Drake of Tanith (Chosen Soul) Read Online Free PDF Page B

once and for all… or let her go.”

Chapter Four
    Drake spun and ducked. His opponent’s blade glided over his head just before his second attacker swung once more. Unable to jump over the low-swinging sword, Drake dropped and rolled well out of the way and then came to his feet once more.
    The soldiers vanished.
    The mists coiled and roiled, kissing his exposed skin with stinging promise. Drake ran the back of his black leather sleeve across his forehead, wiping away the sweat that trickled and threatened his eyes. His black hair curled in the moist air; a strand stuck to his cheek as he turned a slow circle, his sword at the ready.
    Drake heard the arrow before he saw it; a whistling in the air, fast and furious. Again, he attempted to duck and turn, but the arrow had been aimed low. He managed to avoid allowing the shaft to embed itself within him, but he gritted his teeth as the tip sliced across his upper thigh, slashing through his leather armor to leave a deep red gash behind.
    Another whisper of a threat and Drake was dropping to his chest on the damp ground. The arrow sailed over his body and disappeared in the mist behind him. Drake rolled over onto his back, jumped onto his booted feet, and again turned in a slow circle, his ears pricked to the slightest sound.
    However, it wasn’t sound that alerted him to the presence of the newcomer behind him. It was a shifting in the air, a change in the world around him so subtle but inexplicably profound, it instantly awakened Drake’s senses to a nearly painful degree.
    When he turned and saw who it was that stood before him, Drake new why.
    He stared into his own face, his own eyes, and his blood ran painfully cold. It was as if he were staring into a mirror.
    “I see that in addition to everything else, you’ve mastered the art of wasting time,” the image of himself said. The tall, dark bounty hunter came forward, his every move mimicking the smooth grace that Drake had mastered over the centuries. Drake could only stare at himself, bewildered by the image and the power emanating from it.
    And then his mirror image smiled – and shifted. His face changed, his eyes darkened, and the visage transformed into the only thing in any realm that could have frightened him more. Still, he stared, going from one kind of stunning astonishment to another.
    It had been so long since he’d seen him. So long.
    Drake felt his sword arm lower, his body tingling with the numbing effects of shock. The man’s dark eyes glittered with what Drake could only assume was amusement.
    “Surprised to see me, son?”
    Drake didn’t move. He didn’t know what to say. And then he frowned, remembered where he was, and wondered whether what he was seeing was actually real. Not that reasoning in such a manner would do him any good. Believing what the Witherlands threw at you meant that you fought and you went insane, but you survived. Disbelieving meant that what you saw and felt became real. Then it could kill you. Either way, he was going to be dealing with the figure that stood before him looking all too human.
    Lord Asmodeus could do that – look human. None of the other lords of Abaddon possessed the powers he possessed. He watched Drake through eyes that appeared normal, if a touch too black. His face appeared human, if a tad too handsome, and possessing of a smile a little too cruel. His build mirrored Drake’s; both men were tall, both were strong.
    Asmodeus sometimes appeared nine feet tall. Sometimes thirteen. He could take the form of an animal, a patch of darkness, a bad dream. The Lord of the Nine Hells was elusive, enigmatic, impossible to predict and capable of very nearly anything. In fact, there were times that Drake wondered whether there really was anything at all that his father could not do.
    It remained to be determined.
    At the moment, either Asmodeus or a dreamed up representation of him stood before Drake in one of his least intimidating forms. At least, that was