Demontech: Gulf Run Read Online Free PDF Page A

third and fourth patrols. All he had to do was stay in position and the trailing flanking patrol would come upon him in a few more minutes.
    There, he heard a footstep. Here they came now, just a little farther out than they should be. Or maybe he hadn’t gone a hundred yards from the road. If the last patrol hadn’t already passed.
    He shook his head. The deep forest was so confusing.
    “Don’t move or you’re dead,” a voice he didn’t recognize growled in Zobran from nearby.
    A twig snapped several yards to the side of the voice. Spinner moved only his eyes and saw the man who spoke, a stranger who held a bow with an arrow drawn and aimed directly at him. Five yards to his left another bowman stepped from behind a tree, also aiming at him. He thought they must be bandits, and wondered how far away that fourth flanking patrol was—or if it had already passed by.
    “You with those people on the road?” asked another voice. Spinner couldn’t see the speaker.
    “Yes.” His Zobran, like Haft’s, had improved considerably during the previous couple of weeks.
    “What you doing out here by yourself, fool?” asked the first man.
    “Nature’s call. He’s shy, that’s why he’s so far from the road,” another, unseen voice said with a snicker.
    “Knock it off,” the second voice snapped. Then to Spinner, “We mean you no harm. Just had to make sure you didn’t start fighting before we could talk. You can move now—just remember, we have archers aiming at you.”
    Careful to keep his left hand away from the quarterstaff in his right, Spinner turned toward the one who sounded like he was in charge. He looked like he was in charge too. He was tall—not spectacularly so, but a couple of inches taller than Spinner, who was slightly taller than the average man—and broad across the shoulders. Mostly, he exuded the kind of confidence seen in men accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed. Like the two bowmen Spinner had seen, this one was dressed in a mix of rude homespun and princely finery; an unbleached homespun shirt was gathered by a fine leather belt from which hung a scabbarded sword and knife, his boots were a dandy’s tooled leather and his trousers deep green, ill-fitting but well made. The garb and weapons added to Spinner’s suspicion that these men were bandits.
    “Who are you?” he asked.
    “Refugees,” was the immediate reply. “Same as you. We’re running from the Jokaps.”
    Spinner slowly looked the man up and down. “Looks like you’ve encountered some other refugees,” he said in pointed reference to the man’s garb.
    The man shook his head; he knew what Spinner meant. “What we did or didn’t do before is in the past. Now I figure we’re all in this together. We aren’t interested in robbing anyone. Not unless we find a lone Jokap. We’d be quite happy to kill and rob one of them.”
    “What do you want from me? I’m carrying little money.” He wanted to keep the bandit talking long enough for the bowmen to begin straining from holding their bows drawn and let their aim wander. Then he could act.
    “We don’t want your money. There’s eighteen of us, not counting our womenfolk and children. That’s not nearly enough to fight the Jokaps combing the woods.” It was hard to see clearly in the deep shade, but the man seemed worried, maybe even frightened. “We’ve been following behind your last flanking patrol—you’ve got lots of flanking patrols, plus those men in your rear. You seem to know what you’re up to. We’ve been waiting to find one of you alone, someone to take us in to meet your leaders for parley so we can join forces.” He raised his hand and lowered it, palm down. “He’s listening, put your weapons down.”
    Spinner swiveled his eyes and saw the nearer bowman lower his weapon. The man kept the arrow nocked, though.
    “Will you do that?” There was a tone of supplication in the bandit leader’s voice. “Take us to meet with your