(eng) Jon Kiln - Swordsman's Gift 01 by The Wandering Knight

Author:The Wandering Knight [Knight, The Wandering]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

22

Adrenaline, an oddly familiar feeling these days, pumped through Annalise’s veins. She snatched her glaive out of the dust and hurried after them, only hearing the clang of swords that had called Jorgen to the scene. Once at the top of the hill, could see the action below.

Roughly a dozen soldiers—it was hard to be exact when looking at the roil of activity—had clashed with civilians with handcarts. The carts had been tipped over, spilling beans, potatoes, and…

Annalise’s eyes went wide with understanding.

There were short swords strewn about the ground.

The shoddy, hasty workmanship of each one gave it its own unintentional personality, but the overall feeling of each blade could not be hidden. She’d seen enough of these arming the travelers who’d taken refuge in her parent’s home over the years to be able to piece together now what they were: mass-produced swords for rebels.

She careened down the hill, not thinking about her own safety but about the families there—these people who were so much like her dead parents—and what she could do to help them.

There were two families, judging from the strong familial resemblance one of the groups had. She was particularly drawn to a burly man with a huge black beard. He was dispatching the soldiers nearest him with little difficulty, but some of the other rebels weren’t having as easy of a time with it.

Her attention was taken briefly from her desire to join the fray when she looked at Dusty.

What he was doing didn’t make any sense. He held the flute-like stick he’d shown Jorgen at The Standing Tree up to his lips, but not the way someone about to play an instrument would. And anyway, if it was a musical instrument, what good would it do them in this situation?

He took a deep breath, until, though she couldn’t understand why, it was clear he intended to blow into it. But this, too, didn’t look like a musician’s way to blow. It was too forceful to make a note with.

He did it anyway, and a few yards in front of him a soldier threw both hands to his neck, dropping his sword on his own foot, though he didn’t seem to notice. The man seemed to want to shriek in agony and rage, but no sound came out his twisted, distorted face.

His skin grew redder by the second, and then he began to cough. Then he began to vomit. Not much came out, but what little there was was streaked with red blood. The man was dying, even a child could see that, but Annalise could not understand why. It had something to do with Dusty blowing into his pipe, but that made no sense; Annalise could absolutely not marry the two events in her mind.

There was little time to further contemplate this, however, as a soldier had spotted her and was now approaching as the fight waged on behind him.

“What you doing here, little girl?” he grumbled. And Annalise saw that this soldier actually might

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