Read Online Hunter's Rage: Book 3 of The Civil War Chronicles by Michael Arnold - Free Book Online

moved through the still growing crowd. Two – the foremost and rearmost – were shoving and pushing their way past the bodies, clearing a path to the platform. The man at the front was short, morbidly corpulent, and swarthy-skinned. His hair was long, black as jet, and carried an oily sheen. The man at the rear was taller, of slimmer build, and had marginally lighter skin. His face was cleanly shaven, tapering to a sharp chin and framed with shoulder-length auburn hair that was flecked with shards of grey. He walked with a pronounced limp, leaning heavily on a long, knotted stick. The figure in between, smaller and hooded, seemed a reluctant companion; head bowed, feet shuffling.
    ‘I am a man of intrigue, Colonel,’ Collings said when the shouts and jeers began to subside. ‘My weapon is not the sword, but the quill.’
    Wild looked up from the scene on the street to meet the major-general’s beady, almost reptilian gaze. He believed that well enough. Collings was a slight figure. Sallow-skinned, thin-limbed, with bones that looked as delicate as glass. ‘Aye, sir.’
    ‘In such a capacity,’ the major-general went on, ‘I have made it my business to know our enemy. Anyone of significance, at the very least. Stryker is a hard man. Not unlike yourself, I suppose. Experienced, brutal, vengeful. A real devil. And favourite of Prince Robber.’
    Wild’s eyes widened involuntarily. ‘I had not realized.’
    Collings stared down at the road. ‘A dangerous knave to have encountered, Colonel, make no mistake. The question is: where did he go with my damned wagon?’
    Wild made to reply, but found his throat clogged. He cleared it awkwardly. ‘Again, sir, I am not certain. Across Dartmoor, I presume, for he must surely wish to convey it to his superiors.’
    ‘Then you had better get it back,’ Collings said matter-of-factly, though Wild sensed the threat beneath the plain tone.
    Down on Fore Street, the crowd was beginning to stir again. A murmur of voices gradually rose to a great cry as the three figures mounted the wooden platform. At the centre of the structure stood a thick-beamed frame, the shape of an inverted ‘L’. From the frame dangled a noose, swaying gently in the breeze.
    Wild watched as the fat man drew back the smaller figure’s cowl, revealing the face of an elderly woman. He wrinkled his nose in distaste. ‘What was her crime?’
    ‘She has made a compact with the Devil!’ a bellow came up from the scaffold as if in answer.
    The speaker was the taller of the two men. The one with auburn hair, who, Wild now saw, had a long, hooked nose and big teeth that jutted forth from his mouth, giving him an almost equine appearance. His accent was borne of the southern counties, though his skin had clearly seen many more hot summers than England could provide, for it was deeply tanned. The colour, Wild reflected, of the cliffs around his native Exmouth. This was the man whose arrival he had complained about to Major-General Collings.
    ‘You question Hogg’s presence here?’ the major-general said, evidently reading Wild’s thoughts.
    Wild looked across at his superior. ‘I am a man of action, sir. I do not hold with witch-catchers and their ilk.’
    Erasmus Collings chuckled at that. ‘Osmyn Hogg frightens the people,’ he said, waving a hand at the multitude below. ‘The peasants. Soon we will move into Cornwall, into the very bosom of the King’s support. Men like you will crush their armies and burn their homes, but who will turn their hearts, Colonel? Who will bring their minds to our cause?’
    ‘A pact of blood and sorcery!’ the man on the scaffold called out. He paused as the crowd took a collective intake of breath. It reminded Wild of an actor on stage. ‘But where is my proof, I hear you cry!’ Hogg spun on his heel suddenly and pointed at his darker-skinned companion.
    ‘I saw them! Imps in her employ!’ the fat man called out in a thickly accented voice.
    Wild looked pointedly