Read Online The Sword and the Sorcerer by Norman Winski - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Norman Winski
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the floor, a wound in his arm. Warmak fell, minus an arm, and gushed blood until he died. Walton, the general who had taught Mikah everything he knew about the strategies of war, also toppled, three welling gashes over his heart.
Only Mikah was spared. And just before Cromwell knocked the sword out of his hand with one powerful blow of his scimitar, Mikah succeeded in running his sword clean through one of the hulking Klaws.
Cromwell’s eyes searched the pile of bodies and shattered furniture for Alana. But she was gone. In the heat of battle she had somehow managed to escape.
“After the girl!” he yelled over his shoulder to the guards outside. Then he fixed his attention on Mikah, who stood crouched in front of him like a sleek and dangerous animal preparing to spring. For several seconds the two enemies glared at each other, panting and sweating from the fray. Mikah was acutely aware that all it took was one word from Cromwell and the Klaws would run him through ten different ways. Still he defiantly thrust his square jaw at the king. Better to die in defiance than cowardice.
Cromwell teased the gleaming point of his scimitar inches away from Mikah’s ropy abdomen. “Have at me, Mikah,” he goaded. “Come to me, sweet boy!”
Mikah could hold himself in check no more. He threw a wild fish at Cromwell’s face but the agile king sidestepped the throw and plowed one of his own huge fists into the rebel’s stomach.
Mikah doubled over and fell limply to the floor. Cromwell seized the opportunity to kick him in the ribs and guffawed triumphantly. “This is a game for men, not boys. Now tell me the name of the real leader behind the insurrection—or I’ll have your nails plucked out and then your tongue!”
Cromwell kicked him once more. Just before Mikah blacked out from the pain he wondered why Cromwell thought there was someone else masterminding the revolt.
EIGHT
xcept for splashes of moonlight here and there, the night’s mantle covered most of the narrow alleys and snaky streets through which Alana ran, breathless, the long cape covering her blouse and skirt flowing with the wind. The rattle of breastplates and swords told her two or more of Cromwell’s guards were closing in on her. Although her long, tapered legs were strong, she had been running over the hilly streets for a long time and they were sorely throbbing.
In Alana’s hand she still clutched the bloodied dagger she had planted in the guard’s shoulder who had attempted to block her escape from the headquarters. And she would use it again and again, even on herself, rather than be taken prisoner. So long as Mikah lived to become rightful king of Eh-Dan, she would gladly die for the cause!
Alana bolted around the corner of an unlit tavern into a long, wide, dark alley. She tried to ignore the smell of dumped garbage and urine as she ran. A high wall loomed in front of her and she realized she was facing a dead end. She panicked, paused for a moment to get her bearings. She decided the only recourse open to her was to go back the way she came. Her heart thumping, her legs really aching now, she ran toward the light at the end of the alley.
Suddenly the silhouette of a Klaw materialized in that threshold of light. He began to walk in her direction. As he got close she noticed a blood-caked swatch of tunic tied around one of his shoulders. Her heart pounded like thunder. It was the guard she had stuck.
“Oh no!” she exclaimed, as the guard stalked her, his sword rattling in its sheath at his side.
“Oh yes, bitch!” he retorted, still breathing hard from the chase.
As he inched toward her she kept backing up, pointing the dagger at his chest.
The guard obscenely placed one hand over his bulging crotch. “And now I’m going to stick you with my dagger—before I slit your throat!”
The moment her back was up against the wall she lunged at him. But he ducked, grabbed her by the wrist and kept twisting it until she dropped the
Only Mikah was spared. And just before Cromwell knocked the sword out of his hand with one powerful blow of his scimitar, Mikah succeeded in running his sword clean through one of the hulking Klaws.
Cromwell’s eyes searched the pile of bodies and shattered furniture for Alana. But she was gone. In the heat of battle she had somehow managed to escape.
“After the girl!” he yelled over his shoulder to the guards outside. Then he fixed his attention on Mikah, who stood crouched in front of him like a sleek and dangerous animal preparing to spring. For several seconds the two enemies glared at each other, panting and sweating from the fray. Mikah was acutely aware that all it took was one word from Cromwell and the Klaws would run him through ten different ways. Still he defiantly thrust his square jaw at the king. Better to die in defiance than cowardice.
Cromwell teased the gleaming point of his scimitar inches away from Mikah’s ropy abdomen. “Have at me, Mikah,” he goaded. “Come to me, sweet boy!”
Mikah could hold himself in check no more. He threw a wild fish at Cromwell’s face but the agile king sidestepped the throw and plowed one of his own huge fists into the rebel’s stomach.
Mikah doubled over and fell limply to the floor. Cromwell seized the opportunity to kick him in the ribs and guffawed triumphantly. “This is a game for men, not boys. Now tell me the name of the real leader behind the insurrection—or I’ll have your nails plucked out and then your tongue!”
Cromwell kicked him once more. Just before Mikah blacked out from the pain he wondered why Cromwell thought there was someone else masterminding the revolt.
EIGHT
xcept for splashes of moonlight here and there, the night’s mantle covered most of the narrow alleys and snaky streets through which Alana ran, breathless, the long cape covering her blouse and skirt flowing with the wind. The rattle of breastplates and swords told her two or more of Cromwell’s guards were closing in on her. Although her long, tapered legs were strong, she had been running over the hilly streets for a long time and they were sorely throbbing.
In Alana’s hand she still clutched the bloodied dagger she had planted in the guard’s shoulder who had attempted to block her escape from the headquarters. And she would use it again and again, even on herself, rather than be taken prisoner. So long as Mikah lived to become rightful king of Eh-Dan, she would gladly die for the cause!
Alana bolted around the corner of an unlit tavern into a long, wide, dark alley. She tried to ignore the smell of dumped garbage and urine as she ran. A high wall loomed in front of her and she realized she was facing a dead end. She panicked, paused for a moment to get her bearings. She decided the only recourse open to her was to go back the way she came. Her heart thumping, her legs really aching now, she ran toward the light at the end of the alley.
Suddenly the silhouette of a Klaw materialized in that threshold of light. He began to walk in her direction. As he got close she noticed a blood-caked swatch of tunic tied around one of his shoulders. Her heart pounded like thunder. It was the guard she had stuck.
“Oh no!” she exclaimed, as the guard stalked her, his sword rattling in its sheath at his side.
“Oh yes, bitch!” he retorted, still breathing hard from the chase.
As he inched toward her she kept backing up, pointing the dagger at his chest.
The guard obscenely placed one hand over his bulging crotch. “And now I’m going to stick you with my dagger—before I slit your throat!”
The moment her back was up against the wall she lunged at him. But he ducked, grabbed her by the wrist and kept twisting it until she dropped the
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