The Last Bastion Read Online Free Page B

if only they knew it.
    Their business. Not yours . That’s what Arda would say. Three years away and then a few days and nights trapped in a fortress and expecting to die, and then Valaric had come, and the forkbeards had gone away, and all of a sudden everything he sought was right there in front of him, begging to be taken, and he’d turned his back and left her there because . . . because Beyard had sent Oribas to be hangedand Oribas was his friend. Left her and lost everything, and he’d had to, because sooner or later Medrin would know he was back and the hunt would begin, and if he simply went home then one day he’d wake up to find Medrin standing over him with a thousand Lhosir and Medrin would kill them, all of them, slowly and with a great deal of lingering, because nothing would ever make up for the hand that Gallow had taken from him in Andhun. Medrin made the choice into no choice at all but Arda still wouldn’t wait for him, not again, and he could hardly blame her for that. Better to blame fate.
    He forced his way out into the yard. The mob was thinning, more and more Marroc crowding inside, pushing and shoving, climbing past each other, desperate for a share of the plunder. Around the scaffold he could see the bodies, Marroc and Lhosir both. Five Lhosir swung from the gallows. Small gangs of Marroc moved among the corpses, stripping them, shaking them. He saw the flash of a knife. Murdering them if they weren’t quite dead then. The Crackmarsh men were up on the walls, but Valaric was back in Witches’ Reach and the soldiers only stood and watched.
    Not. His. Business.
    Arda would be on her way home by now, back to the Crackmarsh to be with their children. His children. His sons and his daughter. He should have gone with her, wished he could, had always wanted to, but Sixfingers wouldn’t let him. He turned away, sick of it all. ‘Oribas? Oribas!’
    The nearest gang of Marroc stopped what they were doing and stared at him. Their malevolence filled the air. There were four of them and their glances around the yard were already drawing in others. They dropped the Lhosir they were looting and closed in. Gallow took a step back. The Crackmarsh men had a hungry hate for forkbeards but they kept it to themselves around Gallow because Valaric had told them the story of the Foxbeard and what he’ddone. The mob from the city beneath the castle, though, all they saw was another forkbeard even if he was shaven. They eyed him, and the longer they did, the more Marroc turned to look. Gallow had seen it before, a wolf pack setting itself to bring down a bear.
    He’d seen how to stop it too. He stared right back at the four Marroc, picked out their leader, drew his sword and moved briskly forward. Marroc always turned and ran and this one would be no different. There’d be no need for blood; the threat would be—
    A stone hit the side of his helm, hard even through the iron. He staggered sideways and suddenly a snarling Marroc was flying at him. He braced his shield and then there was another coming from the other side and another from behind and more of them all around. He raised the Edge of Sorrows but the first Marroc didn’t flinch. The red sword sighed as it cut the air. Before Gallow could stop himself, he’d split the Marroc’s face in two; and then the others came and the sword wanted more while he stared at what he’d done.
    A second Marroc crashed into his side and tore at his shield. He battered the man away and tried to run but another tackled him from behind and staggered him; yet another grabbed his sword arm high around the shoulder and held on, trying to drag him down, and then another had his shield again, and however hard he forced his way onward, for every Marroc he shook off, another two came at him. He felt a knife stab at him, jabbing hard at his mail coat. Something hit his head, another stone or a stick, and then a hand had his leg and his foot, pulled hard, and he couldn’t break