” William said, with tears in his eyes. “He's raised us our whole lives for this fight.”
They nodded in solemn agreement.
“Benton?”
Phillip shook his head regretfully. “He can't be found.”
William's face clouded. “Mayhap we can beat him back to Camelot.”
“Aye,” Phillip said heavily. He looked at Ferrum. “Will you fetch Danewyn?”
Ferrum headed downstairs, giving post-battle orders as he made his way through the disaster. The castle gates were still standing open, and when he stepped out, he saw Dani approaching. She ran to him when she saw him.
“I told you to stay where you were until I came for you,” he barked before she'd reached him.
She stopped short and took one step backward, looking wary. He had her trained well enough to expect a spanking when she disobeyed.
“Nay, come here, flower,” he said and held open his arms. She ran into them and pressed herself against him.
“You're not hurt?”
He pulled away and looked at her quizzically. “Did you think I was?”
She shook her head quickly. “No, sir. I saw the battle had been won, that's why I left before you came for me.”
She reached up and touched his face. “What is it?”
He shook his head, grief threatening to bubble up and spill out of him. “The Duke is dead,” he told her heavily.
“I'm sorry,” she said softly. “I'm so sorry.”
He nodded, unable to speak and held her body against his, drinking in the comfort she offered. After a moment, he pulled away and led her inside. “Phillip needs you,” he said, stepping over bodies as they made their way in. Dani's face had gone pale at the sight of the gore, but he felt her stiffen her back, showing that unique female resiliency with which she continued to stun him.
Phillip was in the Great Hall, giving orders alongside William. When he saw them, he beckoned them into the strategy room. William joined them, and Ferrum introduced Dani as his wife and the Prince's Royal Seer. Dani blushed prettily and curtsied. Phillip began his questions immediately.
“Where is Benton?”
“Riding… back to Camelot,” she answered faintly, her eyes unfocused.
“Can we beat him there?”
She paused, then shook her head.
“Can we beat him at Camelot?”
She shook her head again. “Outnumbered,” she murmured.
“We're outnumbered?” Phillip demanded. He was growing agitated.
She held up her hand as if to ward off further questions, and she closed her eyes. He watched them move from side to side beneath the lids. When they flickered open they held fear. “You will die. All of your men and you.” She rubbed her arms, and he guessed the hair was standing up there.