Read Online Venture Untamed (The Venture Books) by R.H. Russell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: R.H. Russell
Tags: Fiction
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no consequences for Bounty, the youngest of Herald’s children, born to his late wife so late in life.
The others had taken notice of this scrap of conversation, and apparently found it more interesting than their own talk, for they stopped, waiting for his reply.
“I’m doing just fine. Pass the potatoes please, Connie?”
“Master’s anxious to know how you’re doing, Vent,” said Connie, Mrs. Bright’s sixteen-year-old niece. “Almost went to see you himself.”
“That would teach you to be so uppity, wouldn’t it? To have your master come see you train.” Bounty laughed. “I wonder what all those guys would think of you then?”
For that, Mrs. Bright knocked him on the back of the head and reached for his plate in a threatening way. “You keep that up, Bounty, and one of these days when you’re old enough for it to be proper, Vent’s going give you a beating like you’ve never seen! Goodness knows nobody else is giving you what you deserve.” She glared at Herald, who averted his eyes.
“I don’t pretend not to be a servant when I leave this house,” said Venture hotly.
“Bounty, you little fool. Why should Vent care what those boys think of him, as long as they know he’s better than them on the mat? And I’ll bet they all do by now,” Able said.
Venture ducked his head to hide his smile. That was the truth, mostly. He was a better fighter than any boy his age, and just as good as many of the older ones, though he wouldn’t have said so himself. But now that they’d moved on to more intense training without him, now that he’d be busy learning to wield a sword and throw a knife instead, how long would that last? The only hand-to-hand fighting he’d be practicing now would be for the rare chance that he lost his weapons during a confrontation. And Earnest had told him that if that ever happened, then that meant he’d really screwed up.
Venture dug into his potatoes and tried not to think about how Lance and Colt and Nick and the other elites had emerged from their training room at the end of the day, completely drenched in sweat. Exhausted in that satisfying way that he’d probably never feel again.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Summer’s Third Month, 655 After the Founding
Venture grasped the freshly split pine with his sweaty hands and tossed it off the chopping block. He placed another sticky hunk on the block. His back ached. His arms ached. He was used to aching. The blisters on his hands, though, those he hadn’t had in a while. He’d been wielding hammer and ax in the hot summer sun twice as much as usual for a week now, and his skin, though tough, had reached its breaking point, splitting along with the latest log.
Grant’s newest dog, a fine Illesian retriever given to him by a silk merchant of that country to sweeten their latest business deal, rose from the shade of a nearby tree to dance in a circle and paw at his feet. Still half a pup, Lightning was sweet, but sticky, too, like a drizzle of honey. She stuck by Venture all day, trailing him, begging him to play. He shook his head at her and pointed back to the tree. She obeyed, and he picked up the ax and prepared to swing it, but put it right down again. His hands were too slippery with sweat and the bloody ooze of his broken blisters; so was the ax.
He wiped his messy palms and the ax handle on his pants, then leaned over, peeled the end of his shirt from his body, and brought it to his dripping face. It was too sweat-soaked to do any good. He let go of his shirt and raised his head, and he saw her—Jade—one slender hand on her hip, the other dangling a towel in front of him.
“Miss Fieldstone,” he managed to say, though he bowed his head just as much to avoid looking at her as to give a gesture of respect.
“Here.” She nudged the towel at him, for he still hadn’t taken it.
“Thank you, Miss.”
“Will you stop that?”
“Miss?” he said, as if he didn’t know what she was talking
The others had taken notice of this scrap of conversation, and apparently found it more interesting than their own talk, for they stopped, waiting for his reply.
“I’m doing just fine. Pass the potatoes please, Connie?”
“Master’s anxious to know how you’re doing, Vent,” said Connie, Mrs. Bright’s sixteen-year-old niece. “Almost went to see you himself.”
“That would teach you to be so uppity, wouldn’t it? To have your master come see you train.” Bounty laughed. “I wonder what all those guys would think of you then?”
For that, Mrs. Bright knocked him on the back of the head and reached for his plate in a threatening way. “You keep that up, Bounty, and one of these days when you’re old enough for it to be proper, Vent’s going give you a beating like you’ve never seen! Goodness knows nobody else is giving you what you deserve.” She glared at Herald, who averted his eyes.
“I don’t pretend not to be a servant when I leave this house,” said Venture hotly.
“Bounty, you little fool. Why should Vent care what those boys think of him, as long as they know he’s better than them on the mat? And I’ll bet they all do by now,” Able said.
Venture ducked his head to hide his smile. That was the truth, mostly. He was a better fighter than any boy his age, and just as good as many of the older ones, though he wouldn’t have said so himself. But now that they’d moved on to more intense training without him, now that he’d be busy learning to wield a sword and throw a knife instead, how long would that last? The only hand-to-hand fighting he’d be practicing now would be for the rare chance that he lost his weapons during a confrontation. And Earnest had told him that if that ever happened, then that meant he’d really screwed up.
Venture dug into his potatoes and tried not to think about how Lance and Colt and Nick and the other elites had emerged from their training room at the end of the day, completely drenched in sweat. Exhausted in that satisfying way that he’d probably never feel again.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Summer’s Third Month, 655 After the Founding
Venture grasped the freshly split pine with his sweaty hands and tossed it off the chopping block. He placed another sticky hunk on the block. His back ached. His arms ached. He was used to aching. The blisters on his hands, though, those he hadn’t had in a while. He’d been wielding hammer and ax in the hot summer sun twice as much as usual for a week now, and his skin, though tough, had reached its breaking point, splitting along with the latest log.
Grant’s newest dog, a fine Illesian retriever given to him by a silk merchant of that country to sweeten their latest business deal, rose from the shade of a nearby tree to dance in a circle and paw at his feet. Still half a pup, Lightning was sweet, but sticky, too, like a drizzle of honey. She stuck by Venture all day, trailing him, begging him to play. He shook his head at her and pointed back to the tree. She obeyed, and he picked up the ax and prepared to swing it, but put it right down again. His hands were too slippery with sweat and the bloody ooze of his broken blisters; so was the ax.
He wiped his messy palms and the ax handle on his pants, then leaned over, peeled the end of his shirt from his body, and brought it to his dripping face. It was too sweat-soaked to do any good. He let go of his shirt and raised his head, and he saw her—Jade—one slender hand on her hip, the other dangling a towel in front of him.
“Miss Fieldstone,” he managed to say, though he bowed his head just as much to avoid looking at her as to give a gesture of respect.
“Here.” She nudged the towel at him, for he still hadn’t taken it.
“Thank you, Miss.”
“Will you stop that?”
“Miss?” he said, as if he didn’t know what she was talking
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