Read Online The Dread Wyrm (Traitor Son Cycle) by Miles Cameron - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Miles Cameron
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realized how much terror she’d felt—
“Ware!” she shouted. Its approach had been gradual, but now she knew the feeling. She’d felt it at Lissen Carak. Some of the creatures of the Wild
exuded
terror.
Spiro looked over his shoulder—raised his bow—
Sauce dragged her sword clear and cut—
The thing leapt. Sauce smelled the burned soap smell and saw the bright red crest. Her blow was parried with the bronze haft of a heavy stone axe—a magnificent weapon of polished lapis that came back at her like a nightmare.
The daemon sprouted a feathered shaft. She got her sword on the haft and let the weight of the blow slide off her like water off a roof as her riding horse panicked between her legs—and bolted.
The daemon—twelve feet of muscled armour and blood-red webbed crest and gills—slammed his lapis axe into Spiro, killing him instantly, crushing his ribs into his heart. Then it rotated its hips, pointed the elegant bronze staff of his axe and a beam of coherent light blew Count Zac out of his saddle. The little man landed like a sack of wheat.
Sauce was wrestling with her reins. When her palfrey stopped and reared, Sauce rolled over the horse’s rump—in armour—and landed on her feet. She turned.
The
adversarius
was forty feet away, twice her height, and glowed with arcane power.
Sauce had a fortune in wards on her harness—one from Mag and one from the Red Knight himself.
His blue-white fire struck her in the chest.
And dispersed.
“Fuck me,” Sauce said, and charged.
The daemon shaman hesitated, obviously disconcerted by her attack and the failure of his sorcery. It gathered power—Sauce saw that much.
A gob of white fire travelled across the shaded glade like a ball thrown by a grown man. It struck the daemon low, on the hip, and the daemon’s belt of what appeared to be emeralds burst into fire.
The thing stumbled, looked wildly around, and another ball of whitefire struck it in the torso just as Sauce’s sword cut at the thing’s outthrust, scaled leg. Blood and fire sprayed in every direction, the axe flashed at Sauce and she slipped her lead foot and made a two-handed cover. The axe slammed into her blade and snapped it, and the point of her own sword cut into her left hand right through a heavy gauntlet.
But she was otherwise uninjured, and when a third gout of fire struck the daemon, it shuddered and said one word, and was—
—gone.
Count Zac was not badly hurt. Spiro, on the other hand, was messily dead. The captain’s post-mortem that night was highly complimentary to Sauce. He ended by saying, “Let’s try not to lose any more.” He shook his head and looked at Mag.
“I hit the damned thing three times,” Mag said. “It had a layered protection and some serious skills.”
The captain had a cup of watered wine in his fist and he was sitting in a camp chair with most of his officers. Zac was still in Father Arnaud’s hands.
“What was it doing out there, alone?” the captain asked. He looked around. “We’re still in the circle.”
Tom, who was grumpy because he’d missed a fight and grumpier because everyone was praising Sauce, spat. “Wild’s got to have young fools as much as folk,” he said.
“You’d know,” Sauce said.
The captain laughed. “I thought you two were sick, or something. I suspect that we are watched. My sense of the arcane in the air is that our daemon came the way he went. That’s why it was so clever of Sauce to understand.” He looked at Mag.
Mag nodded. “That’s consistent with what I felt—pulses of
potentia.
If it was powerful enough, it came—and then went.”
“The outriders surprised it,” Sauce said. “It didn’t expect resistance so far out from the column.”
Ser George rolled his eyes. “Once again, the omnipotent captain reads the enemy perfectly.”
Ser Danved laughed and pounded his saddle. “He does posture on and on…” He looked around.
Ser Francis Atcourt slapped him on the back.
“Ware!” she shouted. Its approach had been gradual, but now she knew the feeling. She’d felt it at Lissen Carak. Some of the creatures of the Wild
exuded
terror.
Spiro looked over his shoulder—raised his bow—
Sauce dragged her sword clear and cut—
The thing leapt. Sauce smelled the burned soap smell and saw the bright red crest. Her blow was parried with the bronze haft of a heavy stone axe—a magnificent weapon of polished lapis that came back at her like a nightmare.
The daemon sprouted a feathered shaft. She got her sword on the haft and let the weight of the blow slide off her like water off a roof as her riding horse panicked between her legs—and bolted.
The daemon—twelve feet of muscled armour and blood-red webbed crest and gills—slammed his lapis axe into Spiro, killing him instantly, crushing his ribs into his heart. Then it rotated its hips, pointed the elegant bronze staff of his axe and a beam of coherent light blew Count Zac out of his saddle. The little man landed like a sack of wheat.
Sauce was wrestling with her reins. When her palfrey stopped and reared, Sauce rolled over the horse’s rump—in armour—and landed on her feet. She turned.
The
adversarius
was forty feet away, twice her height, and glowed with arcane power.
Sauce had a fortune in wards on her harness—one from Mag and one from the Red Knight himself.
His blue-white fire struck her in the chest.
And dispersed.
“Fuck me,” Sauce said, and charged.
The daemon shaman hesitated, obviously disconcerted by her attack and the failure of his sorcery. It gathered power—Sauce saw that much.
A gob of white fire travelled across the shaded glade like a ball thrown by a grown man. It struck the daemon low, on the hip, and the daemon’s belt of what appeared to be emeralds burst into fire.
The thing stumbled, looked wildly around, and another ball of whitefire struck it in the torso just as Sauce’s sword cut at the thing’s outthrust, scaled leg. Blood and fire sprayed in every direction, the axe flashed at Sauce and she slipped her lead foot and made a two-handed cover. The axe slammed into her blade and snapped it, and the point of her own sword cut into her left hand right through a heavy gauntlet.
But she was otherwise uninjured, and when a third gout of fire struck the daemon, it shuddered and said one word, and was—
—gone.
Count Zac was not badly hurt. Spiro, on the other hand, was messily dead. The captain’s post-mortem that night was highly complimentary to Sauce. He ended by saying, “Let’s try not to lose any more.” He shook his head and looked at Mag.
“I hit the damned thing three times,” Mag said. “It had a layered protection and some serious skills.”
The captain had a cup of watered wine in his fist and he was sitting in a camp chair with most of his officers. Zac was still in Father Arnaud’s hands.
“What was it doing out there, alone?” the captain asked. He looked around. “We’re still in the circle.”
Tom, who was grumpy because he’d missed a fight and grumpier because everyone was praising Sauce, spat. “Wild’s got to have young fools as much as folk,” he said.
“You’d know,” Sauce said.
The captain laughed. “I thought you two were sick, or something. I suspect that we are watched. My sense of the arcane in the air is that our daemon came the way he went. That’s why it was so clever of Sauce to understand.” He looked at Mag.
Mag nodded. “That’s consistent with what I felt—pulses of
potentia.
If it was powerful enough, it came—and then went.”
“The outriders surprised it,” Sauce said. “It didn’t expect resistance so far out from the column.”
Ser George rolled his eyes. “Once again, the omnipotent captain reads the enemy perfectly.”
Ser Danved laughed and pounded his saddle. “He does posture on and on…” He looked around.
Ser Francis Atcourt slapped him on the back.
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