A Rite of Swords (Book #7 in the Sorcerer's Ring) Read Online Free Page A

hill in the distance. He headed for it, and as he reached it, he turned
back and saw this town had what he needed: a perfect view of the Tower of Refuge.
If Gwendolyn ever tried to leave it, he wanted to be close by to make sure he
was there to accompany her, to protect her. After all, his allegiance was to
her now. Not to an army or a city, but to her. She was his nation.
    As Steffen arrived in the small,
humble village, he decided he would stay here, in this place, where he could
always watch the Tower, and keep an eye out for her. As he passed through its
gates, he saw it was a nondescript, poor town, another tiny village on the
farthest outskirts of the Ring, so hidden in the southern forest that
Andronicus’ men had surely not even bothered to come this way.
    Steffen arrived to the gaping
stares of dozens of villagers, faces etched with ignorance and a lack of
compassion, looking at him with mouths agape and the familiar scorn and
derision he had received ever since he had been born. As they all scrutinized
his appearance, he could feel their mocking eyes.
    Steffen wanted to turn and run,
but he forced himself not to. He needed to be close to the Tower, and for
Gwendolyn’s sake, he would put up with anything.
    One villager, a burly man in his
forties, dressed in rags as the others, turned and headed meanly toward him.
    “What have we here, some sort of
deformed man?”
    The others laughed, turning and
approaching.
    Steffen kept calm, expecting this
sort of greeting, which he had received his entire life. He’d found that the
more provincial people were, the more joy they took in ridiculing him.
    Steffen leaned back and assured
himself that his bow was at the ready over his shoulder, in case these
villagers were not just cruel, but violent. He knew, if he had to, he could
take out several of them in the blink of an eye. But he wasn’t here for
violence. He was here to find shelter.
    “He might be more than just a
regular freak, is he?” asked another, as a large and growing group of menacing
villagers began to surround him.
    “From his markings I’d say he
is,” said another. “That looks like royal armor.”
    “And that bow—it’s a fine
leather.”
    “Not to mention the arrows. Gold-tipped,
are they?”
    They stopped but a few feet away,
scowling down threateningly. They reminded him of the bullies who tormented him
as a child.
    “So, who are you, freak?” one of
them said down to him.
    Steffen breathed deeply,
determined to stay calm.
    “I mean you no harm,” he began.
    The group broke out laughing.
    “Harm? You? What harm could you
do us?”
    “You couldn’t harm our chickens!”
laughed another.
    Steffen flushed red as the
laughter grew; but he would not allow himself to be provoked.
    “I need a place to stay and food
to eat. I have calloused hands and a strong back for working. Set met to a
task, and I will mind myself. I don’t need much. As much as the next man.”
    Steffen wanted to lose himself in
menial work again, as he had all those years in the basement serving King
MacGil. It would take his mind off things. He could perform hard labor and live
a life of anonymity, as he had been prepared to do before he had ever met
Gwendolyn.
    “You call yourself a man?” one of
them called out, laughing.
    “Maybe we can find some use for
him,” another called out.
    Steffen looked at him hopefully.
    “That is, fighting against our
dogs or chickens!”
    They all laughed.
    “I’d pay a grand amount to see
that!”
    “There’s a war out there, in case
you haven’t noticed,” Steffen said back coolly. “I’m sure, even in a provincial
and rudimentary town like this, you can use a hand to maintain provisions.”
    The villagers looked at each
other, baffled.
    “Of course we know of the war,”
one said, “but our village is too small. Armies won’t bother coming here.”
    “I don’t like the way you talk,”
another said. “All fancy-like? Sounds like you had some schooling. You