Read Online A Dance of Blades by David Dalglish - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: David Dalglish
Tags: done
Ads: Link
couldn’t see his eyes. “Don’t worry about any pain. As my father once said, pain is a tool that should always be under our control. It teaches us when we err. It distracts and weakens our opponents. And for you, it’ll help you for the rest of your life. Who cares about a silly scratch from a sword when you’ve been struck to the bone, yeah?”
He felt like a moron yammering on, but he did so anyway. At last he heard the boy snore, and he leaned his head back against the bark. His eyes looked to the clouded heavens.
“Couldn’t you at least stop the snow?” he asked Ashhur.
Ashhur didn’t bother to respond.
H aern slept through the night, waking only once at the sound of hoofbeats. He curled his body tighter against the tree and kept perfectly still. From the corner of his eye he saw the light of torches. Unable to see his tracks veer off the road because of the fresh snow, the horsemen rode right on by.
“Never mind,” Haern whispered once they were gone. “Go ahead and let it snow.”
He closed his eyes, leaned his head against the boy’s, and slept until morning.
*
H aern had little food and water, certainly not enough for two. He ate the food, deciding he needed the strength for carrying the boy. He did his best to get the child to drink, though. Other than a few quick sips, he was unsuccessful. His back ached, and his arm throbbed, but he forced the pain far away, as he’d been trained to do by his many mentors. He carried the boy, stopping every hour to rest and catch his breath. Any time he let him go, the boy collapsed to the ground.
So much for making the brat walk, Haern thought.
He shook his head and immediately felt guilty. Of course the boy couldn’t walk. He was sitting at the reaper’s door. That he had his eyes open was a miracle.
They walked along the road, encountering no other travelers. Evidently no one else was dumb enough to make their way north in such weather. The snow had stopped in the morning, and as he followed the road, he observed the chaos of hoofprints. None crossed over or appeared to be heading back. Either they would continue on to Veldaren, or at some point turn around and meet them. Haern stayed alert just in case. He was in no shape to fight a group of horsemen.
Keep walking, he told himself. Keep walking. Keep going. The son of Thren Felhorn would not die unknown in the wilderness. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
Near the end of the third day, he finally found a farm. He crossed the fields, every bone in his body aching. The boy hadn’t had a drink the entire day, and his skin was hot with fever. Part of him wondered if the cold was the only thing keeping him from burning alive. At the door to the home, he stopped, hid his swords with his cloak, and knocked.
“I come in time of need,” he shouted, surprised by how hoarse his voice sounded. “Please, I have a wounded child with me.”
The door crept open. In the yellow light of lamps he saw the glint of an old shortsword. A man looked through the crack, saw him holding the boy.
“Winter’s nearing its end,” said the man. “We have little to spare.”
“I’ll pay,” Haern said. “Please, I’ve walked without rest for days.”
The man glanced inside, whispered something, and then nodded.
“Come on in,” said the farmer. “And by Ashhur’s grace, I pray you mean no trouble.”
Haern found what appeared to be the entire family gathered in the front room, under blankets and around a stove whose heat felt glorious on Haern’s skin. He saw two girls huddled beside each other, their hair a pretty brown. The farmer had two boys, one of them of age, and they held knives as if to help their father should it come to bloodshed. His wife sat beside the fire, tending it.
“He has a fever,” Haern said, setting the boy down beside the stove. “And he hasn’t had food or drink for days.”
“I’ll get some water,” the wife said as she stood. She cast a worried glance at her husband, then
He felt like a moron yammering on, but he did so anyway. At last he heard the boy snore, and he leaned his head back against the bark. His eyes looked to the clouded heavens.
“Couldn’t you at least stop the snow?” he asked Ashhur.
Ashhur didn’t bother to respond.
H aern slept through the night, waking only once at the sound of hoofbeats. He curled his body tighter against the tree and kept perfectly still. From the corner of his eye he saw the light of torches. Unable to see his tracks veer off the road because of the fresh snow, the horsemen rode right on by.
“Never mind,” Haern whispered once they were gone. “Go ahead and let it snow.”
He closed his eyes, leaned his head against the boy’s, and slept until morning.
*
H aern had little food and water, certainly not enough for two. He ate the food, deciding he needed the strength for carrying the boy. He did his best to get the child to drink, though. Other than a few quick sips, he was unsuccessful. His back ached, and his arm throbbed, but he forced the pain far away, as he’d been trained to do by his many mentors. He carried the boy, stopping every hour to rest and catch his breath. Any time he let him go, the boy collapsed to the ground.
So much for making the brat walk, Haern thought.
He shook his head and immediately felt guilty. Of course the boy couldn’t walk. He was sitting at the reaper’s door. That he had his eyes open was a miracle.
They walked along the road, encountering no other travelers. Evidently no one else was dumb enough to make their way north in such weather. The snow had stopped in the morning, and as he followed the road, he observed the chaos of hoofprints. None crossed over or appeared to be heading back. Either they would continue on to Veldaren, or at some point turn around and meet them. Haern stayed alert just in case. He was in no shape to fight a group of horsemen.
Keep walking, he told himself. Keep walking. Keep going. The son of Thren Felhorn would not die unknown in the wilderness. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
Near the end of the third day, he finally found a farm. He crossed the fields, every bone in his body aching. The boy hadn’t had a drink the entire day, and his skin was hot with fever. Part of him wondered if the cold was the only thing keeping him from burning alive. At the door to the home, he stopped, hid his swords with his cloak, and knocked.
“I come in time of need,” he shouted, surprised by how hoarse his voice sounded. “Please, I have a wounded child with me.”
The door crept open. In the yellow light of lamps he saw the glint of an old shortsword. A man looked through the crack, saw him holding the boy.
“Winter’s nearing its end,” said the man. “We have little to spare.”
“I’ll pay,” Haern said. “Please, I’ve walked without rest for days.”
The man glanced inside, whispered something, and then nodded.
“Come on in,” said the farmer. “And by Ashhur’s grace, I pray you mean no trouble.”
Haern found what appeared to be the entire family gathered in the front room, under blankets and around a stove whose heat felt glorious on Haern’s skin. He saw two girls huddled beside each other, their hair a pretty brown. The farmer had two boys, one of them of age, and they held knives as if to help their father should it come to bloodshed. His wife sat beside the fire, tending it.
“He has a fever,” Haern said, setting the boy down beside the stove. “And he hasn’t had food or drink for days.”
“I’ll get some water,” the wife said as she stood. She cast a worried glance at her husband, then
Similar Books
