Forest Kingdom Trilogy 2 - Blood and Honor Read Online Free PDF

of grandeur.'
    Jordan's hand dropped to the sword at his side, but before his fingers could even touch the hilt, Gawaine had drawn his axe and stepped forward to set its edge against the actor's throat. Jordan started to back away, and the axe followed him. Its edge cut a little deeper, and Jordan stood very still and fought down an urge to swallow. He breathed very shallowly, and felt a thin trickle of blood run down his throat.
    'Understand me, actor,' said Gawaine softly. 'I swore an oath upon my life and upon my honour to protect Prince Viktor. I stood at his side when his father banished him, and I followed him into internal exile for four long years. If I even think you're going to be a problem, I'll cut you into pieces. Remember that, actor.'
    He stepped back a pace, lowered his axe, and sheathed it at his side again. Jordan put a hand unsteadily to his throat, and his fingers came away bloody. His hackles rose, and a cold breeze caressed the back of his neck. His legs were shaking slightly, as much from shock as fear. He'd seen his share of violence in his travels, and even been in a few swordfights himself when there was no other way out, but never in his life had he ever seen anyone move as quickly as Sir Gawaine.
    What the hell have I got myself into this time?
    He pulled out a handkerchief, cleaned the blood off his fingers, and then pressed the cloth to his throat.
    He was pleased that at least his hands weren't shaking. He tried concentrating on the ten thousand ducats, but the thought didn't comfort him as much as it once had. He turned his back on Gawaine, and climbed up into his caravan. He pulled the leather flaps shut behind him, and then sat down on his unmade bed and thought hard.
    There was no doubt in his mind that Gawaine had meant every word he'd said. If he tried to back out now, the knight would kill him. On the other hand, there was obviously a great deal about this conspiracy he wasn't being told. For example, what the hell had Viktor done to get himself sent into internal exile?
    Jordan took the handkerchief away from his throat, and looked sourly at the bloodstained cloth. Maybe he could sneak up on the knight while he was sleeping . . . But there was still the ten thousand ducats to consider. As long as there was a chance of getting his hands on that kind of money, he wasn't sure he wanted to back out. He put the handkerchief back in his pocket, and looked round the crowded interior of his caravan. The rough wooden walls weren't even varnished, let alone painted, and the floor had disappeared under a confused mess of props and costumes. When he'd been at the top of his career,
    he'd had dressing rooms that were bigger than this. He looked at the package Roderik had left for him on his bunk, and sighed quietly. He'd go along with the others, for now. It wasn't as if he had a choice.
    The clothes turned out to be elegant, richly coloured and a perfect fit. Well tailored, too. Presumably they'd been made especially for the Prince he now resembled. Jordan fumbled a little at the unfamiliar hooks and fastenings, and stopped every now and again just to admire a particularly fine piece of attire, but finally he was ready. He strutted back and forth in the narrow space, sweeping his cloak around him, and wished he had a full-length mirror. He wore his own shirt underneath the long waistcoat, even though he had to leave half the buttons undone. He needed the hidden pockets sewn into its sleeves to carry the flare pellets and smoke bombs he used to counterfeit his magic. He stuffed the pockets as full as he could. He didn't know how long it would be before he'd have a chance to make any more.
    He strapped his own sword on his hip. Roderik had provided a blade of far superior quality and workmanship, but Jordan preferred to stick with the sword he was used to. And just to be on the safe side, he slipped a throwing knife into the top of his knee-length boot. He'd always been good with a throwing knife.