Inquisitor Read Online Free PDF Page B

thanking Father the Merciful for making him keep his mouth shut that time. The priest belonged to one of the most enclosed religious orders that was famous for their rancor and rare ability to make quick decisions.
    According to all estimations it would take one more hour to get to the village they were looking for. Expecting a substantial meal, Whisker turned to Fesces riding next to him, patted his shoulder and commanded:
    -          Take Luther and have a ride to the village. Just look around and don’t forget to warn the village elder about important guests. Ask them to lay the tables.    
    -          Yes, sir! – Fesces responded with delight – the sergeant understood such a reaction, he would like to wind down too – We’ll be back in a minute!
    But Fesces, the cuirassier, didn’t manage to dig spurs into his horse – an utmost cold and rough voice made the soldier change his mind at once:     
    -          Sergeant! Don’t make a single step into the village!
    Sergeant Whisker didn’t have to turn his head around to see who dared to dispute his order. He knew it for sure – the voice belonged to the blue-eyed priest dressed in a white cassock crossed out by the red belt.
    Fesces looked at the sergeant with a question in his eyes. Whisker got red and clenching his teeth croaked reluctantly:
    -          You heard Father’s demand, didn’t you? Don’t enter the village. Look around from distance and gallop back.
    -          Yes, sir! – the cuirassier reported in a mirthless voice. Definitely they could forget about a mug of fresh cool beer.
    Fesces galloped towards the head of the detachment and shouted out the sergeant’s order to Luther. In a minute both emissaries went out of sight and only a cloud of road dust raised by their horses’ hooves reminded about them.
    Moving his jaw muscles furiously Whisker looked at the back of the priest calmly riding away and hardly resisted losing his temper. How did the bloody puritan dare to give a command to the combat sergeant of the imperial army? And take it for granted? With his hand trembling because of rage the sergeant found the flask full of wine hanging at his belt and put it to his lips for a long time. He didn’t care a bit about the priests shaking their heads with disapproval! The sooner they got to that bloody Forest Metochion, the better! The sergeant was dreaming to find the one who was spreading the ridiculous gossips and give the bastard a hundred of scourges with his own hand!
    Whisker was choking with rage, but he wasn’t crazy enough to argue with the representative of the Order of the Heresy Eradicators. It’s more trouble than it’s worth.
    But the rage overwhelming him needed to go out, so the sergeant stood up in the stirrups and roared at his subordinates:
    -          Close the rank! You’re dragging like a herd of pregnant cows! Straighten up the rank! Check the weapon and the armor. Put on the helmets, take the shields off the saddles! Be alert!
    The cuirassiers feeling drowsy under the scorching sun and tired because of monotonous ride obeyed the order reluctantly. Soon the iron clank sounded through the detachment. In one minute the loose rank straightened up and looked like a real detachment of the Imperial Regular Army. The sergeant smiled with satisfaction despite of the rage dimming his eyes. The cuirassiers… Appareled in heavy armor, powerful crossbows hanging behind their backs, broad two-edged swords at the belts, combat axes fixed at the saddles. Never surrender and never retreat! And it made sense. There was a steel glove squeezing fingers tightly to form a spiked fist depicted on their heraldic flag. It stood for cuirassiers, the king’s enduring steel fist that could knock out bloody snots of those who dared not to bend to his will. The reliable support of the royal throne. After calming down, Whisker sipped some more wine pacifically and dug his heels into the