11.01 Death of a Hero Read Online Free PDF Page B

“We’re moving out early and heading south.”
    His two companions reacted with surprise at that.
    “South?” said Kord. “Why south? We’re supposed to head home and disband.”
    Halt shook his head and peered at them owlishly. “Not anymore. Not anymore,” he said, tapping the side of his nose with his forefinger. “The Wargals are putting up a stiffer resistance than expected. Morgarath has them under firm control again and Duncan needs extra men. We’re them,” he added after a pause.
    He could see that this news had the effect he’d desired. Kord and Jerrel exchanged a glance. Then Jerrel questioned him further.
    “Where’d you hear this?” he asked.
    Halt jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of the administration section of the camp.
    “At the cookhouse,” he said. “The cooks had taken delivery of extra rations to prepare for us.”
    Now the two cheats looked thoroughly concerned. Cookhouse rumors were the source of much intelligence among the rank and file. And they had a reputation for accuracy. Halt, of course, had heard no such rumors. But he hoped that the thought of an imminent departure for the south might force Kord and Jerrel’s hand. If they were planning to rob Daniel’s farm, this might precipitate things.
    He leaned forward, peering with bleary eyes at the table.
    “Now where are those dice?” he asked. “It’s my throw again.”
    “Here you are,” Kord said, passing him the dice and throwing cup. He had just lost the last throw and it was Halt’s turn again. Halt was reasonably sure that he’d been handed the losing dice. His suspicions were confirmed by Jerrel’s next words.
    “It’s getting late,” he said. “Let’s put it all on one last big pot. What do you say?”
    Kord pretended to look doubtful. “It’s up to Arratay.”
    Halt shrugged. “Why not?” he said. “I feel my luck’s coming back.”
    They all shoved their remaining money into the center of the table. Halt reached for his tankard and took a deep swig—the biggest he’d had all night. Then, as he clumsily set the tankard down, he spilled the remaining wine on the table, flicking it toward Jerrel so that a red tide flowed across the rough wood and into his lap. Jerrel sprang backward with a curse.
    “Look out!” he said.
    “Sorry. Sorry,” Halt replied thickly. But in the confusion, he’d switched the losing dice for another pair that he’d had in his jerkin pocket. He’d prepared them that afternoon while he was supposed to be at the cookhouse, and they were shaved so that they would show a twelve at each throw.
    He shook them, muttering to them as he did so, then spilled them out onto the table.
    “Bad lu—” began Kord, already reaching for the money. Then he stopped as he saw two sixes gleaming up at him, like two sets of teeth in two tiny skulls.
    “How did you . . . ?” Jerrel stopped as he realized he’d give the game away if he went any further. Arratay might be drunk. But he wasn’t that drunk.
    Halt grinned foolishly at the dice, and scooped them up. “Lucky dice!” he said. “I love these dice!”
    He pretended to kiss them noisily, and switched them once more for the losing pair he’d been handed originally. That done, he slipped his own dice into his pocket and dropped the others back onto the table as he began to rake in his winnings.
    “No hard feelings, boys,” he said. “I’ll give you a chance for revenge tomorrow.”
    “Yes. Of course. Tomorrow,” Kord said. But his tone told Halt that there would be no game the next night. And there’d be no sign of Kord or Jerrel, either.
    Half an hour later, Halt lay on his back, breathing heavily and noisily through his mouth as he feigned sleep. His two tent mates were talking in lowered voices. They had waited until they were sure Halt was fully asleep. Kord was testing the dice, rolling them over and over again and constantly getting a losing score as a result.
    “I don’t understand,” he