stretched on and on around him, until finally he dared to raise his head. His jaw dropped.
His head rested between the steel-shod hooves and muscular forelegs of an enormous black war-horse. The hooves shifted slightly; wisps of steam curled from the great beast’s nostrils into the chill air. Dark eyes rolled to look down at him with almost human suspicion from its finely formed head. The horse was the most magnificent creature he had ever seen. And then he saw the black-clad leg of a rider pressing its side.
Phillipe pushed himself up slowly, jerked upright as the fierce, golden-eyed hawk resting on the rider’s gauntlet screamed suddenly. It hissed at him, flaring its wings. Phillipe sat back on his knees, gaping at the man who controlled both hawk and horse. The looming, hooded figure, dressed all in black, could only be the Fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse. His black cloak was lined with flaming red, like a glimpse of hellfire as he shifted in his saddle to look down at Phillipe. He held a gleaming broadsword in his free hand, and the cold blue eyes that shone in his shadowed face were as distant and threatening as the land of Death. Phillipe tore his gaze away from the silent figure and looked back over his shoulder.
The two guardsmen sat on their horses, momentarily frozen with the same awe. Their mounts pranced and backed nervously, as if even they sensed the aura of danger that hung about the man in black.
At last Jehan roused himself and said, “Clear the bridge.”
The stranger made no reply, sitting motionless on his horse. The rising wind moaned uneasily in the trees.
“The man’s an escaped prisoner.” Jehan raised his voice. “We’re taking him in.”
“On whose authority?” the stranger asked at last.
“His Grace, the Bishop of Aquila.”
Only Phillipe saw the fleeting, involuntary twitch of the stranger’s mouth that might have been a smile. And then the war-horse lunged forward, the hawk rose shrieking into the air. Phillipe threw himself aside, barely avoiding being trampled.
The second guard charged forward to meet the man in black, his sword raised. The stranger’s horse reared, with all the fury and splendor of a mythological beast. One deadly sweep of the stranger’s sword cut through the guardsman’s ribcage, sent him sideways off his horse and over the edge of the bridge. His scream echoed as he plummeted toward the river below.
Before the first man struck the water, the stranger had turned on Jehan, unhorsing him in one swift motion. Jehan crumpled to the planks of the bridge; he tried to rise again, only to find the stranger standing over him with his sword point jammed at his throat. Jehan swallowed hard, looking up with white-ringed eyes into the face of Death.
The man in black pushed back his hood. Jehan’s face turned even paler as he recognized the man who stood over him. “Return to Marquet,” the stranger said. “Tell him Navarre is back.”
Jehan nodded, speechless with fear. He got to his feet and ran back the way he had come. The man called Navarre stood watching as Jehan mounted his horse and galloped away into the dusk. At last the stranger turned back and remounted his own horse. The hawk spiraled down out of the indigo heights of the sky and settled on his wrist again. He sat for a moment, gazing curiously at Phillipe, who still stood weak-kneed with awe where he had left him. Then he nudged his horse forward, riding toward the small, silent, waiting figure.
Phillipe shook himself out of his daze, pulling himself up until he was almost standing on his toes. “Magnificent, sir!” he shouted. “A dazzling display! As I’m sure you could tell, I was in the process of luring them onto the bridge when you arrived, and . . .”
Navarre reined in his horse, staring down at Phillipe with a cryptic smile. “An escaped prisoner from Aquila?” he said, almost to himself. “Not from the dungeons.”
“Why not from the dungeons?” Phillipe asked.
“No
His head rested between the steel-shod hooves and muscular forelegs of an enormous black war-horse. The hooves shifted slightly; wisps of steam curled from the great beast’s nostrils into the chill air. Dark eyes rolled to look down at him with almost human suspicion from its finely formed head. The horse was the most magnificent creature he had ever seen. And then he saw the black-clad leg of a rider pressing its side.
Phillipe pushed himself up slowly, jerked upright as the fierce, golden-eyed hawk resting on the rider’s gauntlet screamed suddenly. It hissed at him, flaring its wings. Phillipe sat back on his knees, gaping at the man who controlled both hawk and horse. The looming, hooded figure, dressed all in black, could only be the Fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse. His black cloak was lined with flaming red, like a glimpse of hellfire as he shifted in his saddle to look down at Phillipe. He held a gleaming broadsword in his free hand, and the cold blue eyes that shone in his shadowed face were as distant and threatening as the land of Death. Phillipe tore his gaze away from the silent figure and looked back over his shoulder.
The two guardsmen sat on their horses, momentarily frozen with the same awe. Their mounts pranced and backed nervously, as if even they sensed the aura of danger that hung about the man in black.
At last Jehan roused himself and said, “Clear the bridge.”
The stranger made no reply, sitting motionless on his horse. The rising wind moaned uneasily in the trees.
“The man’s an escaped prisoner.” Jehan raised his voice. “We’re taking him in.”
“On whose authority?” the stranger asked at last.
“His Grace, the Bishop of Aquila.”
Only Phillipe saw the fleeting, involuntary twitch of the stranger’s mouth that might have been a smile. And then the war-horse lunged forward, the hawk rose shrieking into the air. Phillipe threw himself aside, barely avoiding being trampled.
The second guard charged forward to meet the man in black, his sword raised. The stranger’s horse reared, with all the fury and splendor of a mythological beast. One deadly sweep of the stranger’s sword cut through the guardsman’s ribcage, sent him sideways off his horse and over the edge of the bridge. His scream echoed as he plummeted toward the river below.
Before the first man struck the water, the stranger had turned on Jehan, unhorsing him in one swift motion. Jehan crumpled to the planks of the bridge; he tried to rise again, only to find the stranger standing over him with his sword point jammed at his throat. Jehan swallowed hard, looking up with white-ringed eyes into the face of Death.
The man in black pushed back his hood. Jehan’s face turned even paler as he recognized the man who stood over him. “Return to Marquet,” the stranger said. “Tell him Navarre is back.”
Jehan nodded, speechless with fear. He got to his feet and ran back the way he had come. The man called Navarre stood watching as Jehan mounted his horse and galloped away into the dusk. At last the stranger turned back and remounted his own horse. The hawk spiraled down out of the indigo heights of the sky and settled on his wrist again. He sat for a moment, gazing curiously at Phillipe, who still stood weak-kneed with awe where he had left him. Then he nudged his horse forward, riding toward the small, silent, waiting figure.
Phillipe shook himself out of his daze, pulling himself up until he was almost standing on his toes. “Magnificent, sir!” he shouted. “A dazzling display! As I’m sure you could tell, I was in the process of luring them onto the bridge when you arrived, and . . .”
Navarre reined in his horse, staring down at Phillipe with a cryptic smile. “An escaped prisoner from Aquila?” he said, almost to himself. “Not from the dungeons.”
“Why not from the dungeons?” Phillipe asked.
“No
Similar Books
Teacher's Pet
Laurie Halse Anderson
Forever and Always
Beverley Hollowed
Mad Max: Unintended Consequences
Betsy Ashton
Peach Blossom Pavilion
Mingmei Yip
Cold Shoulder
Lynda La Plante
The Memory Killer
J. A. Kerley
Sex Kittens and Horn Dawgs Fall in Love
Maryrose Wood
Lamentation
Joe Clifford
Shadowstorm
Kemp Paul S