Scarred Man Read Online Free PDF

over the horizon into a grey sky, banishing Grada’s soft light. Slave rolled over and stared up at the clouds. His breath steamed out in the still air. Ice had formed on his body during the night and crackled as he moved. His stomach growled with hunger and his mouth was dry. He realised he had neither eaten nor drunk since leaving Venste.
    A scurrying sound reached his ears. Slowly, with extreme care, Slave reached into his jerkin and pulled out his Claw. He tensed and flicked the weapon towards the sound. A sharp squawk followed. He sat up and regarded his prey — a healthy-looking furred animal lay nearby, its blood pooling below where the Claw had pinned it to the ground.
    Warm blood slaked his thirst and fresh meat filled his stomach as he walked through the morning. The unending sky above him and the distant horizon still made him uncomfortable, but knowing the source of his discomfort helped him keep under control.
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    Some time early in the afternoon, Slave scented people: a shift in the wind brought the unmistakeable odour from the south. He stopped and concentrated on the smell. Unwashed, with horses. More than oneperson. Wary, Slave crouched by a low hummock and waited.
    They came into sight — a weary group of slavers trudging most likely to Venste. There were six on horseback, two driving a wheeled cage and ten armed men on foot, all guarding a pathetic line of about thirty chained and shackled slaves. In the grey cold they were wrapped in rags with arms clasped tightly around their chests in a desperate attempt to keep in what little body warmth they could.
    The wind shifted again, increasing in strength, bringing stinging ice from the north. Slave pulled his own cloak tighter around his shoulders and watched the sad group fight against the cold. He found himself planning to attack without making the conscious decision to do so. Eighteen armed men — six of whom were on horseback — against one were not good odds, but he would take them.
    He would take them all into the ground with him if he had to.
    Their plodding path would bring them within ten or fifteen paces of where Slave crouched. From the way they were moving, they did not seem particularly alert and Slave reasoned they would not notice him as they passed. He would take them one at a time from behind. With any luck he would take about half of them before anyone noticed.
    The stink wrapped around him as the slavers drove their human cargo north. He was right about their level of awareness. No one so much as lifted a head as they passed his hiding place.
    When the last guard was ten paces past him,Slave moved quickly up behind him and the Warrior’s Claw silently opened his throat.
    One down, left to spill his life onto the icy ground.
    Slave did not hesitate as he moved to the next. Then the next. And the next. He moved on.
    Seven were down. A low mutter was spreading through the slaves. Slave tried to quieten them, guessing the one thing the guards would notice was any sign of life from their captives, but they would not stay silent. He had his Claw to the throat of a guard on foot when one of the horsemen saw him.
    With a cry of anger, the guard jerked his horse around and drove it at Slave. The guard on foot spun quickly to avoid the killing stroke and received a nasty, but not lethal, wound to the side of his neck. He screamed and fell, holding the injury, trying to stem the blood. Slave let him fall and turned his attention to the galloping horse bearing down on him.
    The man was clad in heavy furs and carried a longsword. He held it expertly as he came, but his grasp on the reins was loose. Slave watched, giving the appearance of readying himself to receive the charge, but as the sword was scything through the air towards his head, he dropped under it and rolled, slashing at the horse’s hamstring as it thundered past. It went down with a squeal, catapulting the unprepared rider over its head to land heavily. He lay