Even Hell Has Knights (Hellsong) Read Online Free PDF Page A

bloodwater, trying to enjoy the taste and the burn he felt in his throat. “I wish he would go into the Carrion and get himself killed.”
    “Strip him of his Citizenship. No other hunter has a place in here.”
    Michael glanced over at the church. “That would be foolish. I hope this famine passes quickly.”
    Davel Mancini smiled wryly. “Doesn’t matter to us. We don’t have to worry about going hungry.”
    “Not yet. We may have to open up our stores, though. They’re starving.”
    “At least consider sending our men up the Thames before we do something as drastic as that. Or better yet, let hunger take a few of them. That will balance everything out.”
    “We can’t just let them die.”
    “Sooner or later, Mike, you’re going to have to decide which side you’re on.”
    For a moment, when he turned to Davel Mancini, he got a queer feeling about the Brewer. If Aaron were to perform a coup d’état, he wondered, how long would it be before Mancini managed to worm his way into the hunter’s good graces.
    The feeling lasted for only a moment. It had been Mancini, whom many expected to be the most stolid against Michael, who had grudgingly admitted the new First Citizen’s merit. It had been Mancini who was the first to be brave enough to drop his bias and say that Michael would be a better leader than the man who’d lain dead at his feet.
    “You’re a good friend, Davel,” Michael told him.
    “And you’re a good leader.”
     
    Arturus rubbed absently at his sore shoulder and thought about drifting off to sleep for a minute—but as soon as he considered closing his eyes, he heard the guards outside speaking. He perked up a bit when he recognized Massan’s voice.
    A moment later the trader came into the chamber.
    Massan was a dark man of Middle-Eastern heritage. His hair and eyes were black, and his eyebrows, thick as they were, were actually thicker where they formed a unibrow over the bridge of his nose. Massan hoisted his water skin over one shoulder as he entered the chamber. Arturus could hear it sloshing. The skin was still wet from being filled in the river, and Massan left a small trail of water dripping behind him as he walked. Arturus recognized the skin, as it had been made by Galen and traded to the man for ammunition a few years ago. Galen had taught Arturus how to make such a skin from a dyitzu’s hide and bladder.
    “Jesus was a carpenter,” Galen had told him then, “but there is not much wood in Hell. Better to be a mason or a tanner, if you were to pick.”
    Arturus didn’t know too much about Jesus. Galen had told him it would have been different if he had been born back in the old world. He would know all about Jesus, and perhaps have had the right to hate him or love him.
    “You cannot judge what you do not know,” Galen had told him.
    I hope he’s safe.
    Massan looked up and noticed Arturus as he began to head towards his tent.
    “Lad!” Massan greeted him, leaning to one side so he could look at Arturus’ pack. “Where are your parents? You stuff ‘em in there?”
    “They’re not here,” Arturus said, standing up.
    “Surely you’re no runaway?” Massan asked incredulously.
    “No,” Arturus said with a laugh, “I didn’t run away. Galen’s still out and Rick wanted to spend the day hunting, so I thought I’d come by and do some trading for them.”
    “Well, did you now?” Massan asked, flashing his crooked teeth with a smile. “What are you looking for?”
    “Shells, 12 gauge. Some buck and ball if you’ve got any. And a barrel.”
    “Barrel for what?”
    Arturus leaned in close, close enough that he could smell the man’s sweat. They had been speaking softly already to be considerate to the sleeping villagers, but Arturus lowered his voice even further so that none could overhear.
    “For an AR-15,” he said.
    “An AR-15?” Massan replied in kind. “That’s a rare one. Don’t see much ammunition for those about.”
    “Yeah,” Arturus