Swordfall (The Fall Trilogy, #2) by Devaux Olivette

Author:Devaux, Olivette
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Mugen Press
Published: 2019-07-15T16:00:00+00:00

THEY WOKE EARLY. ASBJORN took another interminable shower and disposed of the garbage bag containing his second-hand, bloodied clothing. His dark thoughts, thick and roiling like the black exhaust of a poorly tuned ship engine, drowned out hunger and fatigue. As he shaved, he noticed the still cast to his face. Still and lifeless, his face might as well have been carved out of marble. Only a twitch of his tight jaw gave away that someone was still alive inside. He knew that look on himself from before. He wore it long ago, and now he could only hope it would soon go away.

It had been premeditated.

He’d known what he was doing.

It might have been defense of a loved one, or even self-defense in the long run, but the reality of the situation pointed to murder.

The word weighted on his mind.

Ken drove them to a nearby diner and Asbjorn ordered his coffee, Western omelet, and a short stack of pancakes. He ate his food without tasting it. There was no conversation, and he felt no particular compulsion to meet Ken’s eyes. The other man was a force unto himself, still and self-contained as he made quick business of his day’s fuel. Not meeting his eyes didn’t prevent Asbjorn from sliding his gaze over him in a curious, assessing glance.

Vietnam was a long time ago. The guy must have been a kid – and that would make him how old? Sixty? Almost seventy? Ken didn’t look retirement age. His black hair, worn in a ponytail, had a few streaks of silver in it, but he was as fit and as dangerous as any of the Warehouse fight club crowd. Hell, more so. Asbjorn wondered what the older man knew about killing people. And how he dealt with it afterward.

An hour later, they walked through the woods again, their camouflage clothing disguising those warm and practical layers. The deer spoor was like writing in the snow, an open book for all to read, and the scent of fresh droppings lingered in the air.

They set up a blind, being careful and silent, and settled inside it on small folding stools. This was one of those deer highways that crisscrossed the vast forest. Where there had been one herd, there were going to be more. Their bows were at the ready. Ken knew his hunting spots well. Their location was good and their time of day was lucky. Two does and a young buck with his antler nubs barely showing ghosted through the trees before them, as silent as the wind-driven snow.

“Bjorn, your turn.” Ken nudged his shoulder, encouraging.

Asbjorn had an arrow already nocked in Tiger’s old compound bow.

Inhaling, he pulled the string, anchored his hand on his cheek, and took his aim. From the ground, the point of his arrow was aligned slightly above the animal to account for the twenty-foot flight path. The doe was oblivious. It was a clear shot.

Ken sensed his hesitation. “Meat in the freezer,” he whispered.

Tiger’s bow, Tiger’s arrow.

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