Read Online Morgain's Revenge by Laura Anne Gilman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Laura Anne Gilman
Ads: Link
sound casual. “Any idea if there’s shelter nearby?”
“The blighted wizard’s thrown us near three or four days’ riding upland,” Sir Caedor said, looking around before raising his eyes to the incoming storm. “Well past Londinium and the worst of the Cotswold Hills.”
Gerard was still on the ground, now looking decidedly green. “I don’t think I can ride.”
“Then we’re going to get very wet.”
“Over there,” Sir Caedor said, recovering faster than either one of them. He gestured toward a low rise of grass, with a notable overhang facing them. “Come on, lad, get up. You can make it over there.”
“I…”
“Get up , boy. Now .” His voice was tough, but not unkind. With a combination of encouraging words and a strong hand, Sir Caedor got Gerard back on his feet, and the three began walking as swiftly as they could, not willing to get back on their horses until the dizziness of the magical transport subsided.
“Umm…” Newt said as they got close enough to see the overhang better. The rise was perhaps twice Sir Caedor’s height, and several man-lengths long, with enough room to shelter all three of them and at least two of the animals.
“It’s the only thing around, boy.” Sir Caedor was clearly impatient at Newt’s hesitation. Even Gerard looked at him sideways when the stable boy dug his heels in. The horses continued forward, but the mule also stopped, its ears twitching in agitation.
“That’s a barrow: a giant grave, a resting place for the bones of great warriors from an earlier time, built into the turf.”
“It’s shelter. The dead won’t mind.”
“The dead always mind,” Newt said, but allowed himself to be coaxed forward, dragging the mule along in turn. Neither of them looked happy about it.
Gerard and Sir Caedor were two stones from the same quarry, Newt thought ruefully; it didn’t occur to them that disturbing the dead, even the long-dead, never led to anything good. Stubborn, headstrong, ignorant warriors, both of them, so certain that nothing in the ground could be a threat.
He hoped that they were right.
The barrow was smaller than they’d thought, so they unsaddled the horses and took the packs off the mule. They shoved the packs as far under the overhang as they could just as the air darkened around them, going from clear morning light to shadowed dusk instantly with the arrival of the storm clouds.
“I hate storms,” Sir Caedor muttered. “All inconvenience, no redeeming value.”
“Grows the crops,” Gerard said.
“Hmmmph.” The knight removed his armor and fit as much of himself under the overhang as he could, his legs sticking out into the open air. Gerard sat next to him, his legs tucked up underneath.
“Newt, leave them. They know about storms.”
“It’s not the storms I’m worried about,” Newt muttered again, but not loud enough for either of them to hear. He finished tethering the horses to a running line, gave the mule a comforting pat on the side, and came to join the other two.
“This reminds me of a time during my early years, when I was still trying to make my name…” Sir Caedor began, and while Newt didn’t bother to look interested, Gerard settled in to hear the man’s story. At the very least, it would be a way to pass the time while they waited for the storm to pass.
Halfway into Caedor’s somewhat disjointed and rambling tale of a long-forgotten battle in the highlands, a downward strike of lightning startled the horses, making them shift and shudder uneasily.
“Here comes the rain,” Gerard said needlessly, as a wave of water came down in sharp pellets. “Hopefully it won’t last long. Merlin gave us a gift, sending us this far along. I’d hate to waste it.”
Sir Caedor grunted, clearly annoyed at how nature had taken the steam out of his story. Newt merely shifted on the ground, feeling a cold prickle on the back of his neck that had nothing to do with the air turning colder.
“We
“The blighted wizard’s thrown us near three or four days’ riding upland,” Sir Caedor said, looking around before raising his eyes to the incoming storm. “Well past Londinium and the worst of the Cotswold Hills.”
Gerard was still on the ground, now looking decidedly green. “I don’t think I can ride.”
“Then we’re going to get very wet.”
“Over there,” Sir Caedor said, recovering faster than either one of them. He gestured toward a low rise of grass, with a notable overhang facing them. “Come on, lad, get up. You can make it over there.”
“I…”
“Get up , boy. Now .” His voice was tough, but not unkind. With a combination of encouraging words and a strong hand, Sir Caedor got Gerard back on his feet, and the three began walking as swiftly as they could, not willing to get back on their horses until the dizziness of the magical transport subsided.
“Umm…” Newt said as they got close enough to see the overhang better. The rise was perhaps twice Sir Caedor’s height, and several man-lengths long, with enough room to shelter all three of them and at least two of the animals.
“It’s the only thing around, boy.” Sir Caedor was clearly impatient at Newt’s hesitation. Even Gerard looked at him sideways when the stable boy dug his heels in. The horses continued forward, but the mule also stopped, its ears twitching in agitation.
“That’s a barrow: a giant grave, a resting place for the bones of great warriors from an earlier time, built into the turf.”
“It’s shelter. The dead won’t mind.”
“The dead always mind,” Newt said, but allowed himself to be coaxed forward, dragging the mule along in turn. Neither of them looked happy about it.
Gerard and Sir Caedor were two stones from the same quarry, Newt thought ruefully; it didn’t occur to them that disturbing the dead, even the long-dead, never led to anything good. Stubborn, headstrong, ignorant warriors, both of them, so certain that nothing in the ground could be a threat.
He hoped that they were right.
The barrow was smaller than they’d thought, so they unsaddled the horses and took the packs off the mule. They shoved the packs as far under the overhang as they could just as the air darkened around them, going from clear morning light to shadowed dusk instantly with the arrival of the storm clouds.
“I hate storms,” Sir Caedor muttered. “All inconvenience, no redeeming value.”
“Grows the crops,” Gerard said.
“Hmmmph.” The knight removed his armor and fit as much of himself under the overhang as he could, his legs sticking out into the open air. Gerard sat next to him, his legs tucked up underneath.
“Newt, leave them. They know about storms.”
“It’s not the storms I’m worried about,” Newt muttered again, but not loud enough for either of them to hear. He finished tethering the horses to a running line, gave the mule a comforting pat on the side, and came to join the other two.
“This reminds me of a time during my early years, when I was still trying to make my name…” Sir Caedor began, and while Newt didn’t bother to look interested, Gerard settled in to hear the man’s story. At the very least, it would be a way to pass the time while they waited for the storm to pass.
Halfway into Caedor’s somewhat disjointed and rambling tale of a long-forgotten battle in the highlands, a downward strike of lightning startled the horses, making them shift and shudder uneasily.
“Here comes the rain,” Gerard said needlessly, as a wave of water came down in sharp pellets. “Hopefully it won’t last long. Merlin gave us a gift, sending us this far along. I’d hate to waste it.”
Sir Caedor grunted, clearly annoyed at how nature had taken the steam out of his story. Newt merely shifted on the ground, feeling a cold prickle on the back of his neck that had nothing to do with the air turning colder.
“We
Similar Books
