The King's Justice Read Online Free PDF

beautifully innocent boy. But it is not enough for power. It does not enable sorcery. He is the start of a ritual, or he is its end. There must be others. Several others. Perhaps many others.”
    Jon Marker says, “There are no others,” but Black does not heed him. Black is already certain that none of the townsfolk have been butchered as Tamlin was. The people he has met would react differently if they knew themselves threatened. The guards on the road would be more stringent in their duty, more numerous. Also the source of this evil needs secrecy until the ritual is ripe.
    â€œThey will be brutal men,” he thinks, still aloud. “Men who relish harming innocence. Or cruel women who relish it.”
    He is sure of this, just as he is sure that the lungs and livers of the other corpses have been taken. Yet he does not understand it. Shapers do not pursue the impossible. They cannot draw their sorcery from air and heat.
    Tamlin’s father makes a sound of distress, but Black does not attend to it. He is immersed in his confusion. If his words have wounded Jon Marker, he does not regard the cost.
    Still he is a veteran. He has fought many battles, he bears many scars, and he has been shaped for his task. His instincts are sure. Despite his concentration, he feels the men coming. As lightly as mist and shadows, he rises to meet them.
    There is no moon to light the glade. Only the stars define the shapes of the trees. Yet Black sees clearly. Some of his sigils are awake. Some of his scarifications burn. He recognizes Ing Hardiston as the storekeeper approaches. The two other men he does not know. But one of them holds a longknife to Jon Marker’s throat. The other advances a dozen paces to Hardiston’s left. This man holds his cutlass ready. The storekeeper is armed with a heavy saber.
    Black sighs. He knows that these men have no bearing on his purpose. He does not want to kill them. Under his cloak, he rubs his left forearm.
    The man gripping Jon Marker lowers his longknife. The man with the cutlass hesitates. But Ing Hardiston strides forward. Though his fear is strong, his loathing of it—or of himself—is stronger. His anger shrugs aside Black’s attempt to confuse him.
    â€œYou were warned, stranger,” the storekeeper snarls. “You meddle where you are not wanted. It is time for you to die.” His saber cuts the air. “If Marker is the cause of your coming, he has lived too long.”
    Hardiston’s example restores his men. The longknife is again ready at Jon Marker’s throat. The cutlass rises for its first stroke.
    â€œNow you also are warned,” Black replies. He is more vexed than irate. This interruption is worse than foolish. It is petty. “Jon Marker has suffered much, and I have refreshed his pain. I will permit no further harm to him.”
    When he touches his hip with his left hand, his longsword appears in his right. Its slim blade swarms with sigils for sharpness and glyphs for strength. Its tip traces invocations in the night.
    Again the man with the cutlass hesitates. This time, he is shaken by surprise rather than slowed by confusion.
    Ing Hardiston also hesitates. He yelps a curse. But his need to deny his fear is greater than his surprise. His curse becomes a howl as he charges.
    Black is one with the darkness. His movements are difficult to discern as he tangles Hardiston’s saber with his cloak. A flick of his longsword severs the tendons of Hardiston’s wrist. In the same motion, his elbow crumples Hardiston’s chest. As the storekeeper hunches and falls, too stunned to understand his own pain, Black spins behind him.
    A flash in the night, Black’s longsword leaves his hand. It impales the thigh of the man holding a blade to open Jon Marker’s throat. The impact and piercing cause a shriek as the man topples away from Tamlin’s father.
    Black has no wish to kill any of these men. Unarmed, heconfronts