Daughter of Prophecy by Miles Owens

Author:Miles Owens
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: ebook, book
Publisher: Charisma House
Published: 2011-07-08T04:00:00+00:00

Hours to the east and many lengths off the road in a sheltered cove of trees, those same dark eyes also stared into a campfire. Around him, wrapped in blankets on the cold grass, shivered the surviving raiders that had come from his family group. More than half were wounded. One had given his spirit to the Wind Giver during the ride here and now lay buried a stone’s throw from the fire. At least one more seemed likely to join him in the morning. The others would live. Decart had washed their wounds, packed them with salve, and then wrapped them in boiled linen strips. Nattily had brewed a draught for pain that allowed most to sleep, although some still moaned softly.

Larbow refused the draught, preferring the sharp pain of torn and bruised stomach muscles to remind him of his failure. The Arshessa wagons had appeared much sooner than anyone had thought possible—days before all the raiders needed had arrived. But lying hidden along the trail with Decart and seeing how the stupid clan warriors were not even wearing their swords, Larbow had decided the ambush would work. It should have. Why had they suddenly donned swords? And what had tipped the one who had talked to Ren, who next to Decart was their most experienced raider? Ren could not say because he had been among the first to fall. Thankfully, Decart had not fallen as well. Ancient Rosada tactics demanded either the chwaer, the leader, or the second in command, as Decart had been today, to stay removed from the fray and thus be able to gather the broken strands of failure and reweave them into a new rope. Decart had done that by appearing with horses for Larbow and Nattily and telling her to sound the withdrawal before total disaster had occurred.

Eleven Rosada—eleven!—remained at the bridge. Six alone by the big rhyfelwr the fat Sabinis wanted killed. The warning of the bird signal should not have mattered. Larbow’s knifepoint had been almost at his shirt when he had moved. Never had he faced such quickness! Three of his best blades had cornered him on the bridge, yet it had been like a wolf among little lambs.

Larbow shifted in anger—and gasped as white-hot pain shot through his belly. He stared into the flames, welcoming the agony, allowing it to deepen his vow for revenge.

One fine tomorrow, warrior, he thought. One fine tomorrow, we will meet again.

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