Read Online Corbenic by Catherine Fisher - Free Book Online Page B

hard to see, a black shadow. Hefty.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou heard.” The man moved in, threatening. “I want the phone and money. Now! And you won’t get hurt.”
    Cal scowled. “I haven’t got a mobile phone.” Stupidly, he felt annoyed at having to say that.
    â€œOh yeah. A suit like you.” A soft click came out of the dark. Flick knife. Instantly Cal stepped back. He’d been in plenty of fights in Sutton Street. He knew he should run, but it was too dark. And the heavy sword was jabbing at him. The sword .
    The shadow was close. Cal whipped the bag and wrapping away and held the sword out, slashed wide with it, like they did in the films. It made an icy, whipping slice through the air. A relishing delight. “Right,” he muttered. “Come on then.” He should never have said that. He had no idea what made him.
    Fog drifted. High at his back the castle loomed, its narrow black arrow slits, sheer battlements.
    The mugger had flinched back. Now he whistled, sharp, two notes. “You’ve got a sodding death wish,” he whispered.
    There were more of them. Cal tried to count, without looking. Three? Four? He was a fool. For a second he wanted to raise his hand and say, “All right. I’ve got six quid. It’s yours,” but it was too late for that. They wanted him now. His blood on the path. And the sword was heavy.
    The first one attacked. He came in hard. Cal slashed and yelled and jumped back, into bushes that snagged him, into another shadow that grabbed his arm. The blow was in his stomach; it winded him but he had squirmed sideways and kept hold of the sword, and now he went wild, kicking out, slashing hard with the weapon, screaming and swearing into something that gasped and gave way, the whole sunken forest a racket of battle. They had him pinned; he was dragged down. Something stung his arm; stickiness made the sword slippery. He struggled, yelling again, but the sword was so heavy; a foot slammed into his chest, pain bursting like a star, and for a heartbeat the night went sick and silent.
    Then uproar crashed back. More voices. A great deep yell. Bedlam. He was down; they were kicking him and he rolled and scrabbled and knew this was it; he was finished, he was dead, and all at once they were gone. Gone?
    Cal dragged himself to his knees. The new silence was huge and cold. It had a great hairy hand that gripped his arm and it said, “He’s alive, at least.”
    He groaned, felt sick.
    â€œThat’s it,” the voice said cheerfully. “Take it easy.” It turned away. “He’s not too bad. A bit shaken up.”
    Something was dabbing his face; he grabbed it and it was a dirty handkerchief, so he took it and wiped his own blood with it, and realized he was on his hands and knees on the frosty concrete, broken glass stabbing his palms. Torchlight flickered over him.
    â€œTalk to me, mate.” A gruff presence hauled him up. “Did they cut you?”
    He had no breath, could barely manage, “I don’t know.” Bruises seemed to be throbbing out all over his body. Foolishly his legs had gone weak; he almost crumpled.
    â€œTake your time,” the stranger said, holding him. Then he looked into the darkness. “Shadow? Did they get it?”
    â€œNo.” A girl’s voice; she came out of the night and crouched beside them, all in black, her hair long and straight and inky. “They didn’t.”
    It was the sword she was holding, reverently in both hands, on the palms of her black, fingerless gloves. As she examined it in the torchlight it gleamed, the silver ripples on its blade beautiful, the tiny red jewels eyes of fire.
    She looked up at Cal wonderingly, and he saw there was a cobweb tattooed over half her face. “Where in the world did you get this?” she whispered.

Chapter Eight
    Men of the Island of Britain most courteous to guests and strangers: Gwalchmai, son