The Eye of Winter's Fury Read Online Free PDF Page A

chinks between his armoured plates.
    An explosion. Mud and water rain down from the sky. A horse gallops past, nostrils flaring, snorting and whinnying. Another follows, dragging a knight through the dirt, the man’s foot still caught in the stirrups. Through the showering debris you see axe blades glittering, hacking through armour and bone, horses toppling to the ground, crushing knights beneath them. Tarlow’s guards struggle to manoeuvre against the overwhelming tide of bodies.
    Two wiccans race past you, snarling like wolves. They pay you no mind, hurrying towards the knights and guards. It is as if you don’texist – a ghost prince who has truly become invisible. Then you hear another explosive boom, followed by a rush of heat. You spin in the saddle, mouth dropping open when you see the flames from the supply cart billowing up into the grey sky.
    ‘Molly!’
    Kicking your horse’s flanks you urge it forward, your hand reaching for your sword. In your haste you forget its holy enchantments – words of the One God that seem to recoil at your touch. When your fingers close around the grip, you feel a sharp shock of pain lance along your arm. You jerk backwards and for a moment you lose your purchase on the reins, sliding back off the saddle.
    ‘Arran!’ A woman’s voice. Cold and brittle.
    Hands are suddenly around your throat, nails digging into your flesh – and you are falling.
    You land with a splash in the cloying, sludgy mud. For several seconds, you are fighting for breath, your sight blinded by dirt and water. Someone is lying next to you, the mud popping and squelching as they move. You glimpse white robes and a hood. Amber eyes, wide and bright.
    You try and pull yourself free but the Martyr pushes you back down, her fingers like claws of iron, digging into your flesh, driving you into the mud with an unnatural strength.
    ‘What . . . ?’ You open your mouth, choking as it fills with black fetid water.
    She’s killing me. The damn priest is killing me.
    Your hands ball into fists, pummelling at her sides, legs kicking and squirming. One of your blows scuffs against something hard and cold. A hilt, a dagger. You manage to pull it free from the priest’s belt as she shoves you further into the muck.
    ‘Your time is over, prince!’
    The stinking waters close over you, distorting sound into a thrum of distant noise. Somehow you manage to surface, muddy spittle bubbling between your teeth as you slide the dagger into the woman’s side. You feel it going deep, the blade scraping against bone. A warm rush of blood courses over your fingers.
    You drive it in a second time, feeling the Martyr’s body jerk, her face only inches from your own. Another spasm. Then the pressure is gone, the strength ebbing from her limbs. Desperately you raiseyour head, coughing and choking as you suck greedily at the air. The Martyr has become a limp weight, sliding down next to you, dark roses of blood marking her muddied robes. You glance down at the dagger, shocked at what you have done, crimson blood coating you to the elbow.
    Their blood is no different to ours after all .
    You drop the dagger, struggling to get to your feet. As you start to rise, you see Tarlow only metres away. Dismounted and wounded, he is now fending off a giant Wiccan warrior, a mountain of a man, with long braids of dark hair forming a mane about his shoulders. His bare chest glistens with sweat and rain, and a dizzying array of bright runes that flash and spit in anger.
    A sharp, splintering crack.
    You jump at the sound. To your left the cart has collapsed, its wood now charcoal black as the flames continue to consume the wreckage. You see no sign of Molly. You stumble towards the blaze, but the heat forces you back, its thick smoke drifting quickly across the road – reducing the battle to shadows darting back and forth, an occasional clank of armour, a harsh clatter as weapons meet.
    Then a pained cry drags you back to Tarlow. The captain