Read Online Jerusalem Man 01 - Wolf in Shadow by David Gemmell - Free Book Online
Authors: David Gemmell
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Griffin unsaddled the chestnut and rubbed him down, then filled his leather hat with water and allowed the horse to drink.
All around the camp people were looking to their animals, wiping the dust from the nostrils of their oxen and giving them precious water. Out here the animals were more than beasts of burden. They were life.
Griffin's driver, a taciturn oldster named Burke, had prepared a fire and was cooking a foul-smelling stew in a copper-bottomed pot. Griffin sat opposite the man. 'Another long day,' he remarked.
Burke grunted. 'Worse tomorrow.'
'I know.'
'You won't get much more out of these animals - they need a week at least and good grass.'
'You see any grass today, Jim?'
'I'm only saying what they need.'
'According to the map there should be good grass within the next three days,' said Griffin, removing his hat and wiping the sweat from his forehead.
'Which map is that?' asked Burke, smiling knowingly. 'Cardigan's. It seems about the best of them.'
'Yeah. Ain't he the one that saw the body-eaters at work? Didn't they roast his companions alive?'
'So he said, Jim. And keep your voice down,' Burke pointed to the fat figure of Aaron Phelps, the arcanist, who was making his way to the wagon of Ethan Peacock. 'He'd make a good lunch for them Brigands.'
'Cardigan came through here twenty years ago. There's no reason to believe the same Brigands are still in the area. Most war-makers are movers,' said Griffin.
'Expect you're right, Mr Griffin,' agreed Burke with a wicked grin. 'Still, I should send Phelps out as our advance scout. He'd feed an entire tribe.'
'I ought to send you, Jimmy - you'd put them off human flesh for life. You haven't bathed in the five years I've known you!'
'Water gives you wrinkles,' said Burke. 'I remember that from when I was a yongen. It shrivels you up.'
Griffin accepted the bowl of stew Burke passed him and tasted it. If anything it was more foul than its smell - but he ate it, following it with flat bread and salt.
'I do not know how you come up with such appalling meals,' said Griffin at last, pushing his plate away.
Burke grinned. 'Nothing to work with. Now, if you gave me Phelps . . .'
Griffin shook his head and stood. He was a tall man, red-haired and looking older than his thirty-two years. His shoulders were broad and his belly pushed out over the top of his belt, despite Burke's culinary shortcomings.
He wandered along the wagon line chatting to the families as they gathered by their cook fires, and ignored the squabbling Phelps and Peacock. At the Taybard wagon he stopped.
'A word with you, Mr Taybard,' he said and Jon Shannow set aside his plate and rose smoothly, following Griffin out on to the trail ahead of the wagons. The wagon-master sat on a jutting rock and Shannow sat facing him. There could be difficult days ahead, Mr Taybard,' began Griffin, breaking a silence which had become uncomfortable.
'In what way?'
'Some years ago there was a murderous Brigand band in these parts. Now when we come down from these mountains we should find water and grass, and we will need to rest for at least a week.
During that time we could come under attack.'
'How may I help you?'
'You are not a farmer, Mr Taybard. I sense you are more of a hunter and I want you to scout for us - if you will?'
Shannow shrugged. 'Why not?'
Griffin nodded. The man had asked nothing of the Brigands, nor of their suspected armaments.
'You are a strange man, Mr Taybard.'
'My name is not Taybard; it is Shannow.'
'I have heard the name, Mr Shannow. But I shall call you Taybard as long as you ride with us.'
'As you please, Mr Griffin.'
'Why did you feel the need to tell me?'
'I do not like living a lie.'
'Most men find little difficulty in that respect,' said Griffin. 'But then you are not as most men. I heard of the work you did in Allion.'
'It came to nothing; the Brigands returned once I had gone.'
'That is hardly the point, Mr Shannow.'
'What is?'
'You can only show the way
All around the camp people were looking to their animals, wiping the dust from the nostrils of their oxen and giving them precious water. Out here the animals were more than beasts of burden. They were life.
Griffin's driver, a taciturn oldster named Burke, had prepared a fire and was cooking a foul-smelling stew in a copper-bottomed pot. Griffin sat opposite the man. 'Another long day,' he remarked.
Burke grunted. 'Worse tomorrow.'
'I know.'
'You won't get much more out of these animals - they need a week at least and good grass.'
'You see any grass today, Jim?'
'I'm only saying what they need.'
'According to the map there should be good grass within the next three days,' said Griffin, removing his hat and wiping the sweat from his forehead.
'Which map is that?' asked Burke, smiling knowingly. 'Cardigan's. It seems about the best of them.'
'Yeah. Ain't he the one that saw the body-eaters at work? Didn't they roast his companions alive?'
'So he said, Jim. And keep your voice down,' Burke pointed to the fat figure of Aaron Phelps, the arcanist, who was making his way to the wagon of Ethan Peacock. 'He'd make a good lunch for them Brigands.'
'Cardigan came through here twenty years ago. There's no reason to believe the same Brigands are still in the area. Most war-makers are movers,' said Griffin.
'Expect you're right, Mr Griffin,' agreed Burke with a wicked grin. 'Still, I should send Phelps out as our advance scout. He'd feed an entire tribe.'
'I ought to send you, Jimmy - you'd put them off human flesh for life. You haven't bathed in the five years I've known you!'
'Water gives you wrinkles,' said Burke. 'I remember that from when I was a yongen. It shrivels you up.'
Griffin accepted the bowl of stew Burke passed him and tasted it. If anything it was more foul than its smell - but he ate it, following it with flat bread and salt.
'I do not know how you come up with such appalling meals,' said Griffin at last, pushing his plate away.
Burke grinned. 'Nothing to work with. Now, if you gave me Phelps . . .'
Griffin shook his head and stood. He was a tall man, red-haired and looking older than his thirty-two years. His shoulders were broad and his belly pushed out over the top of his belt, despite Burke's culinary shortcomings.
He wandered along the wagon line chatting to the families as they gathered by their cook fires, and ignored the squabbling Phelps and Peacock. At the Taybard wagon he stopped.
'A word with you, Mr Taybard,' he said and Jon Shannow set aside his plate and rose smoothly, following Griffin out on to the trail ahead of the wagons. The wagon-master sat on a jutting rock and Shannow sat facing him. There could be difficult days ahead, Mr Taybard,' began Griffin, breaking a silence which had become uncomfortable.
'In what way?'
'Some years ago there was a murderous Brigand band in these parts. Now when we come down from these mountains we should find water and grass, and we will need to rest for at least a week.
During that time we could come under attack.'
'How may I help you?'
'You are not a farmer, Mr Taybard. I sense you are more of a hunter and I want you to scout for us - if you will?'
Shannow shrugged. 'Why not?'
Griffin nodded. The man had asked nothing of the Brigands, nor of their suspected armaments.
'You are a strange man, Mr Taybard.'
'My name is not Taybard; it is Shannow.'
'I have heard the name, Mr Shannow. But I shall call you Taybard as long as you ride with us.'
'As you please, Mr Griffin.'
'Why did you feel the need to tell me?'
'I do not like living a lie.'
'Most men find little difficulty in that respect,' said Griffin. 'But then you are not as most men. I heard of the work you did in Allion.'
'It came to nothing; the Brigands returned once I had gone.'
'That is hardly the point, Mr Shannow.'
'What is?'
'You can only show the way
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