Lord of Slaughter Read Online Free PDF Page B

tonsured with the familiar circular baldness of the western Church, his hair reduced to a band about his temples. The other, however, had his white hair cut short at the back but left longer on top. A tattoo of a dragon’s head leered from the back of his neck. The con men and thieves of the dockside thought nothing of this – they were used to seeing all sorts on their quay and used to taking their money.
    The monks walked, shaking off their sea legs as they passed into the hubbub of the streets, quickly moving out of the broad plaza of the port and towards the tumble of back alleys. The one with the white hair shouldered a rolled blanket, while the younger man carried a bag on his back. At the opening of a narrow alley the monks hesitated.
    Their guide reassured them: ‘Don’t worry, friends, this is Constantinople. It is the world’s city and it can frighten the mightiest man, but come, let me guide you. You have a friend here in me. What are your names?’
    ‘I am Azémar,’ said the young monk, ‘and this is Mauger.’
    ‘Welcome, then, Azémar and Mauger! Let me take your bags.’
    ‘You leave our bags,’ said Mauger. His accent was thick, not like the younger monk’s.
    ‘Very wise, very wise. It’s good to hold on to your valuable things. But you have nothing to fear from me. Come on.’
    The two monks exchanged a glance. Mauger put his hand on Azémar’s arm. ‘We have to sleep somewhere.’
    They followed the man into the lighthouse quarter, through the root-mass of backstreets that insinuated its way down the hill.
    ‘The houses are so strange,’ said Azémar. ‘One on top of another. Why do they do that?’
    ‘They build them up into the air to save space,’ said Mauger. ‘Not all is as it is at home. You may one day think these tall houses as common as any in Francia.’
    Azémar crossed himself.
    ‘Down here.’ The alley would have been dark even on a bright day. It was scarcely wide enough for two people to pass each other.
    They went in, the big scholar first, the Greek behind him, the young monk bringing up the rear.
    ‘I fear I shall never find my way out from here,’ said Azémar.
    ‘That won’t be a problem.’ The Greek grabbed a knife from his belt and plunged it into the older monk’s back. Screams from the dark and men leaped at them. One bore a club, another just a plank of wood, a third a rough spear.
    The knife went through Mauger’s robe with a crack. The Greek stepped back, his eyes wide as he looked down at his shattered blade.
    Mauger span and punched the robber hard in the face, a pulverising blow that collapsed him limp as a coshed eel to the cobbles. Azémar stepped back against the wall, quickly crossing himself. Mauger’s thoughts were not on piety. He strode towards their attackers, coming between them and his companion.
    The club swung at the monk’s head but too slow. Mauger stepped into the arc of the swing, enveloped the arm that held the weapon, seized the Greek’s throat and drove his head into the wall.
    The man slumped lifeless. Mauger didn’t let him go; he charged at the men behind, using the robber as a shield to block a swinging blow from the plank of wood. The monk threw the dead man into the remaining two robbers and followed him in, smashing another hideous punch into the face of the first, dropping him to the stones. The final man let his spear fall and fled, but Mauger took a small axe from his belt, hidden beneath his robes, and hurled it through the gloom of the narrow street. It caught the robber on the back of the head and sent him flailing to the floor. Then Mauger was on him, wrapping his arms around the man’s head, pulling and twisting to break his neck.
    Azémar lowered his arms from around his head, where he’d put them like a young boy anticipating a blow from his father. ‘You’ve killed them all.’ His tone was flat, as if he was commenting his comrade looked well that day.
    Mauger dropped the dead robber and stood up,