The Long War 02 - The Dark Blood Read Online Free

blood across the wooden floor.
    The calm night of Voy was broken. The three remaining mercenaries looked with open-eyed surprise at the huge forest-dweller.
    ‘It’s them,’ one shouted. He wildly loosed a bolt down the hall and Randall stepped out, thrusting his sword towards the man. The point caught more chain mail than flesh and Randall overbalanced. Slipping on the pool of blood, he barrelled into the man who was feverishly trying to reload his crossbow. They fell together on to the stairs and Randall grunted in pain as his head struck wood before the two of them flew swiftly downwards, ending in a heap on the floor below.
    The other two mercenaries had quickly regained their bearings and rushed up the stairs, swinging heavy maces at Vasir’s shadowy form. The Dokkalfar danced backwards into the hall. Randall tried to stand, but his head was swimming and he could taste blood on his tongue. Randall’s sword was stuck in the side of the man’s chain mail and he swore as he tried to untangle it.
    ‘I’m gonna fuck you till you bleed, boy,’ spat the mercenary, elbowing the squire in the chest.
    Randall reluctantly let go of the sword and wrapped his arms round the man’s neck. As they wrestled in the detritus of the derelict building, Randall realized he was the stronger and began to exert leverage to keep the mercenary from drawing another weapon. He clung on, but a series of kicks and punches began to loosen his hold. This close, the man smelt terrible. Randall tried to manoeuvre on top of him, but lost his grip as a fist connected solidly with the side of his jaw. Randall went limp and the man rolled clear.
    Randall tried to stand, but his legs weren’t responding. The mercenary pulled the sword of Great Claw from his chain mail. The blade grated against the steel links and came away with a small amount of blood.
    ‘Where’s the Ghost, boy?’ spat the mercenary through brown teeth. ‘The cleric, where is he?’
    The man levelled Randall’s sword at him and grinned, a grotesque expression that showed missing teeth and stained gums. ‘Answer me,’ he shouted.
    ‘That’s my squire,’ said a deep, gravelly voice.
    The mercenary turned to see a broad-shouldered figure staggering uncertainly down the stairs, longsword in hand. Brother Utha of Arnon, a mask of rage on his face, stood bare-chested and covered with fresh scars, but pale-skinned, white-haired and terrifying.
    The mercenary grabbed Randall by the hair. Pulled upright, the squire felt the cold metal edge of Great Claw across his neck.
    ‘Your boy dies if you take one more step towards me.’
    Utha stepped forward.
    Randall felt the blade bite into his skin.
    ‘Stop fucking moving,’ barked the mercenary.
    The cleric took another step forward and launched his longsword towards them. The blade flew end over end and lodged messily in the mercenary’s chest, inches from Randall’s own.
    For a moment, Randall’s laboured breathing was the only sound in the room.
    Brother Utha of Arnon, last of the Shadow Giant old-blood regarded the room with a cool glare. ‘Do we have any wine?’
    * * *
    The sun was beginning to intrude on the horizon and still Randall had not slept.
    Utha sat by the window looking out into the twilight while Hobson examined Randall’s head wound.
    ‘I must say, you people truly don’t appear to be the ruthless assassins you’re made out to be. The news from Ro Tiris is that Brother Utha of Arnon is the most dangerous man abroad in the lands of men. A reckless traitor to be killed on sight.’
    The White cleric raised his head and saw three sets of eyes glaring back at him. He smiled nervously. ‘Of course, that’s just hearsay...’
    Utha snorted. ‘Don’t fret, brother, you’re in no danger from us. We’ll be out of your hair within the hour and you’ll never have to deal with us again.’
    ‘I must say, that is a relief,’ replied Hobson. ‘Though, as a fellow man of the One, I would ask you a question,