The Hallowed Isle Book Four Read Online Free PDF

site on the river is a good one. From these ruins some day a mighty city will rise.
    Something moved in the tangle of hazels that flanked the road. By the time he identified the whistle of arrows Artor was already turning, flattening himself against the stallion’s neck as he grabbed for his shield. A horse squealed, rearing. Behind him a man slid from his mount, a black-feathered arrow jutting from his chest. Artor straightened, peering back down the line from the shelter of his shield. He sighed with unexpected relief as he saw that Medraut, who had been riding with Goriat, had his shield up as well.
    An arrow thunked into his own, and he realized that the enemy were concentrating their fire on the forward part of the line. Masterless men who lived by banditry, he thought. This time they had chosen the wrong prey.
    â€œVanguard, dismount!” he cried. “Goriat, take your riders and hit them from the rear!”
    He slid from the saddle. A swat sent Raven trotting down the road. Afoot, Artor and his men were smaller targets. Though he had no recollection of drawing it, his sword was in his hand. It flared in the sunlight as he ran towards the trees.
    Branches thrashed, scratching his shield. Artor crashed through them, glimpsed a man’s shape and thrust. The blade bit and someone yelled. The king jerked the sword free and pushed onward. From ahead came more yelling. He cut downtwo more enemies before he reached the clearing where the horsemen had caught the fleeing men.
    Several bodies lay crumpled on the grass. The fifteen or so outlaws who remained glared at the horsemen whose circle held them, lances pointing at their breasts. The king straightened, shield still up, waiting for his pulse to slow. It was more than a year since he had drawn his sword in anger; the fading rush of battle fury warred with the ache of stressed muscles and the smart where a branch had whipped across his brow.
    That felt too good — he thought wryly, like the first beaker of beer at the end of a long, hot day. Automatically, he was making a headcount of friend and foe. He noted Medraut’s auburn head and once more, tension he had not been aware of suddenly eased. Why? There were others—Betiver or Gualchmai—whom he loved better than he did this sullen boy, but he had never sagged with relief after a fight to find them still alive.
    Medraut’s face was pale with excitement, his eyes burning like coals. A bloodstained scarf was tied around his arm. Artor swallowed as he saw it. He would have to get the boy some armor. The others were his friends, but this boy was his future. I have a hostage to fortune now.
    He shook himself and strode forward. “Cai, get rope to bind them.”
    The prisoners were a sorry lot, stinking and unshaven, clad in tattered wool and badly cured leather. One man was missing an ear. But the weapons they had thrown down looked well-used.
    â€œWe’re poor men, lord—” whined one of the prisoners, “refugees from the Saxon wars.”
    â€œIndeed? It seems to me that you speak like a man of Glevum—”
    â€œMy father was from Camulodunum,” the complainer said quickly. “He was a sandalmaker there. But the towns are dying, and where shall I practice the trade he taught me now? Surely you’ll not be too harsh with folk who are only trying to survive!”
    â€œWork then!” Artor said harshly. “Britannia is full of abandoned farms. Learn to get food by the sweat of your ownbrows, rather than taking it from better men! You complain that there are no towns!” He shook his head in disgust. “When you make the roads unsafe for honest travelers, how in the Lady’s name do you expect towns to survive?”
    â€œShall we hang them here, lord?” called one of the horsemen, and the robber’s face showed his fear.
    Artor shook his head. “There is still a magistrate at Bremetennacum. These wretches shall be judged by