The Pagan Night Read Online Free PDF Page A

manifesting in this land, nor in this way. We mustn’t delay.”
    Elsa bowed and turned to Sir Grie and his men. She gave a few simple instructions, reminding the soldiers of their responsibilities and tasks, then mounted her horse, reined the spare mount beside her, and rode back down the road the way they had come. She never once looked back.
    “A woman of duty,” Lucas said quietly. He secured his staff across his saddle, then mounted painfully and with much complaint. By the time he was settled, the column of soldiers was already riding toward the ruin of Gardengerry.
    “Now to hunt,” he said with little enthusiasm. He turned his tired courser toward the woods. She nosed delicately between the trees. It was only a few minutes before he came upon the gheist’s path. The ground was trampled and torn, charred by the demon’s passing. With a sigh, Lucas wrapped himself in bindings of sight and deception, then followed the mad god into the woods.

3
    T HERE WASN ’ T MUCH of the log left. The leather overwrap was shredded, and the heart of the wood was badly splintered. Ian adjusted his grip on the broadsword and swung in, hard. The blade buried itself deeply into the wooden frame of the target, and then stuck. He wrestled with it for a few seconds, trying to free the blade, but the steel of the sword wouldn’t budge.
    “You’re too damned earnest, boy,” Sir Dugan, master of guard to Blakley’s keep, muttered quietly, so the impromptu audience that had gathered around the training yard couldn’t hear. “You miss that first stroke and the fight’s over.”
    “Well, I didn’t miss the first stroke! I hit the damn stroke, but now the blade is stuck!” Ian paused, jerking hopelessly on the hilt. The log creaked, and the sword settled deeper into the soft, splintery wound of the wood. “Damn it all, Dugan, how is this supposed to help? A man isn’t made of broken wood, is he?”
    “No, but a
man
would object to you practicing on him. Especially with a blow like that.” Sir Dugan looked uncomfortably up at the balustrade, where Ian’s mother and sister were waiting. The women were elegantly dressed, in anticipation of the guests who would be arriving soon. “To hell with your honor, boy, get that sword free.”
    Ian grunted irritably. He wasn’t small for his age, but he was no brute, either. His shoulders were starting to hurt with the effort. The elegant scrollwork of his birthday tattoo wrinkled as Ian scrunched his face in concentration. Lifting a boot, he planted it against the log, and then heaved back. His fingers slipped free of the hilt and he began to fall. Horrified, he scrambled for a better hold, but his hands went too far forward and fell against the blade.
    Hot pain arced up his arm.
    With a gasp, he let go and fell backward.
    “Damn it!” he yelled. A titter went up among the audience, and Ian scrambled to his feet. “Damn it all, Dugan, your damn sword bit me.”
    “A sword is born to bite, my lord,” Dugan said smoothly. “Are you hurt?”
    “I’m fine,” Ian said crossly. He held up his hand to look at it. The chain mitt of his practice glove was bent, several of the rings burst and digging into the flesh of his palm. Nothing serious, but painful. He shook the glove free. One of the rings had broken the skin, and he sucked the blood off his hand. “It’s these damned gloves, Dugan. I can’t get a proper grip with them.”
    “Those damned gloves just saved your fingers, my lord. Now…” Sir Dugan took the sword in hand and, with a twist and a shake, drew it from the target. “What is the lesson?”
    “To not practice the blade when there are women watching,” Ian muttered. Dugan chuckled and shook his head.
    “There will be greater stakes than a woman’s notice, my lord.” Dugan rested the tip of the broadsword in the dust and leaned the hilt toward the young man. Ian took it, his face flushing. “Now, tell me what went wrong?”
    “The bloody sword got stuck. I’d