Sir Rowan and the Camerian Conquest Read Online Free PDF

strewn from one side of the road to the other.
    “You imbeciles,” Balenteen blurted out. “You’re blocking the road!”
    “Sorry, sir,” one of the men said. “Wheel jus’ fell off.”
    “You can get round over there.” The other man pointed to the right side of the road, where there was just enough room to pass by single file, skirting the trees and boulders to the right.
    Balenteen cursed and ordered the two leading guards to guide their entourage in that direction. Rowan followed Balenteen off the road, but as he passed the wagon, one of the men looked up at him and slapped his partner.
    “Aye,” he said, “that’s Sir Rowan of Laos!”
    The other man’s eyes opened wide, and the two men ran to Rowan’s horse. The animal spooked a bit, and Rowan halted his steed.
    “Are y’ truly Sir Rowan?” the second man asked with excitement in his voice. “The champion of Laos?”
    “Yes, it is I.” Rowan smiled down on the men. Their enthusiasm helped awaken him from his muddled self-pity and reminded him how good it felt to be on this side of the conversation. Without the fame of the tournaments, he could very well be one of these common laborers.
    The men came closer. “We hope t’ be at the games next week to cheer for ye.”
    Both men were standing just beside him, staring up in great admiration.
    “We must keep moving, Sir Rowan,” Balenteen turned on his horse to see what the extra delay was. “We must make the inn before—”
    Balenteen’s words were cut short by a deadly arrow that struck the nearest guard square in the chest. A look of terror filled his eyes as he doubled over and fell to the ground. Balenteen’s eyes widened as another arrow pierced the second guard. Balenteen turned back to the road, kicking his steed into a full gallop.
    Before Rowan could respond, he felt himself being dragged to the ground by the two men as chaos erupted around him. Rowan heard morearrows splitting the air, followed by screams and the neighs of frightened horses. Rowan hit the ground with a thud that nearly knocked the wind out of him. He glanced toward Hatfield and saw him draw his sword. Rowan reached for his own sword, but one of the laborers had pinned his right arm to the ground while the other scrambled to grab his left. Dozens of marauders emerged from the forest trees, and a group of them ran at Rowan with swords drawn.
    Rowan screamed in anger and blasted a full-force fist into the temple of the man clutching his right hand. The man fell to the ground, unconscious. Rowan rolled away from the other man and set one knee solidly on the ground. The man dived for him, but Rowan smashed his fist into the man’s chest. He heard bones crack, and the man collapsed in a heap. Rowan drew his sword and gained his feet just in time to engage the marauders.
    Rowan was a tournament knight who had never fought in real battle, but the anger and frustration of the morning still seethed in his blood, and he was eager to release it on someone. The first marauder charged, and Rowan reacted instinctively. He parried and thrust, downing the man, then prepared for the next. He wasted no time with the superfluous actions of tournament play. Two attacked at once, and Rowan easily handled them both.
    More men came at him until it seemed there were a hundred marauders, all trying to kill him. His sword flew not only with the speed and strength of a well-toned fighting machine but also with the fury of battle anger, something Rowan had never fully felt before. Fifteen men went down and ten more encircled him, hesitant to advance. Rowan knew he could beat them all and more, but suddenly the attack stopped.
    “Drop your sword!” one of the marauders screamed.
    Rowan jerked his head in the direction of the voice. The men surrounding Rowan parted to reveal three men holding a wounded Hatfield in their grip. One held a knife to his neck. Two squires lay dead at his feet, but the third was held by two more marauders. The look of