The Fell Sword Read Online Free PDF Page A

blank-faced Easterners had their horn bows at full draw. The Despot never went anywhere without his bodyguard of blood-sworn foreigners.
    Horses’ tails swished, and spring flies droned.
    Raoul sighed. He reached behind himself and very carefully scratched his arse. Turned his horse. And rode off the grounds.
    Half a mile to the east of Ser Raoul, Harald Derkensun stood tall in the sentry box at the gate of the city.
    Nordikans almost never served as gate guards. They were far above such things. But the Logothete of the Drum had ordered that the gate guards be changed a week ago.
    He had further ordered that the Nordikans stand guard in the plain tunics and cloaks of the City Militia.
    Derkensun thought it was all foolishness. He was head and shoulders taller than almost any Morean and he suspected that every man passing the gate knew him for what he was, but that was the way with Morea. Wheels turned, sometimes inside wheels, and sometimes for no other reason than the turning. There were plots, and plots to cover plots, and some men, Derkensun had discovered, would plot merely to hear themselves talk.
    This morning, however, the Logothete’s precautions showed some sense, as Derkensun had enough experience of the palace to know that the party riding towards him was led by the Emperor. He drew his sword, and held it before his shield.
    The Emperor reined in his horse. Just past him, Garald Gurnnison, the most dangerous man in the Guard, met his eye and gave a very slight nod.
    The Emperor knew him immediately, of course. He knew all his guard. His fingers moved. He said, ‘Good that you are on guard here. Be wary.’ Then the Emperor returned Derkensun’s salute. ‘Guardsman Derkensun! Are you being punished for some transgression?’
    Behind the Emperor, Derkensun saw the Logothete. The slim man raised an eyebrow. Derkensun allowed himself to look embarrassed. If the Emperor hadn’t been told about the heightened security, it was not Guardsman Derkensun’s job to inform him.
    The Emperor laughed. ‘Poor Nordikans. Too much discipline.’ He raised his riding whip in token of farewell, and rode through the gate.
    Ser Raoul was still scratching – mooning the Duke – when he passed the Emperor riding well out of the city without an escort. Out of habit he stopped scratching and bowed in the saddle. The Emperor gave him a little wave.
    Behind them, the Despot turned to his father. ‘Where are the Vardariotes?’
    The pride of the household cavalry, the Vardariotes were Easterners from across the ocean, and further yet. They were a remnant of a bygone time, when the Empire ran from the steppes of Dacia across the sea all the way to the mountains of Alba and beyond. No Emperor had ridden the steppes in twenty generations, but young men and women still left their clans and came to the Emperor as their kin had done half a thousand years before. Like the Nordikans, they were loyal.
    The Duke watched the Emperor approach. ‘The Vardariotes were not interested in my muster,’ he said mildly. ‘So I ordered them to stay in their barracks.’
    The Despot turned to his father. ‘What are you doing?’
    The Duke shrugged. ‘Something that should have been done a long time ago.’
    ‘Pater!’
    The Duke whirled on his son as a tiger turns on wounded prey. ‘It is now , you little fool. Comport yourself like my son, or die here with anyone who will not support me.’
    The Despot looked for his bodyguard, and saw them fifty horse lengths away, surrounded by his father’s household knights.
    Father and son glared at each other.
    ‘I’m doing this for you ,’ the Duke said softly.
    The young despot met his father’s eye and held it. His own eyes narrowed. He loosed a long sigh – and grinned.
    ‘Then I want the Lady Irene. As my wife.’ The Despot looked at the Emperor.
    ‘Done,’ said his father. That would have complications, but he was happy – truly happy – to have his son beside him.
    The Despot shook his