The Eye of Winter's Fury Read Online Free PDF

has stumbled to his knees, struggling to raise his sword with a torn and bloodied arm. The Wiccan stands over him, eyes bulging beneath a heavy brow, sharpened teeth bared and hissing. Then the axe falls. There is a dull-sounding thud. You wipe the grime from your eyes, trying to focus, to make sense of the scene. It is oddly silent. A moment frozen in time. Tarlow leans back, arms outstretched, the axe buried deep in his shoulder. Above him, the giant stands rigid, muscles bunched, the angry fire of his runes making him look more demon than man.
    Conall , you gasp. That must be Conall. Their chief. The one who killed Lazlo.
    The giant grunts as he tugs his axe free. There is a spray of blood then Tarlow topples over, his expression a mask of pained bewilderment. As he crashes into the mud, neck twisted to face you, his dead eyes come to rest on your own.
    ‘No . . .’ His stare is like a spear, running you through with its damning accusation. In all your years, you have never known him to leave your father’s side. His loyalty was unquestionable. And yet here he is, miles from the capital, lying dead on a road in the northernwilds. He should have stayed with your father, with the throne he was sworn to protect. It’s all my fault.
    The Wiccan warrior throws back his head and issues a mighty roar. The sight of him, so huge and fearsome, like something from another world, another time, fills you with dread.
    You are running before you realise it, before you even have a chance to question your actions. Blind fear powers your limbs, filling you with an energy no herb or potion could ever match. Splashing through the mud, you make for the trees, not caring what direction you head in, only that you must save yourself.
    Coward! Stupid coward! Your conscience screams in your ears, but the words carry no meaning – no shame. You just want to live. What else can I do? On hands and knees you scrabble madly up the hillside, stomach heaving from the stench of smoke and blood. But I have to go back . . . I should fight . . . You reach the top of the rise, plunging into the maze of forest. Branches claw at your face, tearing at your clothes. I have to get away . . .
    You don’t see the Wiccan until it is too late. His shoulder hits you in the side, throwing you back against the trunk of a tree. His face is painted in a hideous mask of runes, the musky smell of wet animal clinging to his tattered clothes. He shouts something, barking out the words in a stream of guttural noise. They make no sense to you. Nothing makes sense anymore.
    ‘Please,’ you plead, tears streaming down your cheeks. ‘Don’t kill me. I’ll give you anything . . .’
    The warrior steps back, wrinkling his nose, glaring at you with a look of disgust. His eyes rove up and down, taking in the sight of your muddied silks and pretty lace. He sees a fool, you realise bitterly. A damn fool.
    His gaze settles on your blade, rotten teeth widening into a grin. You look down at the sword’s diamond pommel, realising his intent. Of course, he wants Duran’s Heart – a trophy worth a kingdom in gold.
    ‘Yes! Yes, take it!’ You start to unstrap the belt.
    The Wiccan snorts, shaking his head. ‘Not give. Fight!’ He raises his bloodied axe and takes a step back, giving you room to draw. ‘Fight!’
    ‘No . . . please . . .’
    ‘Fight!’ He shakes the axe. ‘Fight!’
    ‘I can’t!’ you scream back, snot and spittle flying from your lips. ‘I don’t know how to!’
    The Wiccan recoils at your outburst, momentarily surprised. Then anger quickly returns. ‘Craven,’ he growls. ‘You no warrior.’
    You slide to your knees, hitting the dirt. ‘No. I am no warrior.’ You lower your head, shamed by what you are. A weakling. A prince who can’t even defend himself. ‘I yield . . .’
    As you wait for the axe to fall, you picture Captain Tarlow lying twisted in the mud, his dead eyes glaring back at you. Did he know? Did he know we were