Fall of the Western Kings (Tirumfall Trilogy Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page A

I've a bad feeling about this.”
    “Ah, what could happen in the middle of a tavern?  If there is trouble, you'll teach them a lesson or two.”
    “I wish you’d stop saying that.”
    The serving woman returned dropping two large bowls of shredded meat on the table.  Brown gravy slopped over the edges onto the table.  From under her arm she pulled two mugs of ale and set them down.  “That'll be six pieces of silver.”
    Gant pulled out his coin purse and pulled out a single gold coin.  “Here,” he said handing the coin to her, “keep the rest.”
    For the first time the woman smiled.  “Thank you, young sir.  If there's anything else I can do for you, just ask.”
    She turned to leave.
    “We need a room for the night,” said Gant.
    She turned back.  “Sorry, the Drake is full.  The best place for you two is the Hammond House. Respectable, for Blasseldune, and not too expensive.  Go back to the main street, turn left, second street go right and you'll see it.  It'll be safer for you than staying here.  Tell ‘em Anna sent you.”
    With that she hurried off.
    “What do you think she meant by that?” asked Chamz, digging into the food with a wooden spoon he pulled out of his pack.
    “I'd say this could be a rough place. I wonder why my uncle liked it here?” Getting to more immediate matters, Gant searched for something to eat with.  He hadn't packed any utensils.  And where was the bread?  “What I really need right now is a spoon.”
    Chamz stuffed another bite into his mouth, chewed, swallowed, and said, “Why didn't you say so.”  He reached into his pack and pulled out another wooden spoon.  “In case I broke one,” he said and went back to eating.
    “Always thinking of your stomach.”
    Gant took the spoon, filled it with the steaming, hot gravy, blew on it to cool it, and shoveled it in his mouth.
    At that moment, the server dropped a loaf of bread on their table as she rushed past.  “Enjoy,” she whispered and was gone.
    Gant tore off a chunk of the crusty brown bread and dipped it into the meat juices.
    “Don't look now,” said Chamz between mouthfuls, “but here comes trouble.”
    Gant glanced back over his shoulder.  A large, scruffy man pushed his way through the crowd towards Gant and Chamz.  He swayed slightly as he walked and Gant guessed he'd been drinking for some time. In one hand he carried a tankard that sloshed foam with each step.  His other hand rested on the hilt of a sword hanging at his side.
    Gant turned back to eating.
    “Looks drunk to me.  Those kind always caused trouble back home,” said Chamz.  “What do you think he wants?”
    “Who knows?  I hope he's looking for someone else.”
    “No such luck,” said Chamz.
    “You there,” rumbled the man and poked Gant in the back with his metal tankard. 
    “Yes,” said Gant, turning slightly to look over his right shoulder.
    The man was taller and wider than Gant.  His eyes were dark, blood shot, wild.  He had a scraggly black beard that hadn't seen a comb or wash for a long time, bits of food perched there as witness.  He wore rusty armor, inferior quality in Gant’s mind.  Whoever made the armor was a poor excuse for a craftsman.
    “Stand up when I'm speaking.” 
    He tossed the tankard aside, splashing those at the table next to Gant.  None of them complained.  The pewter mug clattered loudly in the silence that filled the room.
    The stranger grabbed for Gant's shoulder.  Gant easily brushed his hand aside.
    “I said stand up,” bellowed the stranger.
    “What for?”
    “So I can chop you down to size,” he growled, pulling out his two-handed sword.
    Chamz jumped to his feet taking his bowl with him.  “You don't want to start trouble here.  My friend is an accomplished swordsman.  He's defeated tougher men than you.”
    “If you’re his friend, then I'll take care of you when I'm finished with him.  Draw your sword, if you know how, or die where you sit.”
    With that