Read Online Hunter and Fox by Philippa Ballantine - Free Book Online Page A

expected the legends to be true. The before-time was something he had only heard about as a child.
    The wagon lurched again as the driver turned in a tight circle. Byre leapt off the back and ran quickly around to the front just as Ungro's blunderbuss roared. Byre had seen him pack it with wickedly sharp rocks that very morning. One of their pursuers screamed horribly, fell back in his stirrups and was carried away by his terrified mount.
    His companions, apparently unconcerned, rode on, yelling and waving their rusty blades above their heads.
    Ungro swore loudly and pulled two wickedly curved knives out from under the seat. “Bastards, you'll not have nothing from me!” It was an almost-convincing act. Bandits could not afford to leave witnesses to an attack on the Caisah's wagons; the penalty for that was drawing and quartering.
    The leader rode in hard, seeking to knock the apparently vulnerable Byre off his feet and onto the rocks. The Vaerli stood still until the horse was almost upon him, then with a cry and wave he lunged forward. Bandit horses were not war-trained and this one, unused to sudden noise, twisted aside with its eyes rolling madly. Their attackers were no great horsemen and while the bandit struggled to turn his mount, Byre lunged forward with his stick. The silver knuckle of the oak staff snapped against the bandit's shoulder, twisting him out of the saddle to land with a thump on the ground.
    Before Byre could attack again, the other riders were upon him. He turned and leapt up among the rocks, forcing them to dismount or risk ruining their horses. One raced past the shouting Ungro and fired an arrow at him. With a thunk the driver was pinned to his seat through the shoulder. He roared in rage at the bandits' audacity. “Bloody cowards!”
    But the bandits still appeared to find Byre the greater risk. That was yet another problem with being Vaerli, and Talyn was responsible for this perception. But they wouldn't waste arrows on him, believing the folktale that none would be able to touch him, so perhaps the Hunter did him some good as well.
    Byre balanced lightly on his feet while his eyes darted between the three advancing bandits.
    His enemies taunted him. “Vaerli scum. We'll dice you up good and take your head for trophy.”
    A Vaerli must be buried with all his parts or risk the damnation of Chaos, and they knew it. One laughed as he swung at the cornered Vaerli. Byre caught the blade on his upraised stick and with a twist of his body downed the man with a swift riposte to the head.
    The two remaining enemies circled more warily while getting on either side of him. He waited calmly, his stick above his head, feet lightly placed in the guard position. One struck at his legs; he simply jumped back with a speed that would have done the Seventh Gift justice. Then, deftly changing the stick to his left hand, Byre caught the other brigand by surprise, thumping his stick with real force into his elbow. The man howled and dropped to the ground, screaming that his arm was broken.
    Spinning around to face the last uninjured bandit, Byre deliberately left his guard down, his head seemingly exposed. His enraged opponent took the bait. When he lunged, the Vaerli stepped nimbly back on his left foot and swung heavily out with his stick, catching the bandit directly in the face. He elicited a most satisfactory howl of outraged pain and dropped his sword.
    A life on the run had taught Byre how to look after himself, but it had also taught him realism. His odds of surviving so many opponents without a sword were slim.
    Indeed, the one he had knocked down was already getting up. The stick was meant for defense, to allow time to run, but he had nowhere to go—even the horses had fled.
    They rushed him as a group this time, taking the knocks and bruises he dealt out and bearing him to the ground. Swords gave way to knives and though he struggled, he was no match for three men. One caught at his