The Fell Sword Read Online Free PDF Page B

owed the fucking Emperor nothing – the catamite never paid him.
    But he’d made a decision. He couldn’t have said why, although a hankering to be more than a hedge knight with a placid cart horse might have played a role. By slamming his spurs into his mount he got it to something that might have been called a canter, and he rode for the gates.
    At his back, he heard the Despot calling for his Easterners.
    He turned to look back. Six of the little men on piebald horses had separated themselves from the mass and were coming after him. Their horses were no more than ponies, and they rode like centaurs.
    He threw himself as low on his horse’s neck as he could manage; he was halfway to the gate when his pursuers began to shoot.
    The third arrow struck him squarely in the back. It hurt like hell but the mail must have taken some of the power off it, because he wasn’t dead. The head had penetrated his back – he could feel it in every pace of his miserable horse.
    A lifetime of tavern brawls had prepared him to bear pain, and he was an Iberian, and Iberians were famous for their ability to accept pain.
    ‘Mother of God!’ he spat.
    Sometime in the next fifty paces, he was hit again.
    Ser Raoul had not lived a good life. In fact, it was absolutely typical of his performance as a soldier and as a knight to appear at a routine muster without his horse or arms. He didn’t pray, he didn’t do penance, he scarcely ever practised at a pell or in a tiltyard. He was overweight, he drank too much, and he had an endless predilection for attractive young men that guaranteed that he could never hold on to a single copper coin.
    Despite all this – or, just possibly, because of it – Raoul refused to fall off his horse despite being struck by a third arrow. It would be hard for anyone to explain how, exactly, he continued to ride for the gate, cursing all the way.
    The Despot was laughing, watching his favourites track the man and hit him repeatedly. It was a lesson to every slovenly soldier, he hoped.
    The tall, unarmoured man with the crossbow raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought we planned to surprise the gates?’ he said quietly. ‘And capture the Logothete?’
    The bad knight and his six pursuers were riding flat out along a quiet, morning road raising dust. His pursuers were still shooting at him.
    The Duke reined in his mount, speechless with rage. His fist shot out and caught his son, who reeled away and almost fell from his horse.
    The Duke spat. ‘Idiot,’ he said. ‘Right. Attack.’
    The unarmoured man shook his head. ‘Too soon. None of our people are in place for another half an hour.’
    The Duke whirled on him. ‘You want to keep your place, spy?’
    The unarmoured man met his master’s eyes. ‘I’ll do what I can,’ he said. ‘But if we make a premature attack, we expose our agents and we will fail. ’
    ‘We will not,’ said the Duke.
    His spurs were drawing blood from the cart horse, which continued to rumble towards the gate.
    The six Easterners were twenty horse lengths behind him and gaining. They were all shooting.
    And laughing.
    The outer walls of Liviapolis were as ancient as the palaces and the stoa – and just as well built. They towered three storeys high, smooth yellow fire-baked brick with decorations in red brick marking every storey; magnificent mosaics rose over every gate, and each tower – there was one every fifty paces – was capped with a red tile roof. The walls appeared impregnable. There were, in fact, two complete lines of walls.
    Of course the gates were open. Wide open.
    Which was more than Ser Raoul could say for his eyes, which were closing. It was as if he was looking at the gate, and it was drawing away, further and further down a long tunnel—
    When he hit the ground he was already dead, and his horse shuffled to a halt, just a few paces short of the great gate.
    The Easterners whooped with delight.
    Derkensun was watching a pretty woman walk past while waiting for a