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

the stranger inched his sword back preparing to strike. As the two-handed sword started forward, Gant spun around, pulling his sword out as he turned.  He parried the bigger man's sword off to the side.  Before the stranger could recover, Gant sliced lightly into his exposed forearm.  Next Gant spun his blade and struck the man with the flat on the side of the head.  The big man staggered. Gant hit him under the chin with the pommel.
    A glaze spread over the stranger's eyes.  His sword slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor, followed a moment later by the resounding crash of his unconscious body.  The room took a collective inhale.  Then everyone turned back to important business they just remembered and the clamor of drinking men resumed.
    Gant turned around and glared at Chamz.  “What was that crack about me defeating tougher men?  You trying to get us killed?”
    Through a half smile Chamz said, “No, no.  I just thought I'd get him to leave us alone.”
    “Worked well, didn't it.”
    Before Gant could sit back down, the serving woman was at their table.  “You'd better get out of here.  Talth isn't well liked but he has friends and no doubt they'll be here soon. Go to the Hammond House.  Now.”
    Gant scooped in one more spoonful of the juicy meat and gravy, looked longingly at what was left, and decided it was best to avoid more trouble.
    “Come on,” he said and headed for the door.
    Chamz was right behind him, clutching the remains of the loaf of bread.
     

 
     
     
     
    Chapter 4
     
     
    M iles from Blasseldune, up the mountain road west of Netherdorf, a massive stone castle sat glowering on a steep, barren hilltop.  Bright orange fires made the narrow slit windows gleam in the darkness like great reptilian eyes.  Neither moon was visible in the night sky and dark clouds hid whatever slivers there might have been.
    In the castle, a foul group gathered in conference with the new Mountain Lord, Barlon Gorth.  His dark, shaggy hair and thick black eyebrows framed a face that was even darker.  His eyes were catlike, emotionless.  He sat wrapped in heavy fur robes at the head of the rough-cut oak table.  The cheery fire that blazed in the hearth did little to brighten the ominous mood that hung ugly as a night storm.
    “Captains,” growled Barlon, his voice deep and rasping like the sound of gravel grating on stone.  “Report on the military training.”
    “First brigade is doing well.  They are nearly ready.  We will do m'Lord proud,” answered the man seated to Barlon's left.
    “The second brigade is ready, Sire,” said the next man.
    “And the third.”
    “The fourth also.”
    Around the table it went.  Each of the 15 brigade captains reported that the training was on schedule.  Then silence.  Only three men had not spoken; the gray-haired general, the scar-faced spy and the knight in purple armor.
    “Does General Ecker agree?”  Barlon looked directly at the grizzled veteran commander.  In Barlon's mind the general's opinion was more important than all the captains.  The captains were untested in battle whereas the general knew the burdens war put on a man.  “Are they ready?”
    “Very soon.  They will be molded into an effective unit in time for our attack.”  The general sat upright, proud, his gray hair a symbol of his wisdom.  His spotless black and gold uniform sparkled with ribbons and medals on both sides of his broad chest.  “By the time we hit Netherdorf, the men will be spoiling for a fight.”
    Barlon scratched his beard for a long moment.  It was what he wanted to hear.  Could he trust General Ecker to tell him the truth?  If not, who could he trust?  He decided to move on.  “The spies, Shalmuthe, what do you report?”
    The chief of Barlon's espionage corps was a short, stocky man with a livid scar from left cheek to left ear.  He wore a tan calfskin tunic that concealed a deadly pair of daggers.  On his right index finger a