Warriors [7] The Wayward Knights by Roland Green

Author:Roland Green [Green, Roland]
Language: por
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2012-06-11T14:14:18+00:00

"Not for you," Rubina hissed. "But maybe for me. And there's the village. They do have horses, and people who won't let me come with you."

"What makes you think I will let you come with me?" Grimsoar hissed back.

"What makes you think you can stop me?"

Grimsoar recognized the total deafness to the word "No" that he had encountered often enough in his own life. No doubt Rubina had it from her mother.

They came up to the village from the south, and the first thing they saw was Pel Orvot's wagon, still at the wheelwright's even though it had been repaired two days ago. Or so Rubina said, but she admitted that she might not be wholly fair where the farmer was concerned. Grimsoar was about to praise her for that sense of justice when he heard the sound of riders coming up from the south, so fast that they threatened to overtake their own din.

Somebody on the road challenged. The reply was nothing any Tirabot fighter would have given. Grimsoar pushed Rubina hard. "Run out of the road, now," he ordered. "Get behind a house! Enemies coming!"

"I am the daughter of two warriors and do not obey orders to run from danger!"

Rubina shot back.

But she was addressing Grimsoar's broad back, as he bent to grab the wagon's yoke pole. One heave and it moved. Another heave and sweat broke out on his brow, and the wagon rolled. A third heave and it rolled out of the wheelwright's yard and into the road.

Grimsoar had just time to use a fourth heave to center the wagon on the road when the riders came storming up. They were no Tirabot folk, looking more like cheap sell-swords, and not one of them had any command over his horse. All fifteen or more of them crashed straight into the wagon. Fast-moving flesh and bone met solid, immobile wood. The wagon tipped up on edge, then one wheel cracked beyond any wheelwright's craft to repair it, and the wagon fell over on its side.

Most of the riders and horses fell on top of it or around it. They piled up in a hillock of writhing, screaming human and animal flesh. Grimsoar came near to losing his supper at the expressions on some of the faces, both men and horses.

Then a man was before him, with an expression on his face that Grimsoar knew too well. It was the tight, angry look of a seasoned killer, one common among the old Servants of Silence. That unwholesome order, it was said, no longer existed. The same could not be said of the men who comprised it.

Grimsoar reached for his dagger, but the man struck first. Fire blossomed in Grimsoar's right arm, and the man snatched another dagger from his boot and drove in, ready to gut the old sailor like a flatfish for broiling—

—when a smaller figure leaped onto the man's back. The man was off-balance for his thrust, and, under the sudden weight, fell facedown on the road.

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