The Farthest Gate (The White Rose Book 1) Read Online Free Page B
Author: Morgan Blayde
using it to slash leather ties. Another slash and my opponent’s severed head fell free and bounced at my feet.
The hanged man ran away.
Though trained well by my father, I was no professional soldier, no killer. Most of my battles had ended in first blood. I sank to my knees, dropped the dagger, and nearly dumped the contents of my stomach on the street like a common drunkard. Somehow, I forced nausea away, having no time for such foolishness.
Glossy boots approached as I knelt there. I looked up warily. The newcomer wore a harness of throwing knives. The hilt of an extra-wide infantry sword jutted up over his right shoulder. The blade’s sheath stuck out past his left hip. His eyes were the color of hazelnuts and full of laughter, his hair a blond cloud. He offered me a handkerchief.
“That was well done, Milady. Though to be fair, you should have passed by with your cloak thrown back, letting your ring be seen. Your adversaries would have known better than to strike at your bright life with the shadow of their own, risking the wrath of the Gamesman by interfering with his future pleasures. Wait here just a moment.”
I sheathed my rapier and delayed as bid. There were questions this man might answer, saving me time down the road.
He went to a cheerful little waif, in a dark oft-patched dress, selling flowers from a hand basket beside the street. As my new acquaintance studied her wares, I had a strange vision. The flower girl lifted her eyes to me and they burned with a terrible light. Her face glowed as if lit from within by a power that threatened to consume her flesh. Her hair brightened from brown to a dazzling gold, and white-feather wings unfurled from her back, rising in a salute that challenged all darkness with a proud display.
I felt a trembling in my spirit, an infusion of warmth, and crossed myself hastily, breathing a prayer, “God have mercy!”
T he vision departed as quickly as it came. My new acquaintance handed the girl a bit of shining dream in exchange for a single white rose. Apparently, only I had been allowed to glimpse the girl’s true nature, an angel in disguise. It encouraged my heart that Heaven was taking an interest in my sad affairs, unworthy as I was of such notice, being no one special.
The stranger returned and I suffered him to fasten the flower to my cloak.
“There” he said. “They will know you now. No one else dares wear this color rose.”
I noticed the warrior wore a pilgrim’s ring, its stone a divided moon ; half obsidian, half flawless white.
Seeing my interest, he said, “I am Gray, forever balanced between extremes, a seeker of the passions I never found in life.”
“Then … you are dead ... a living corpse?”
“ Neither living nor a corpse. I am a shade, made solid by the World of the Dead. Anywhere else, I would be a ghost, little more than a cold shiver in the air. Here, I can be hacked to pieces and rise whole time and again. My death happened not long after I arrived, as it nearly happened to you moments ago. My blade was a half-second slower than yours.” His eyes hardened and flashed fire. “Beware! We are gathering the hungry stares of those who’ve exhausted their dreams.”
Turning, I saw packs of converging beggars, claw-like hands out-stretched, reaching eagerly toward us.
“So they take the dreams of others?” I asked.
Gray moved his head in assent, cold eyes glittering. “Beware of pity, White Rose. It gives them power to bleed you dry.”
Compassion … is dangerous? I hated every inch of this realm where everything proper stood on its head, but mostly, I feared what the game would make of me.
Gray raised a knee high in the air and swung his foot out to kick a beggar in the face, knocking him back into others. I admired my new allies’ flexibility.
Sword in hand once more , heart hardened, I fended off attackers approaching elsewhere. In the face
The hanged man ran away.
Though trained well by my father, I was no professional soldier, no killer. Most of my battles had ended in first blood. I sank to my knees, dropped the dagger, and nearly dumped the contents of my stomach on the street like a common drunkard. Somehow, I forced nausea away, having no time for such foolishness.
Glossy boots approached as I knelt there. I looked up warily. The newcomer wore a harness of throwing knives. The hilt of an extra-wide infantry sword jutted up over his right shoulder. The blade’s sheath stuck out past his left hip. His eyes were the color of hazelnuts and full of laughter, his hair a blond cloud. He offered me a handkerchief.
“That was well done, Milady. Though to be fair, you should have passed by with your cloak thrown back, letting your ring be seen. Your adversaries would have known better than to strike at your bright life with the shadow of their own, risking the wrath of the Gamesman by interfering with his future pleasures. Wait here just a moment.”
I sheathed my rapier and delayed as bid. There were questions this man might answer, saving me time down the road.
He went to a cheerful little waif, in a dark oft-patched dress, selling flowers from a hand basket beside the street. As my new acquaintance studied her wares, I had a strange vision. The flower girl lifted her eyes to me and they burned with a terrible light. Her face glowed as if lit from within by a power that threatened to consume her flesh. Her hair brightened from brown to a dazzling gold, and white-feather wings unfurled from her back, rising in a salute that challenged all darkness with a proud display.
I felt a trembling in my spirit, an infusion of warmth, and crossed myself hastily, breathing a prayer, “God have mercy!”
T he vision departed as quickly as it came. My new acquaintance handed the girl a bit of shining dream in exchange for a single white rose. Apparently, only I had been allowed to glimpse the girl’s true nature, an angel in disguise. It encouraged my heart that Heaven was taking an interest in my sad affairs, unworthy as I was of such notice, being no one special.
The stranger returned and I suffered him to fasten the flower to my cloak.
“There” he said. “They will know you now. No one else dares wear this color rose.”
I noticed the warrior wore a pilgrim’s ring, its stone a divided moon ; half obsidian, half flawless white.
Seeing my interest, he said, “I am Gray, forever balanced between extremes, a seeker of the passions I never found in life.”
“Then … you are dead ... a living corpse?”
“ Neither living nor a corpse. I am a shade, made solid by the World of the Dead. Anywhere else, I would be a ghost, little more than a cold shiver in the air. Here, I can be hacked to pieces and rise whole time and again. My death happened not long after I arrived, as it nearly happened to you moments ago. My blade was a half-second slower than yours.” His eyes hardened and flashed fire. “Beware! We are gathering the hungry stares of those who’ve exhausted their dreams.”
Turning, I saw packs of converging beggars, claw-like hands out-stretched, reaching eagerly toward us.
“So they take the dreams of others?” I asked.
Gray moved his head in assent, cold eyes glittering. “Beware of pity, White Rose. It gives them power to bleed you dry.”
Compassion … is dangerous? I hated every inch of this realm where everything proper stood on its head, but mostly, I feared what the game would make of me.
Gray raised a knee high in the air and swung his foot out to kick a beggar in the face, knocking him back into others. I admired my new allies’ flexibility.
Sword in hand once more , heart hardened, I fended off attackers approaching elsewhere. In the face