The Final Quest (The Parsival Saga Book 3) Read Online Free Page B
Author: Richard Monaco
column, past the roped women, the part-armored men in varying states of personal scarring: one-eyed, -eared, -armed, bloated, lean, short, long; bent and straight; speaking and silent, all hot …
Vicious , runty bastard , Howtlande thought, and half-muttered. The knight was striding, silent, at the flanks of the mule.
“How do you fare today, sir?” Howtlande asked. The man didn’t look at him. “There may be horseflesh in this village. There’s few enough steeds left in the country for our finding Else I’d not be mounted thus, eh?” Smiled. The man glanced at him and said nothing.
A fit companion for Skalwere . The pair of them could match their wits and elegance together …
He went on, still trying to stir a wriggle of conversation from the fellow:
“Once we have good mounts beneath us and raise more men then things will be different.”
“Once were dead, things will be different too,” the knight reflected, not-quite-smiling.
“Don’t give in to the pessimism of these times,” Howtlande insisted. “That’s a great mistake. In my view, sir, there’s a whole new world of opportunities opening before us. Look you, men rise up in any condition of life. There’s a leader in prisons … among serfs … beasts … you take my meaning?”
“I don’t take it very far,” the knight returned, composed and aloof.
“Oh? Hear me, first we take this town, then the next, and so on. Then we keep heading north. I have a route in mind that will allow us to gather strength like … like a ball of snow rolled down a winter’s slope.”
“And so,” the knight replied, “we only grow by speeding to the bottom.”
“What? Hear me, sir, were both cut from the same sheet.” His voice was confidential. “Don’t yield to this pessimism. I say there’s no limit to what may be ours, in the end.”
“The length of a grave may be ours, in the end.”
“You’re worse than a monk.” Howtlande was exasperated. “You have to use your imagination.”
The other smiled.
“I do, baron,” he said. “I’ve had to or else I’d face the truth.”
“You served great men, in your time, I think.”
“None but. All dead. And the greatest of them once told me his whole life was hollow at heart. And I didn’t understand him then.” He scratched the back of his neck where it showed reddened and thick above the bright links of mail. “Later I came to understand him.”
Howtlande opened his round mouth, then closed it again. Watched the man sink back into himself, into a granite silence …
V
Suddenly the sickening falling ended with a shock that was pressure before it became chill suffocation and he kicked and struggled up from the muddy bottom, sucking air and remembering everything instantly, bursting into a mounting wail that became (at the end) a howl as teeth flashed and chewed water and air in the bony edge of a face, the cry echoing from the riverbanks, a bitter eruption so violent it seemed the scarecrow frame would burst to pieces … and then he was swimming, lashing, pounding at the dark water, clawing, scrambling, kicking at the shore as if to wound the earth itself, spitting fury, racing over the land now without even taking the trouble to straighten up, hands still flicking at the ground, hissing, over and over:
“So … so … so … they think me set aside, do they? … so … so … so …”
Jerking along now, following the stream, too caught up in a frenzy of remembering to grasp or even care that he was plunging blindly into the silver-haunted shadows, bulging eyes fixed on bright, vivid shapes, the flowing past lost and then becoming (as he gradually slowed and stood upright) the future … pleasant images, so that he was down to a reflective walk a few yards later as he gradually gained control of himself. The shock of remembering was fading … that that he’d lost; the sickening frustration of seeing it all slip away … now he was watching each enemy, each betrayer
Vicious , runty bastard , Howtlande thought, and half-muttered. The knight was striding, silent, at the flanks of the mule.
“How do you fare today, sir?” Howtlande asked. The man didn’t look at him. “There may be horseflesh in this village. There’s few enough steeds left in the country for our finding Else I’d not be mounted thus, eh?” Smiled. The man glanced at him and said nothing.
A fit companion for Skalwere . The pair of them could match their wits and elegance together …
He went on, still trying to stir a wriggle of conversation from the fellow:
“Once we have good mounts beneath us and raise more men then things will be different.”
“Once were dead, things will be different too,” the knight reflected, not-quite-smiling.
“Don’t give in to the pessimism of these times,” Howtlande insisted. “That’s a great mistake. In my view, sir, there’s a whole new world of opportunities opening before us. Look you, men rise up in any condition of life. There’s a leader in prisons … among serfs … beasts … you take my meaning?”
“I don’t take it very far,” the knight returned, composed and aloof.
“Oh? Hear me, first we take this town, then the next, and so on. Then we keep heading north. I have a route in mind that will allow us to gather strength like … like a ball of snow rolled down a winter’s slope.”
“And so,” the knight replied, “we only grow by speeding to the bottom.”
“What? Hear me, sir, were both cut from the same sheet.” His voice was confidential. “Don’t yield to this pessimism. I say there’s no limit to what may be ours, in the end.”
“The length of a grave may be ours, in the end.”
“You’re worse than a monk.” Howtlande was exasperated. “You have to use your imagination.”
The other smiled.
“I do, baron,” he said. “I’ve had to or else I’d face the truth.”
“You served great men, in your time, I think.”
“None but. All dead. And the greatest of them once told me his whole life was hollow at heart. And I didn’t understand him then.” He scratched the back of his neck where it showed reddened and thick above the bright links of mail. “Later I came to understand him.”
Howtlande opened his round mouth, then closed it again. Watched the man sink back into himself, into a granite silence …
V
Suddenly the sickening falling ended with a shock that was pressure before it became chill suffocation and he kicked and struggled up from the muddy bottom, sucking air and remembering everything instantly, bursting into a mounting wail that became (at the end) a howl as teeth flashed and chewed water and air in the bony edge of a face, the cry echoing from the riverbanks, a bitter eruption so violent it seemed the scarecrow frame would burst to pieces … and then he was swimming, lashing, pounding at the dark water, clawing, scrambling, kicking at the shore as if to wound the earth itself, spitting fury, racing over the land now without even taking the trouble to straighten up, hands still flicking at the ground, hissing, over and over:
“So … so … so … they think me set aside, do they? … so … so … so …”
Jerking along now, following the stream, too caught up in a frenzy of remembering to grasp or even care that he was plunging blindly into the silver-haunted shadows, bulging eyes fixed on bright, vivid shapes, the flowing past lost and then becoming (as he gradually slowed and stood upright) the future … pleasant images, so that he was down to a reflective walk a few yards later as he gradually gained control of himself. The shock of remembering was fading … that that he’d lost; the sickening frustration of seeing it all slip away … now he was watching each enemy, each betrayer
Readers choose
Åke Edwardson
Emma Holly
Lauren Jameson
Samantha Hunter
Willow Winters
Ruth Cardello
Kathi S. Barton
Shelby
Elizabeth Miles