The Grail War Read Online Free PDF

started walking, spongy earth splashing under his feet as he braced into the wind. As the leader (in green-silver armor) signaled, the men sliced and jabbed through the tent fabric, long spears poking from wall to wall, and then, ropes cut, the whole slashed structure sagged down and someone was screaming in agony inside, and he thought with dread and pity how the man must be ignominiously caught under the material like a netted boar. However, a moment later a helmetless, though otherwise armored, knight rolled out from under one edge and stood up, swordless in red and black gear. Lohengrin, son of Parsival. His wiry, dark hair made him seem like an avenging devil, Broaditch thought. At the same moment, from among the tatters, struggling away from the swords and spears, a half-nude woman emerged, one arm partly severed, pumping blood. She staggered a little way and dropped, clutching at herself. The first swordsman to reach Lohengrin swiped at his head and he pivoted in under the stroke, skidding close with astonishing speed, catching the levering arm and tossing the fully armored knight over his back like a wheat sack, his right hand jerking the sword away as the man came down at the end of the arc head first, sticking that way, upside down in the muck, kicking his legs, drowning. And (before the next man arrived) Lohengrin cut once, savagely, between the legs, splitting him like a hare, Broaditch thought, heart pounding with excitement and fear. Now a spearman thrust and the blade deflected the shaft and Lohengrin hit the helmeted head so hard with the steel hilt that blood sprayed from the eye slits and the ruined man stumbled in a circle in the sucking ooze, mailed hands holding his faceplate, rain washing the gore in thinning rivulets down the armor, until dropping near the hurt woman.
    The others kept a respectful distance now. The massive leader, in emerald-green and silver plate, moved in with sword upraised, moved as if strolling forward to a friendly bout. A squire was near Broaditch and others were gathering around.
    “There’s Lancelot,” one said with awe.
    Broaditch’s eyes widened. Legends still lived, it seemed. Lancelot of the Lake, the knight of the cart … Incredible! An aged legend and still one of the most dangerous men on earth. It was said he was almost defeated once. Once. He was stocky, bull-like in his armor, short, not even quick. He closed with the curly haired warrior with a minimum of wasted motion, deflecting the first cut almost offhandedly, like brushing (Broaditch later said) a fly away, then chopping a quick, neat blow that traveled a bare two feet, which Lohengrin barely managed to catch on his blade and was staggered, slipping backward in the mud. What terrible power! Then Lohengrin came back and flurried so fast that the old champion could only defend with casual shield and edge, planted there, relaxed and almost still. Broaditch felt the thrill of this, the unmoved defense against an attack that would have chopped most men to shreds. One of the other knights had circled behind him now and rushed in as suddenly as the splashing muck would allow: ax zipped down and Lohengrin demonstrated the difference between himself and any ordinary man by simply timing a step back under the arc of the blow, and the fellow leaned past into space, nearly severing his torso with a backhanded sweep that burst into armor and flesh like a muffled explosion. Blood sprayed into the rainy air as the knight shrieked and blew bubbling wind …
    Lancelot attacked again; the rest moved carefully to enclose the helmetless knight in a loose circle as, from behind the tents, a mounted squire led another charger by the bridle in a slow-motion gallop through the onlookers as Lohengrin rushed the warrior farthest from Lancelot, beat him flat into the mud, as though the man had run into a stone wall, leaped up, and held the flank and saddle long enough to be dragged away across the field as Lancelot, visor flung open,