Read Online 01 - The Burning Shore by Robert Ear - (ebook by Undead) - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Ear - (ebook by Undead)
Tags: Warhammer
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stumbled, staggering back to his feet.
The crowd howled at the scent of exhaustion, their faces contorted into masks
of greed satiated or denied.
Jacques watched his opponent shaking his head like a bull in the ring as he
retreated across the deck, leaving a trail of bloody droplets behind him. He
realised that he must have opened an artery as, weak from blood loss, Florin
dropped his unused razor onto the hard planking of the deck and sank to his
knees.
The cacophony of the crowd grew deafening as he cautiously approached his
dying officer, grabbed a fist full of his hair and lifted his head. The
vulnerable flesh beneath Florin’s chin was pale and untanned, and for a second Jacques found himself hesitating. Then he
steeled himself and brought the razor down.
But he was too late.
Before he could administer the coup de grace he felt his ankles gripped and
his feet leaving the floor. With a shout of surprise he fell backwards, arms
flying out instinctively to break his fall. Florin, yelling through a mouthful
of bloodied teeth, leapt to his feet and spun his opponent around so that he hit
the deck nose first.
There was the crunch of breaking cartilage, followed by a gout of blood, but
before the mercenary had a chance to feel the pain of his broken nose Florin had
pulled his ankles as wide apart as the handles of a wheel barrow and kicked him
between the legs.
Jacques’ scream rose even higher than the roar of the crowd as Florin, eyes
wild with desperation, drew back his foot and kicked again. Jacques, his mind
blank of everything but for the incredible pain that had exploded in his groin,
dropped his razor and reached down to protect himself.
As he did so, Florin flipped him onto his back, lifted his foot, and stamped
down. Through the prism of his tears Jacques saw the descending horse shoe of
his captain’s heel as it snapped down onto his upturned chin.
And then it was all over.
“Stitch that!” Lorenzo, suddenly a much richer man, howled with glee.
“Well done,” said Lundorf, relieved if a little uncertain of his friend’s
technique.
But the last thing that Florin heard before he collapsed was the voice of the
crowd, roaring like some great monster as he fell backwards into the warmth of
unconsciousness and a pool of his own blood.
CHAPTER FIVE
The wind had been merciful. It had waited until the ship’s surgeon had
finished sewing up the ruin of Florin’s back before it began to play.
It started gently enough: merely rippling patterns into the rolling surface
of the water and scattering the light of the setting sun. Then, gradually, it
became bolder, rushing across the water in sudden charges that sprayed ruffs of
white water up from the top of the swells. The foam shone ice-white as it
flecked the air, the chill brightness belied by the warmth of the breeze.
The sea soon joined in with the fun. It rolled its waves higher and sharpened
their ridges, so that instead of just little flecks the wind could rip great
white sprays from their heads. Trailing these crests back like plumes from a
warrior’s helmet the wind, caught up in the excitement of the game, blew harder.
The sea wasn’t to be outdone. It reared up in response, carving valleys and
mountains from its surface in shapes designed to challenge the wind’s
imagination.
Overhead the sky became jealous. Its scowl became greyer as the game below
grew rougher, and the light bled out of the world. Soon it began to growl with
anger, bitter at the fun that its brothers were having, but the wind and the sea
were too enthralled to notice.
It wasn’t until the sky began to spit with frustration, the first crackling
flames of its rage flashing down to hiss across the cloud shadowed water, that
things began to turn nasty. Suddenly this was no longer a game.
Suddenly this was war.
Yet had an eagle been watching the Destrier and her two sisters as
they rode through the battle it would have seen
The crowd howled at the scent of exhaustion, their faces contorted into masks
of greed satiated or denied.
Jacques watched his opponent shaking his head like a bull in the ring as he
retreated across the deck, leaving a trail of bloody droplets behind him. He
realised that he must have opened an artery as, weak from blood loss, Florin
dropped his unused razor onto the hard planking of the deck and sank to his
knees.
The cacophony of the crowd grew deafening as he cautiously approached his
dying officer, grabbed a fist full of his hair and lifted his head. The
vulnerable flesh beneath Florin’s chin was pale and untanned, and for a second Jacques found himself hesitating. Then he
steeled himself and brought the razor down.
But he was too late.
Before he could administer the coup de grace he felt his ankles gripped and
his feet leaving the floor. With a shout of surprise he fell backwards, arms
flying out instinctively to break his fall. Florin, yelling through a mouthful
of bloodied teeth, leapt to his feet and spun his opponent around so that he hit
the deck nose first.
There was the crunch of breaking cartilage, followed by a gout of blood, but
before the mercenary had a chance to feel the pain of his broken nose Florin had
pulled his ankles as wide apart as the handles of a wheel barrow and kicked him
between the legs.
Jacques’ scream rose even higher than the roar of the crowd as Florin, eyes
wild with desperation, drew back his foot and kicked again. Jacques, his mind
blank of everything but for the incredible pain that had exploded in his groin,
dropped his razor and reached down to protect himself.
As he did so, Florin flipped him onto his back, lifted his foot, and stamped
down. Through the prism of his tears Jacques saw the descending horse shoe of
his captain’s heel as it snapped down onto his upturned chin.
And then it was all over.
“Stitch that!” Lorenzo, suddenly a much richer man, howled with glee.
“Well done,” said Lundorf, relieved if a little uncertain of his friend’s
technique.
But the last thing that Florin heard before he collapsed was the voice of the
crowd, roaring like some great monster as he fell backwards into the warmth of
unconsciousness and a pool of his own blood.
CHAPTER FIVE
The wind had been merciful. It had waited until the ship’s surgeon had
finished sewing up the ruin of Florin’s back before it began to play.
It started gently enough: merely rippling patterns into the rolling surface
of the water and scattering the light of the setting sun. Then, gradually, it
became bolder, rushing across the water in sudden charges that sprayed ruffs of
white water up from the top of the swells. The foam shone ice-white as it
flecked the air, the chill brightness belied by the warmth of the breeze.
The sea soon joined in with the fun. It rolled its waves higher and sharpened
their ridges, so that instead of just little flecks the wind could rip great
white sprays from their heads. Trailing these crests back like plumes from a
warrior’s helmet the wind, caught up in the excitement of the game, blew harder.
The sea wasn’t to be outdone. It reared up in response, carving valleys and
mountains from its surface in shapes designed to challenge the wind’s
imagination.
Overhead the sky became jealous. Its scowl became greyer as the game below
grew rougher, and the light bled out of the world. Soon it began to growl with
anger, bitter at the fun that its brothers were having, but the wind and the sea
were too enthralled to notice.
It wasn’t until the sky began to spit with frustration, the first crackling
flames of its rage flashing down to hiss across the cloud shadowed water, that
things began to turn nasty. Suddenly this was no longer a game.
Suddenly this was war.
Yet had an eagle been watching the Destrier and her two sisters as
they rode through the battle it would have seen
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