Kingmaker's Sword (Rune Blades of Celi) Read Online Free PDF Page A

I’m in need of a slave to work the galley and he looks strong enough to last a year or two before the work kills him. What do you say to three silver?”
    “Seven silver,” Dergus said quickly.
    The stranger laughed, and again, Mouse had the feeling he had heard that laughter before. “Seven silver? Even you’re not worth seven silver, my friend. Four, then?”
    Mouse pressed his teeth against his lower lip, watching the stranger closely. If he had known Dergus all his life, the stranger could not have chosen a better way to persuade him. Mouse saw only Dergus’s profile, but he read the avarice there, saw the swift calculation and the smile when Dergus came to the conclusion that four silver for Mendor with one left over for himself would satisfy Mendor’s thirst for Mouse’s neck, especially when Mendor heard of the fate awaiting the runaway slave in a galley—a slow, lingering death for most men.
    “Five and he’s yours,” Dergus said.
    “Five it is,” the stranger said, smiling. “And he might even be worth it.”
    “I’ll have the guards shackle him for you,” Dergus said. “Give me the silver.”
    The stranger dropped five silver pieces into Dergus’s outstretched hand. From the expression on Dergus’s face as he heard the healthy jingle of the purse when the stranger closed it again, he was wishing he had pushed the price up a little higher.
    “Don’t bother shackling him,” the stranger said. A hand like an iron collar gripped Mouse’s arm. “He’ll not be running out on me.” He bent and scooped up the sword Mouse had dropped when Dergus grabbed him. “I believe the boy had a horse. I’ll be taking that, too.”
    “For another silver,” Dergus said quickly.
    The stranger laughed. Mouse wondered how a laugh could be so full of mirth and at the same time, sound so dangerous. He watched the stranger with renewed interest.
    “Don’t get greedy, little man,” the man said softly. “That horse might be worth two coppers but certainly no more. You can afford to be generous after what I paid you.”
    Dergus turned away, beckoning the guards to follow. They mounted and rode off into the wet night while Mouse stood helplessly with the stranger’s hand gripping his arm. When they were gone, the stranger turned and dragged Mouse to the stable. Once they were inside, he let go of the boy’s arm. Mouse got his first good look at his new master in the guttering light of a torch that gave off more smoke than light.
    The man was in his late twenties or early thirties. He was a big man, tall and heavy boned, broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips. He was dressed as a Tyran clansman in a kilt of a green and blue tartan, a white wide-sleeved shirt, and a draped plaid of the same tartan, secured at his left shoulder by a large, round brooch embossed with a clan badge. His tall boots were of good, soft leather and the baldric holding the sword across his back was studded with silver interspersed with red stones. His shoulder-length copper-red hair, streaked liberally with gold, was worn loose but for a single thick braid plaited with a leather thong by his left temple. It was longer than the rest of his hair, as if he never cut the hair that went into it. Mouse had heard of that. A clansman’s braid was his strength. The Tyr’s eyes were a soft, clear green above a beard of copper-gold. A large emerald on a short length of delicate gold chain swung from his left earlobe. Mouse had never seen a Tyran clansman before, but there were more than enough tales spun by bards of their fighting abilities.
    The clansman carefully placed the dead bounty hunter’s sword onto the straw, then put his hand to Mouse’s chin and turned his face to the light. “Let me look at you, boy,” he said. “I bought and paid for you. I want to see what kind of a bargain I got.”
    Mouse tensed to make a break for the door, but the clansman laughed and held his grip. “Don’t try it, lad. I’ll snap your neck for you