Read Online Phoenix Rising by Jason K. Lewis - Free Book Online
Authors: Jason K. Lewis
Tags: Fantasy
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severed the zealot’s carotid, dispatching him with cold precision.
Six men lay dead or wounded on the floor. The rabble held back. Some picked up Marek Tyll’s last word and shouted it like a war chant. “Heretic!” They sought to find a gap in the legionaries’ defences.
“It seems this man Tyll is more of a threat than we suspected,” Martius said.
“A fair assessment, sir.” Conlan replied. He turned briefly to Darcus and nodded his thanks. I owe you my life, he wanted to say.
Darcus simply shrugged and returned his attention to the zealots.
“Sir, do you have a plan?” Are we going to die here? It seemed ironic, perhaps, to die in a bar brawl after surviving the horror of Sothlind.
“Always, Father Conlan. A good leader always has a plan.”
“Is the plan for us to die in ignominy?” The words came out before he could stop them. He is your commanding officer! the legionary in him chided.
Martius laughed. “I certainly hope not.”
A whistle blew. The sound of running feet smothered the insane chanting of the zealots.
Conlan saw a red plumed helmet first as dozens of city militiamen poured into the tavern.
“Lay down your weapons!” the captain of the militia shouted over the heads of the rabble. “You are surrounded.”
“Ah,” Martius said. “The reinforcements have arrived.”
Grudgingly, one by one at first, and then en masse, the zealots dropped their weapons.
The innkeeper, who had entered the tavern with the militia, saluted Martius from across the room.
Martius returned the salute. “My thanks to you, brother!”
The innkeeper snapped to attention, revealing something of the soldier that he had once been. His face beamed with pride. “As you command, General.”
“You planned this?” Conlan gasped for breath, sweat dripped from his forehead and down his back. I am out of condition… weak. Daily drill would begin again tomorrow. You need to be prepared for anything. A walk in the park had reminded him of that today.
Martius raised an eyebrow. “Well, perhaps not so much planned as adapted .”
“You mean you made it up as you went along?” You really should think before you speak. A door to a new world of possibilities had opened for Conlan at Sothlind, but the Hole had served as a painful reminder that, in the Empire, free speech was not always the best course of action.
Martius turned to face him, his eyes black and unfathomable, like the very pits of the netherworld. He did not speak for a long time; finally he said, “A fair assessment, Father Conlan... Such a shame Marek Tyll escaped...”
CHAPTER SIX
Metrotis
METROTIS STARED HARD AT the figure before him. The man was just over six feet tall; lithe but muscular, his glossy black hair was cropped close, thick and lustrous like fur. His eyes were golden brown, a dark ring around the outside giving an illusion of depth that really was quite disconcerting.
You could lose his soul in those eyes, Metrotis thought.
The man did not have a single blemish on his skin: no spot, scar, freckle or bump marred his features. Metrotis knew that beneath the plain white smock the man wore, the same was true of his entire body. He bore no sign of imperfection. He was perfectly proportioned, as if he had been sculpted rather than born, every muscle clearly defined. Outwardly, he appeared to be about thirty years of age; the only clue to this was in the masculinity of his features and the maturity of his physique. It was clear to anyone who looked that he was not fresh from adolescence, but a man in the prime of his life.
Metrotis had observed the man before him in this manner for weeks, and remained deeply frustrated by his lack of progress with the subject. Whereas the barbarian, Wulf – held captive just down the corridor – was now verbose to the point of irritation, through his translator. Metrotis considered that if he had to hear of Wulf’s prowess in battle–or indeed the bedroom –one more time, his
Six men lay dead or wounded on the floor. The rabble held back. Some picked up Marek Tyll’s last word and shouted it like a war chant. “Heretic!” They sought to find a gap in the legionaries’ defences.
“It seems this man Tyll is more of a threat than we suspected,” Martius said.
“A fair assessment, sir.” Conlan replied. He turned briefly to Darcus and nodded his thanks. I owe you my life, he wanted to say.
Darcus simply shrugged and returned his attention to the zealots.
“Sir, do you have a plan?” Are we going to die here? It seemed ironic, perhaps, to die in a bar brawl after surviving the horror of Sothlind.
“Always, Father Conlan. A good leader always has a plan.”
“Is the plan for us to die in ignominy?” The words came out before he could stop them. He is your commanding officer! the legionary in him chided.
Martius laughed. “I certainly hope not.”
A whistle blew. The sound of running feet smothered the insane chanting of the zealots.
Conlan saw a red plumed helmet first as dozens of city militiamen poured into the tavern.
“Lay down your weapons!” the captain of the militia shouted over the heads of the rabble. “You are surrounded.”
“Ah,” Martius said. “The reinforcements have arrived.”
Grudgingly, one by one at first, and then en masse, the zealots dropped their weapons.
The innkeeper, who had entered the tavern with the militia, saluted Martius from across the room.
Martius returned the salute. “My thanks to you, brother!”
The innkeeper snapped to attention, revealing something of the soldier that he had once been. His face beamed with pride. “As you command, General.”
“You planned this?” Conlan gasped for breath, sweat dripped from his forehead and down his back. I am out of condition… weak. Daily drill would begin again tomorrow. You need to be prepared for anything. A walk in the park had reminded him of that today.
Martius raised an eyebrow. “Well, perhaps not so much planned as adapted .”
“You mean you made it up as you went along?” You really should think before you speak. A door to a new world of possibilities had opened for Conlan at Sothlind, but the Hole had served as a painful reminder that, in the Empire, free speech was not always the best course of action.
Martius turned to face him, his eyes black and unfathomable, like the very pits of the netherworld. He did not speak for a long time; finally he said, “A fair assessment, Father Conlan... Such a shame Marek Tyll escaped...”
CHAPTER SIX
Metrotis
METROTIS STARED HARD AT the figure before him. The man was just over six feet tall; lithe but muscular, his glossy black hair was cropped close, thick and lustrous like fur. His eyes were golden brown, a dark ring around the outside giving an illusion of depth that really was quite disconcerting.
You could lose his soul in those eyes, Metrotis thought.
The man did not have a single blemish on his skin: no spot, scar, freckle or bump marred his features. Metrotis knew that beneath the plain white smock the man wore, the same was true of his entire body. He bore no sign of imperfection. He was perfectly proportioned, as if he had been sculpted rather than born, every muscle clearly defined. Outwardly, he appeared to be about thirty years of age; the only clue to this was in the masculinity of his features and the maturity of his physique. It was clear to anyone who looked that he was not fresh from adolescence, but a man in the prime of his life.
Metrotis had observed the man before him in this manner for weeks, and remained deeply frustrated by his lack of progress with the subject. Whereas the barbarian, Wulf – held captive just down the corridor – was now verbose to the point of irritation, through his translator. Metrotis considered that if he had to hear of Wulf’s prowess in battle–or indeed the bedroom –one more time, his
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