The Prize

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He never knew what hit him.

One minute Baron Royce was wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his leather-covered arm, and the next he was flat on his back on the ground.

She had knocked him off his feet. Literally. She'd waited until he took his helmet off. Then she'd swung the narrow strip of leather in a circle high above her head. The small stone nestled in the center of her makeshift sling had gathered speed until it wasn't visible to the naked eye. The sound as the leather sliced through the air was like that of a disgruntled beast, half snarl, half whistle. Her prey had been too far away to hear the noise, though, for she stood in the frigid morning shadows of the walkway at the top of the wall, and he stood down below, nearly fifty feet away by her measure, at the base of the wooden drawbridge.

The giant Norman had made an easy target. The fact that he was also the leader of the infidels who were out to steal her family's holding had sweetened her concentration, too. In her mind, the giant had become Goliath.

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