Read Online Etherwalker by Cameron Dayton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cameron Dayton
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had decided to curl up under the dubious protection of one of the giant boulders, he saw a flicker of firelight in the darkness. Walking towards the distant mote of orange, he could just make out the silhouette of some large structures. A town! He hurried toward the light, visions of warm food and shelter filling his head. Towns were safe—at least safer than the open wild.
The lookouts spotted him easily, for Enoch took no care for stealth as he scrambled up the crumbling stone ramparts. Too late, he saw that this was no town. It was a graveyard.
A bearded man stepped from the shadows and seized him roughly by the arm. Before Enoch could speak, the rogue struck him across the face with the back of his hand. Staggering under the blow, he felt his swords torn savagely from their straps, and a sharp kick in the back of the knees brought him to the floor with a painful crack. Wordlessly, the man lifted Enoch under one arm and began walking toward the fire.
Enoch’s head spun, and his entire body was numb from the blow he’d received. It was all he could do to keep from blacking out. Through tear-blurred eyes, he could see that the fire was closer, and he could just make out several forms seated around it. One of them called out.
“By the Snake’s tail, looks like Grunty’s caught us dinner!”
This was followed by laughter; the rough, dangerous tones made Enoch shiver. His captor ignored their words as he marched past the fire toward a building just beyond the light. It appeared to have once been a stone temple of some sort, but time and the ravages of nature had reduced it to an irregular stack of mold-skinned pillars.
Through the worn cloth curtain which hung from the lintel, Enoch could just make out the sputtering light of an oil lamp. Voices came from inside—two people were engaged in an argument. One of the voices was angry and stained with potential violence, while the other . . . the other raised the hair on Enoch’s neck.
That other voice had the sound of ice, free of any warmth or natural human inflection. It rose and fell with a liquid sharpness; the sound of a razor sliding through silk, a venomous frost snake tracing lines over new-fallen snow. Enoch did not want to know where that voice came from.
His captor pushed the veil aside and brought him into the temple. A man and a woman looked up from where they were seated. Their chairs were pushed up against a cracked alter which had been converted into a table, a gray hart skin spread over the top with a tarnished copper lamp as the centerpiece. The lamplight formed garish shadows among the pillars, and the features of the two thieves were sharply highlighted as Enoch’s eyes adjusted to the light.
The armor-clad man was larger than even Master Gershom had been, his thick arms crossed over a broad chest. As imposing a sight as he was, however, it was the woman that held Enoch’s attention, for at a glance it was obvious that she was the owner of the frozen voice. Long white hair hung straight, framing a pale and beautiful face. The red cloak which draped her body could not hide the stately form beneath, and her pose alternated from graceful to predatory.
But the eyes were what startled Enoch out of his reverie. They had no iris, no color; just a single black pinpoint in the middle of glaring whiteness.
The angry man would not be interrupted. He waved Enoch’s captor off with a hiss and turned back to the woman.
“Milady, few enough caravans come by this way anymore, and those that do are usually Kingsmen. We can’t live off that! I don’t care what you say; I’m taking my men and going up north to raid. We’ll draft some new boys and get strong. Get fat. Then we’ll come back here to wait for your prey!”
The woman slowly turned toward him and smiled.
“My men, Nibat. My men will stay here. How can you expect to raid a northern village if you cannot even stop a caravan of slaves?”
The question curled in the air. Nibat boiled over,
The lookouts spotted him easily, for Enoch took no care for stealth as he scrambled up the crumbling stone ramparts. Too late, he saw that this was no town. It was a graveyard.
A bearded man stepped from the shadows and seized him roughly by the arm. Before Enoch could speak, the rogue struck him across the face with the back of his hand. Staggering under the blow, he felt his swords torn savagely from their straps, and a sharp kick in the back of the knees brought him to the floor with a painful crack. Wordlessly, the man lifted Enoch under one arm and began walking toward the fire.
Enoch’s head spun, and his entire body was numb from the blow he’d received. It was all he could do to keep from blacking out. Through tear-blurred eyes, he could see that the fire was closer, and he could just make out several forms seated around it. One of them called out.
“By the Snake’s tail, looks like Grunty’s caught us dinner!”
This was followed by laughter; the rough, dangerous tones made Enoch shiver. His captor ignored their words as he marched past the fire toward a building just beyond the light. It appeared to have once been a stone temple of some sort, but time and the ravages of nature had reduced it to an irregular stack of mold-skinned pillars.
Through the worn cloth curtain which hung from the lintel, Enoch could just make out the sputtering light of an oil lamp. Voices came from inside—two people were engaged in an argument. One of the voices was angry and stained with potential violence, while the other . . . the other raised the hair on Enoch’s neck.
That other voice had the sound of ice, free of any warmth or natural human inflection. It rose and fell with a liquid sharpness; the sound of a razor sliding through silk, a venomous frost snake tracing lines over new-fallen snow. Enoch did not want to know where that voice came from.
His captor pushed the veil aside and brought him into the temple. A man and a woman looked up from where they were seated. Their chairs were pushed up against a cracked alter which had been converted into a table, a gray hart skin spread over the top with a tarnished copper lamp as the centerpiece. The lamplight formed garish shadows among the pillars, and the features of the two thieves were sharply highlighted as Enoch’s eyes adjusted to the light.
The armor-clad man was larger than even Master Gershom had been, his thick arms crossed over a broad chest. As imposing a sight as he was, however, it was the woman that held Enoch’s attention, for at a glance it was obvious that she was the owner of the frozen voice. Long white hair hung straight, framing a pale and beautiful face. The red cloak which draped her body could not hide the stately form beneath, and her pose alternated from graceful to predatory.
But the eyes were what startled Enoch out of his reverie. They had no iris, no color; just a single black pinpoint in the middle of glaring whiteness.
The angry man would not be interrupted. He waved Enoch’s captor off with a hiss and turned back to the woman.
“Milady, few enough caravans come by this way anymore, and those that do are usually Kingsmen. We can’t live off that! I don’t care what you say; I’m taking my men and going up north to raid. We’ll draft some new boys and get strong. Get fat. Then we’ll come back here to wait for your prey!”
The woman slowly turned toward him and smiled.
“My men, Nibat. My men will stay here. How can you expect to raid a northern village if you cannot even stop a caravan of slaves?”
The question curled in the air. Nibat boiled over,
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