Slow Turns The World Read Online Free PDF

Nagul pushed forward and raised his spear.
    “I have never killed a beast that walks on two legs but if you do not move aside…”
    Beside him the hunter called Gresad also raised his spear and stepped forward.  There were two clicks, then a hiss as the air cleaved apart, and a sound that hunters know well; an arrowhead burying deep into sinew.    Gresad fell back without knowing what had slain him, a dart buried deep in his chest.  Nagul slumped, clutching the shaft in his shoulder.   Then there was another sound, of steel drawn from leather, as a dozen sword blades were unsheathed.  
    The sword tip hovered at Torrin's throat.  He had seen a metal blade before but never such as this, never such honed, glinting sharpness.  There were finely crafted patterns engraved upon the steel, snaking and interlacing towards the hilt.  The hand clasping the weapon gripped a carved ivory handle of intricate design.   Torrin looked slowly upwards, past the fine tiny stitches of the leather waistcoat and its delicately scrolled metal clasps, past the silver emblem that hung upon the chest, a triangle within a circle, and upwards to two hazel eyes so cold that he felt death within them.  He waited for the single thrust that would push the blade effortlessly between his ribs, not doubting that it would come.
    There was a sound of hooves.  The hazel eyes and the sword tip backed away a pace as a rider approached astride a cantering horse.   The man dismounted, passing the reins to the nearest Asgal who took them dutifully.  He was a heavy man; strong, broad of body and of some tribe Torrin did not know.  He wore the same leather tunics as the Asgal but had a domed metal helmet, which bore the emblem of the triangle within the circle.  From his waist hung two scabbards, one short and straight, the other much longer and curved.  There were three features of the man Torrin would not forget; the close-cropped beard, the pattern of scars upon his face and the harsh angry voice.
    “What's this scum doing here?  You know your orders.”
    “It is just some beasts from the plain who lost their way,” said one of the Asgal, “a few stragglers from a sickly herd.  Poor sport, but enough to test our blades…”
    “I need necks thicker than these to practice on,” scowled the newcomer, “but a man must find what he can in this place.”
    He drew a long curved sword and closely eyed its keen blade before looking to Torrin and the other hunters.  He regarded each in turn with a cold smile as if deciding where the best pleasure might lie, but then the sound of hooves came again and one of the Asgal spoke.
     “We had best hold for a while. His Lordship comes.”
    A second rider joined them, but he wore no leather and bore no weapons.  His tunic and leggings were simple, but finely woven.  Around his neck hung a delicate metal chain holding upon his breast the same emblem of circle and triangle, but fashioned from some glinting precious metal.  A lean, beardless face of middle life looked down upon Torrin and his band.
    “Does your tribe’s path come this way?” he asked.
    “It does,” Torrin answered
    “Then you must find another.”
    “This is our path.”
    “Do you see these men?  They are charged to let no one cross this land and they have weapons to prevent it, which you have seen they are impatient to use.  If you go now it will be under my protection.  Return to your tribe and find another path.  If you come again this way they will certainly kill you.  Go now.”
    Torrin scanned the many eyes that watched him and took a pace back.  His foot found a warm sticky pool and he looked down to see a puddle of dark blood, which trickled from the body of Gresad.  The slumped figure of Nagul lay beside the corpse, clutching at the crossbow bolt in his shoulder and catching gasping breaths.  Turnal helped Torrin to raise the wounded Nagul to his feet then looked to the Asgal and spoke angrily.
    “What did it