Through a Dark Mist Read Online Free PDF

Bayard himself had seen the body, had given it an extra kick with a contemptuous boot before leaving the corpse to swell and burst in the searing sun. There was no earthly way a man could have survived such wounds as Bayard had witnessed. Flesh peeled from the bone, an arm half ripped from the socket, ribs crushed to bloody pulp … it simply was not possible. Even if the sun had not blistered him to rot, the vultures, ants, and packs of wild dogs would have finished the job.
    And yet … those eyes! Where in Christendom could there be another pair so like them?
    “So. You do remember me, Bayard of Northumbrian,” the outlaw said quietly, noting the intense scrutiny.
    “I—I do not know you apart from any other scum who roams the forest with claims of renegade sovereignty. As for giving warm welcome—” The captain raised the crossbow he had not quite convinced his fingers to relinquish into the dirt, and, with the speed of many years’ practice governing his action and aim, Bayard squeezed the trigger and sent a quarrel streaking past his horse’s ear to the target who all but filled the roadway ahead.
    The outlaw neither jumped nor flinched out of the way. With a controlled swiftness, he raised his own bow and snapped an arrow, the aim carrying it straight and true to the eye socket on the left side of Bayard’s helm. The impact of the strike jerked the knight’s head back, causing his arms to be thrown upward, and the quarrel to be launched harmlessly into the trees. Bayard could not know this, for by then he was dead, sliding off the back of his mount with the same sluggish lethargy as the viscous flow of blood and brains that leaked from beneath his helmet.
    Almost simultaneously a second disturbance erupted along the line of guardsmen. One of the knights, wearing not the Wardieu gypon of pale blue but the De Briscourt colours of scarlet and yellow, shouted for his men to attack and drew his sword. The shout became a scream of agony as one of the outlaws loosed an arrow that punched through the knight’s thigh and pinned him to the leather guard of his saddle.
    “Sir Roger!” Servanne cried, but her protest was smothered instantly and violently against Biddy’s heaving breast.
    Undaunted, the wounded Sir Roger de Chesnai made a second attempt to raise his sword and this time, was stopped by the bearlike hand of yet another outlaw—a huge, barrel-chested Welshman who grinned with enough ferocity to suggest he would enjoy crushing a skull or two for sport. Sir Roger’s fingers flexed open, releasing the hilt of his sword. The Welshman nodded approval while behind him, the outlaw who had fired the arrow stepped out of the greenery, nocked another shaft in his bow, and swept the armed weapon slowly along the row of ashen-faced guards, his brow raised in askance.
    As one, the escort of mercenaries and men-at-arms lifted their hands away from any object that might be misconstrued as a threat. Only their eyes dared to move, flinching side to side as branches bent and saplings sprang apart to bring a dozen more armed outlaws out from behind their places of concealment. A dozen! Expectations of seeing at least two or three times as many attackers brought renewed flushes of anger and outrage to the faces of the humiliated knights. Seeing this and knowing the prickly honour that governed these men, the wolf-clad leader moved to forstall any rash attempts to launch a counterattack. He turned his bow in the direction of the huddled group of women and coolly took aim at the nearest soft breasts.
    “Now then, gentlemen. If you will be so kind as to step away from your weapons and mounts, my men will happily instruct you on what is required of you next.” The leader paused and smiled benignly. “Any refusal to obey will, of course, result in one less lovely lady to escort to Bloodmoor Keep.”
    The men exchanged hostile glances, but in the end, their stringent code of chivalry left them no choice but to do as they were