Burning Bridge Read Online Free PDF Page A

jewels.”
    “Sir Rodney says jewels in the hilt are just unnecessary weight,” said Horace. Gilan nodded agreement.
    “What’s more, they tend to encourage people to attack you and rob you,” he said. Then, all business again, he returned Horace’s sword and took up his own.
    “Very well, Horace, we’ve seen that the sword is good quality. Let’s see about its owner.”
    Horace hesitated, not sure what Gilan intended.
    “Sir?” he said awkwardly.
    Gilan gestured to himself with his left hand. “Attack me,” he said cheerfully. “Have a swing. Take a whack. Lop my head off.”
    Still Horace stood uncertainly. Gilan’s sword wasn’t in the guard position. He held it negligently in his right hand, the point downward. Horace made a helpless gesture.
    “Come on, Horace,” Gilan said. “Let’s not wait all night. Let’s see what you can do.”
    Horace put his own sword point-first into the earth.
    “But you see, sir, I’m a trained warrior,” he said. Gilan thought about this and nodded.
    “True,” he said. “But you’ve been training for less than a year. I shouldn’t think you’ll chop too much off me.”
    Horace looked to Will for support. Will could only shrug. He assumed that Gilan knew what he was doing. But he hadn’t known him long, and he’d never seen him so much as draw his sword, let alone practice with it. Gilan shook his head in mock despair.
    “Come on, Horace,” he said. “I do have a vague idea what this is all about.”
    Reluctantly, Horace swung a halfhearted blow at Gilan. Obviously, he was worried that, if he should penetrate the Ranger’s guard, he was not sufficiently experienced to pull the blow and avoid injuring him. Gilan didn’t even raise his sword to protect himself. Instead, he swayed easily to one side and Horace’s blade passed harmlessly clear of him.
    “Come on!” he said. “Do it as if you mean it!”
    Horace took a deep breath and swung a full-blooded roundhouse stroke at Gilan.
    It was like poetry, Will thought. Like dancing. Like the movement of running water over smooth rocks. Gilan’s sword, seemingly propelled only by his fingers and wrist, swung in a flashing arc to intercept Horace’s blow. There was a ring of steel and Horace stopped, surprised. The parry had jarred his hand through to the elbow. Gilan raised his eyebrows at him.
    “That’s better,” he said. “Try again.”
    And Horace did. Backhands, overhead cuts, round arm swings.
    Each time, Gilan’s sword flicked into position to block the stroke with a resounding clash. As they continued, Horace swung harder and faster. Sweat broke out on his forehead and soon his shirt was soaked. Now he had no thought of trying not to hurt Gilan. He cut and slashed freely, trying to break through that impenetrable defense.
    Finally, as Horace’s breath was coming in ragged gasps, Gilan changed from the blocking movement that had been so effective against Horace’s strongest blows. His sword clashed against Horace’s, then whipped around in a small, circular motion so that his blade was on top. Then, with a slithering clash, he ran his blade down Horace’s, forcing the apprentice’s sword point down to the ground. As the point touched the damp earth, Gilan swiftly put one booted foot on it to hold it there.
    “Right, that’ll do,” he said calmly. Yet his eyes were riveted on Horace’s, making sure the boy knew that the practice session was over. Sometimes, Gilan knew, in the heat of the moment, the losing swordsman could try for just one more cut—at a time when his opponent had assumed the fight was over.
    And then, all too often, it was.
    He saw now that Horace was aware. He stepped back lightly from him, moving quickly out of the reach of the sword.
    “Not bad,” said Gilan approvingly. Horace, mortified, let his sword drop to the turf.
    “Not bad?” he exclaimed. “It was terrible! I never once looked like…” He hesitated. Somehow, it didn’t seem polite to admit that for the