The Griever's Mark (The Griever's Mark series Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page B

warning: “Be wise, Martel.”
    He’s breathing hard, his broad, thin chest heaving. Sweat plasters a lock of brown hair to his forehead. With enough time, he might crack. But I don’t have that much time. Eventually someone will discover Imelda. Or the Warden will wake up.
    I lean forward impatiently, my hand tightening on my spear. “This is your one and only chance to negotiate. This is when you have choices. Later, when you have failed, and you come begging to Belos, you will take what he offers. And it will be less.”
    I have to scare him, make him want this. But he’s still shaking his head, and his breathing has calmed. I have to give him credit: he does have a spine.
    Even as he’s giving me another refusal, I hear raised voices downstairs. Boots thump along the hallway.
    I leap from the chair, relaxing my grip on the spear, automatically preparing to fight.
    The last of the fear leaves Martel’s face, and his mouth sets with satisfaction. I’ll get nothing more from him now.
    The door bursts open, and two of the Madame Adessa’s burly men charge through, clubs in their hands and snarls on their faces.
    One of them says in a coarse Valdaran accent, “Put the stick down, little girl, and we won’t hurt you.”
    I don’t waste time on banter. Two running steps bring me to Martel, still bound in the chair. I use him as a stepping stool and hear a grunt of pain when I plant a sandaled foot on his leg. I spring up, leaping over his head, spinning my spear like a staff. I strike one of the men on the side of the head, and he falls back through the open doorway, unconscious. I land before the other man and bring up the steel spear butt to crack him under the jaw. His head snaps back and he falls against the wall, the club clattering from his hand. Martel’s yell for help twists into a grunt of disgust.
    Another set of boots in the hall. I shift away from the door as the Warden, sword in hand, one eye squinted in pain, charges into the room. His eyes skim over the fallen men and Martel, giving me a second to ready my spear before he spins toward me.
    I can’t afford mercy with someone this dangerous. I lunge, corset digging into my ribs, spear point flashing toward his belly. He knocks my spear aside with a hasty block. I leap back for space, already bringing the spear around in a slash.
    His sword whips out and takes the blow hard. The spear vibrates in my hands.
    He leaps at me. I catch the downward blow on the spear and force it to slide away. I will not win this hand-to-hand. He is too strong, too fast, and I will trip over these damn skirts at any moment.
    I reach into the Drift, drawing energy into my fist. Hand glowing with power, I throw myself to my knees, sliding under his sword. I punch hard into his muscled stomach. He grunts as the blow lifts him from his feet and flings him against the wall.
    Amazingly, he holds onto his sword. Using the wall for support, he pushes himself to his feet.
    “Just stay down.” I draw more Drift-energy into my body. “Don’t make me kill you.”
    He wheezes, hunched over what will no doubt be some horribly bruised ribs. When he straightens, his face goes still, masking his pain as he masked his anger earlier.
    “You’re the one who must die, Drifter.”
    “Astarti.” The name is out of my mouth before I can stop it. Stupid, of course. I have no excuse, except that I don’t like being called “Drifter.”
    His eyebrows rise a little, but he gives back what I’ve given to him. “Logan.”
    I wish he hadn’t done that. It will hurt more, now, to kill him. Perhaps that was his point.
    I motion with my spear. “Come on then.”
    He shifts his grip on the sword and pushes away from the wall.
    More boots thump down the hall. I step further from the door to make space for my spear. Five men, all bearing pikes, which means they are probably part of the dock watch, file into the room.
    I knock the first pike thrust aside, twist away from another. I can’t fight