“Hold him up while I get the buckles.” Grimbold’s fingers slipped as he worked at the bloody straps. Finally, the mail shirt slid to the grass with the whisper of a thousand iron rings.
Little good it did him, the old Rider thought. That spear pierced it like butter. Never was armor made that was proof against fate.
He loosened the torn arming shirt and drew it aside, and then he cried in wonder as he lifted a small book from Lord Theodred’s breast. Carried close against the lord’s heart, the book had turned aside fate when armor could not.
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