[Shadowed Path 01] - A Woman Worth Ten Coppers Read Online Free PDF Page A

descended to the subterranean vault. He found its floor littered with broken glass and awash in wine and blood. Yaun stepped over a mutilated woman who still clutched half of an infant to reach the wine casks. The casks had been hacked open to spill their contents, but a few weren’t completely shattered. Yaun drew his sword for the first time since the battle had begun and swung at one of the more intact casks, chopping through oak to reveal what wine remained. The cask was large and had been resting on its side, so a sizable pool was trapped within its curve. Lacking a drinking vessel or the patience to look for one, Yaun poked his head and shoulders into the newly made opening. Then he drank. The wine was new and harsh-tasting, but Yaun didn’t mind. There was enough to get him drunk. For the moment, that was all that mattered.
     
    A hand gripped Yaun’s shoulder and shook him awake. Yaun cried out in terror, before he realized that the face gazing down at him wasn’t that of a foe. It was tattooed, marking its owner as a Sarf. Yaun recalled that the Sarf’s name was Honus, and that he served a holy man whose name Yaun couldn’t remember.
    “Aren’t you Alaric’s squire?” asked Honus.
    “Yes. How fares he?”
    “I’d think you’d know.”
    “We were separated.”
    Honus gave no sign as to whether he believed the lie or not. He simply replied, “Alaric’s dead, as is everyone else. I’ve found naught alive but crows, rats, and you.” Honus rose. “Are you done celebrating your good fortune?”
    Yaun got unsteadily to his feet. “It’s been a trying day.”
    “I think you speak of yesterday,” said Honus. “The battle’s long over.”
    “So it’s morning already?”
    “Well past then. But there’s still daylight. Come see for yourself.”
    Yaun was affronted by Honus’s manner, but he took care not to show it. He needed protection, and Honus was renowned for his deadly skill. Yaun’s difficulty was that Sarfs served holy men and were aloof to those things that bought the loyalty of worldlier folk. In fact, Yaun was surprised that Honus had spoken to him, for he had never done so when they supped at the duke’s table. In light of that, Yaun was encouraged that Honus had bothered to rouse him. It seemed evidence that the Sarf had some need of him, a need that Yaun might turn to his advantage.
    The two men who emerged from the cellar were a mismatched pair. Yaun was scarcely out of his teens, and his face bore the softness arising from a life of privilege. His apparel reflected a noble birth. He wore a helm engraved with battle scenes. Fur trimmed his cloak. His fine leather boots were elaborately tooled. The sword that hung at his waist was expensively, if gaudily, decorated.
    In contrast, Honus had an ascetic air. His dark blue clothes were plain and threadbare. His feet bore sandals, the straps of which wound about his leggings. Loose pants covered the leggings to below the knee. He wore no helm and his long, jet-black hair was pulled back and tied with a bit of cord. A simple long-sleeved shirt and a long woolen cloak, both without ornament, completed his austere apparel. His sword was undecorated and forged in the style of his order—slightly curved, with a hilt long enough for two hands, yet a blade sufficiently light to wield with one.
    The midnight hue of Honus’s clothes extended into his face. The lines tattooed there made it look older than his nearly thirty winters and also fierce, as if frozen in an expression of rage. Blue lightning slashed down his brow. His pale blue eyes peered from pools of permanent shadow. Scowl lines had been needled into his cheeks along with ancient charms. His dark blue clothing proclaimed him as one chosen to serve Karm, the Goddess of the Balance, and his face marked him as a Sarf, a master of the martial disciplines.
    Yaun spoke first. “If all are slain, does that mean your master has perished?”
    Grief briefly visited Honus’s eyes. “He’s