Read Online The Wasteland Soldier, Book 3, Drums Of War (TWS) by Laurence Moore - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Laurence Moore
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against the table, scattering mugs of ale. She grabbed his wrist and bent his arm behind his back until he cried out. Dobbs flashed his blade. Stone wielded his sword against him. The ring of iron against iron was loud in the confined space of the inn.
“Enough,” shouted Bertram, aiming two pistol crossbows at them.
Dobbs looked into Stone’s eyes. There was nothing but coldness. He kept throwing his weight behind his sword.
“No more,” bellowed Bertram, taking a step forward.
Stone could see the crossbows out of the corner of his eye. Farrell, pinned to the table, whined as Nuria jammed his arm further up his back.
“I swear to the Lord I will drop you both,” hissed Bertram.
Stone took a step back and reluctantly lowered his sword. Dobbs mirrored him, maintaining eye contact.
“Put your swords away. Now.”
Slowly, both men sheathed their weapons.
Bertram let out a long sigh. His shoulders relaxed.
Stone took him, hands moving fast, nearly a blur. He snapped Bertram’s wrists back and snatched both crossbows. He widened his arms; trained one on Dobbs, the second on the innkeeper.
“Nuria, let him up.”
She released Farrell’s arm and backed away, half-drawing her sword. Farrell came up from the table, smeared with blood and squashed vegetables. Shaking with anger and embarrassment he stormed from the inn, barking at anyone who dared even look at him.
Boyd pushed back his chair.
“I never made a deal with you, Dobbs,” he said. “Understand that you were only a recommendation. And a piss poor one at that. This ends here.”
Dobbs nodded. “Yeah.”
“Out,” said Stone.
He waited until the door was closed before twirling the pistol crossbows around and offering them to Bertram.
Boyd smiled. “I think I’ve made an excellent choice.”
The Map Maker stepped through an arched doorway and stood perfectly still, waiting, listening.
Despite the dampness of the building, warmth surged through him and tears surprisingly moistened his vision. He had never experienced such serenity, witnessed such inner calm; it was truly overwhelming, a sensation more potent than any of his maps or any of the women he had ever known; even Sadie, who carried his child back in Gallen. But then his skin tingled and the hairs on his neck stood on end and a new emotion engaged him. He took several steps forward across a stone floor. He had walked this floor before. A long time ago. Far into the murkiness of his past. Even further back than that. The footsteps were no longer his. He did not know who they belonged to.
But that was impossible.
He was yanked, roughly, with such tremendous force that breath escaped from his body.
Confused, the Map Maker looked around. A few villagers were clustered on benches, heads bowed, hands clasped together, muttering quietly.
What was wrong with him?
His feelings blurred, overlapped. He could not unscramble them. He swayed, dizzy. It nibbled at his skin, clawed into the depths of his soul.
I am frightened, he thought, I have been frightened all my life.
But I have been here before.
Walked this very floor, stepped through this very dust. No, no, no!
He was tired, hungry and dehydrated from the expedition across the Metal Sea. He had never journeyed beyond the shores of Gallen and there were no Holy Houses in its arid wastelands.
He had not been here before.
Yet still the turmoil raged in his head. He swivelled around once more, this time slowly absorbing every feature of the building’s interior; its tall windows of glass overlaid with metal crosses, its white washed stone walls that climbed toward a pointed wooden ceiling supported by many beams, its rows of wooden benches to his left and right, its faded carpet that led toward a broad altar draped with a green cloth edged with gold trim. He studied the altar further. It bristled with tall candles and ornate goblets and three large crosses; two of wood flanking one of shiny yellow metal. There was a curved
“Enough,” shouted Bertram, aiming two pistol crossbows at them.
Dobbs looked into Stone’s eyes. There was nothing but coldness. He kept throwing his weight behind his sword.
“No more,” bellowed Bertram, taking a step forward.
Stone could see the crossbows out of the corner of his eye. Farrell, pinned to the table, whined as Nuria jammed his arm further up his back.
“I swear to the Lord I will drop you both,” hissed Bertram.
Stone took a step back and reluctantly lowered his sword. Dobbs mirrored him, maintaining eye contact.
“Put your swords away. Now.”
Slowly, both men sheathed their weapons.
Bertram let out a long sigh. His shoulders relaxed.
Stone took him, hands moving fast, nearly a blur. He snapped Bertram’s wrists back and snatched both crossbows. He widened his arms; trained one on Dobbs, the second on the innkeeper.
“Nuria, let him up.”
She released Farrell’s arm and backed away, half-drawing her sword. Farrell came up from the table, smeared with blood and squashed vegetables. Shaking with anger and embarrassment he stormed from the inn, barking at anyone who dared even look at him.
Boyd pushed back his chair.
“I never made a deal with you, Dobbs,” he said. “Understand that you were only a recommendation. And a piss poor one at that. This ends here.”
Dobbs nodded. “Yeah.”
“Out,” said Stone.
He waited until the door was closed before twirling the pistol crossbows around and offering them to Bertram.
Boyd smiled. “I think I’ve made an excellent choice.”
The Map Maker stepped through an arched doorway and stood perfectly still, waiting, listening.
Despite the dampness of the building, warmth surged through him and tears surprisingly moistened his vision. He had never experienced such serenity, witnessed such inner calm; it was truly overwhelming, a sensation more potent than any of his maps or any of the women he had ever known; even Sadie, who carried his child back in Gallen. But then his skin tingled and the hairs on his neck stood on end and a new emotion engaged him. He took several steps forward across a stone floor. He had walked this floor before. A long time ago. Far into the murkiness of his past. Even further back than that. The footsteps were no longer his. He did not know who they belonged to.
But that was impossible.
He was yanked, roughly, with such tremendous force that breath escaped from his body.
Confused, the Map Maker looked around. A few villagers were clustered on benches, heads bowed, hands clasped together, muttering quietly.
What was wrong with him?
His feelings blurred, overlapped. He could not unscramble them. He swayed, dizzy. It nibbled at his skin, clawed into the depths of his soul.
I am frightened, he thought, I have been frightened all my life.
But I have been here before.
Walked this very floor, stepped through this very dust. No, no, no!
He was tired, hungry and dehydrated from the expedition across the Metal Sea. He had never journeyed beyond the shores of Gallen and there were no Holy Houses in its arid wastelands.
He had not been here before.
Yet still the turmoil raged in his head. He swivelled around once more, this time slowly absorbing every feature of the building’s interior; its tall windows of glass overlaid with metal crosses, its white washed stone walls that climbed toward a pointed wooden ceiling supported by many beams, its rows of wooden benches to his left and right, its faded carpet that led toward a broad altar draped with a green cloth edged with gold trim. He studied the altar further. It bristled with tall candles and ornate goblets and three large crosses; two of wood flanking one of shiny yellow metal. There was a curved
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