0451463730 (F) by Carol Berg

Author:Carol Berg [Desconocido]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy - General, Fantasy fiction, Fiction - Fantasy, Fiction, fantasy, General, Science Fiction And Fantasy
ISBN: 9780451463111
Publisher: Roc
Published: 2010-01-05T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

31 QAT 30 DAYS UNTIL THE ANNIVERSARY

“Now who exactly might you be?” said the owner of the boot grinding my nose and cheek into the crushed onion grass and the rocky soil beneath. “And where bides your pretty, sneaking lord who carries such a fine sword?”

“Ow! Stop!” I said, though the words came out somewhat garbled. “I’m Damiano de Sacre Vaerre. Pilgrim. Ho—pthew—holy place.” I spat out the words along with dirt and grit, and grabbed on to the ankle attached to the offending boot, determined to remove it from my cheek-bone. And perhaps break it.

Pain exploded in my side. Yet another boot. My breath seized, and my arms flopped to the ground, limp as a dead bird’s wings.

A huge, warm weight settled on my back, pressing the remaining air from my lungs, and then a hand snarled my hair and wrenched my head backward. Wiry hair pressed against my cheek, accompanied by warm, beery breath. “What common pilgrim ventures a warded bridge?”

“Or travels with a lord knight dressed common? They’ve secrets, Quernay. Secrets. He’s blood born sure.” This voice, more excited than the first, came from in front of me, though my watering eyes revealed only a black blur. Two men. At least two. Friendly as jackals.

“The holy brother told us—aagh!” My scalp threatened to rip. “Please, let me spea—”

The one on my back—Quernay—jerked and twisted my neck into an impossible angle and spat on my cheek. “Answer our questions. Where be the noble swordsman?”

“Out east, waiting for me at Fe-hikal. He dresses poor to discourage thieves. Please, he’ll travel on without me.”

“Are you so worthless? Why are you here?”

“Awaiting the Reborn.”

This time the boot landed on my chin. Blood spurted from my lips and chin. Pain lanced through my jaw, trebling the strained agony of my neck.

“Try again,” said Quernay’s overeager friend with the boots, mashing his gritty sole into my face.

“Back off, Merle,” growled the one at my ear. My stomach churned at the stink of him and the onion grass and the strained posture. “You’ve been working spells, oddments. To what purpose?”

My prepared story thinned like wafting smoke. I needed something better, perhaps closer to the truth lest I be tested worse; dizziness already clouded my thinking. “I am a failed acolyte,” I said. “The mendicant’s tales . . . thought I might succeed up here.”

“And your pretty lord?”

“Despises me. Calls me lackwit. Dunce. Wanted to show him. Please, take what you will and let me go. Master said he’d leave me behind did I not join him by sunrise.”

“Mmm,” wheezed Quernay. “Methinks you’ve seen a bit too much to let you go.” The heavy man slammed my face to the ground as he climbed off my back, then snagged my clothing when I attempted to scramble away.

Without wasted word or breath, the two immobilized my legs with cords wrapped from ankles to knees. They bound my wrists behind my back and wound the rope all the way to my elbows, pinching my arms together so tightly they near left their sockets.

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