Read Online 01 - The Burning Shore by Robert Ear - (ebook by Undead) - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert Ear - (ebook by Undead)
Tags: Warhammer
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the Bretonnians out onto the deck, the chill pre-dawn breeze
tugging at his threadbare clothing. Amongst the shadows that haunted the ship
his smooth scalp gleamed as white as bone, and his eyes were dark pits.
But there was a spark of contentment in those cold eyes this morning, and in
the way that the sergeant paced slowly across the deck. He looked as happy as a
terrier that had just spent a night in a barn full of rats.
Some of the men who followed him, however, looked far from content. Two of
them had their arms in slings. One hobbled. Others sported ugly grey bruises or
beards matted with darkly dried blood. As they passed Orbrant to find places
around the deck some of them looked sullen, others rueful, most resigned.
He emerged now, the last man in the procession. Although his confidence had
survived Orbrant’s kindness, Jacques had spent a long and sleepless night.
Insomnia had left dark bruises beneath his eyes and had coloured his skin as
grey as his collar.
But by now his pulse was already beating, adrenaline lifting his spirits as
he greeted the ragged chorus of his mates’ cheers with a swaggering bow, and a
wide grin that might almost have been genuine.
The sky to the east reddened with the light of the approaching sun. It wasn’t
until the fiery orb had finally emerged from the sea that Florin appeared. He
strolled casually onto the deck, Lundorf and Lorenzo following in his wake, and
greeted the assembled men.
“Good morning,” he said, the well-practiced confidence of his voice
flawlessly smooth despite his dry mouth and damp palms.
The knots of Bretonnians, Kislevites and sailors that had by now surrounded
the fighting deck like an amphitheatre of unwashed flesh, returned his greeting
impatiently. Rumour and counter-rumour had swept through the ship’s company,
each new conjecture fuelling a dozen more. By now so much money was riding on
the outcome of this duel that Jacques and Florin weren’t the only ones who had
learned to dread the warmth of this new day.
They looked at each other now, the light of the growing sun already painting
them both blood-red. Despite their bravado both men saw their own fear reflected
in the other’s eyes, and both men respected it.
For a moment they stood almost as comrades in the face of the danger into
which they were both headed. The arrogance and the anger which had brought them
here had gone now, washed away by a night of phantoms and anxious reflection.
All that remained, all that held them on this collision course, was pride.
As the sun cleared the distant horizon and began its long track over a world
still full of promise, that hardly seemed enough.
Jacques considered apologising. More used to action and insults than
diplomacy he struggled to find the words, some way of taking back the
meaningless insult of the day before without losing face with his comrades.
But it was too late. Before he could find such words Lorenzo, his voice
booming with all the professionalism of the world’s ugliest ringmaster, pushed
his way into the centre of the deck to address the crowd.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, sparking a torrent of catcalls and raucous
laughter, “we are here this morning to settle a matter of honour between two of
our gentlemen colleagues.”
He waited for the nervous jeering to die down before carrying on.
“The duel is to be fought between Captain Sir Florin d’Artaud, late of
Bordeleaux, and Jacques Ribbon who, according to his second, is from ‘nowhere in
particular’. A fine town, I’m sure.”
“I think it’s in Kislev,” one of the sailors shouted from the safety of the
rigging, provoking a dozen bloodcurdling threats from below.
“And now the sun has risen,” Lorenzo pressed on, “and the appointed time has
come. It remains only for me to remind the more simple-minded among you of the
rules. Only the participants may fight, and only with their chosen weapons:
gutting knives.”
Lorenzo
tugging at his threadbare clothing. Amongst the shadows that haunted the ship
his smooth scalp gleamed as white as bone, and his eyes were dark pits.
But there was a spark of contentment in those cold eyes this morning, and in
the way that the sergeant paced slowly across the deck. He looked as happy as a
terrier that had just spent a night in a barn full of rats.
Some of the men who followed him, however, looked far from content. Two of
them had their arms in slings. One hobbled. Others sported ugly grey bruises or
beards matted with darkly dried blood. As they passed Orbrant to find places
around the deck some of them looked sullen, others rueful, most resigned.
He emerged now, the last man in the procession. Although his confidence had
survived Orbrant’s kindness, Jacques had spent a long and sleepless night.
Insomnia had left dark bruises beneath his eyes and had coloured his skin as
grey as his collar.
But by now his pulse was already beating, adrenaline lifting his spirits as
he greeted the ragged chorus of his mates’ cheers with a swaggering bow, and a
wide grin that might almost have been genuine.
The sky to the east reddened with the light of the approaching sun. It wasn’t
until the fiery orb had finally emerged from the sea that Florin appeared. He
strolled casually onto the deck, Lundorf and Lorenzo following in his wake, and
greeted the assembled men.
“Good morning,” he said, the well-practiced confidence of his voice
flawlessly smooth despite his dry mouth and damp palms.
The knots of Bretonnians, Kislevites and sailors that had by now surrounded
the fighting deck like an amphitheatre of unwashed flesh, returned his greeting
impatiently. Rumour and counter-rumour had swept through the ship’s company,
each new conjecture fuelling a dozen more. By now so much money was riding on
the outcome of this duel that Jacques and Florin weren’t the only ones who had
learned to dread the warmth of this new day.
They looked at each other now, the light of the growing sun already painting
them both blood-red. Despite their bravado both men saw their own fear reflected
in the other’s eyes, and both men respected it.
For a moment they stood almost as comrades in the face of the danger into
which they were both headed. The arrogance and the anger which had brought them
here had gone now, washed away by a night of phantoms and anxious reflection.
All that remained, all that held them on this collision course, was pride.
As the sun cleared the distant horizon and began its long track over a world
still full of promise, that hardly seemed enough.
Jacques considered apologising. More used to action and insults than
diplomacy he struggled to find the words, some way of taking back the
meaningless insult of the day before without losing face with his comrades.
But it was too late. Before he could find such words Lorenzo, his voice
booming with all the professionalism of the world’s ugliest ringmaster, pushed
his way into the centre of the deck to address the crowd.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, sparking a torrent of catcalls and raucous
laughter, “we are here this morning to settle a matter of honour between two of
our gentlemen colleagues.”
He waited for the nervous jeering to die down before carrying on.
“The duel is to be fought between Captain Sir Florin d’Artaud, late of
Bordeleaux, and Jacques Ribbon who, according to his second, is from ‘nowhere in
particular’. A fine town, I’m sure.”
“I think it’s in Kislev,” one of the sailors shouted from the safety of the
rigging, provoking a dozen bloodcurdling threats from below.
“And now the sun has risen,” Lorenzo pressed on, “and the appointed time has
come. It remains only for me to remind the more simple-minded among you of the
rules. Only the participants may fight, and only with their chosen weapons:
gutting knives.”
Lorenzo
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