The Sticklepath Strangler (2001) Read Online Free

shout. They were on his trail.
    Ahead of him the window was a rough, square hole in the wall of his cottage. A matter of four feet from the ground, and ten yards from him, it looked almost impossible to reach without being
seen and hit, but he had to try: inside was safety. He could string his bow, nock an arrow to it, and hold them off, at least until he learned why his neighbours had decided to kill him.
    When he heard the command to follow the marks in the mud, he knew he must move fast or be killed like a beast at bay. Summoning up all his courage, he stood. There was a bellow, then a roared
instruction, and he could have sworn he heard an arrow, but by then he was hurtling inelegantly forward, hobbling weakly on one leg, forcefully shoving himself on with the other.
    One pace, two, and he was waiting for the arrow to pierce his unprotected back. Three paces, four, and his breath was wheezing in terror at being in the open. Five paces, six, and the window was
so close he could almost reach it. Seven, and his hand caught the rough cob wall.
    He crouched on his good leg, both hands on the ledge, then roared with pain and anger as he tried to leap upwards, wrenching with both arms, using all the muscles of his powerful shoulders. He
was already halfway through when the second arrow struck him with a terrible, hollow, wet sound, like a stick striking a damped woollen cloak.
    Not a sound broke from him as he thudded heavily to the ground, although the shaft struck the floor and wrenched the broad barbs of the arrowhead deeper into his back. It had found its mark. As
he reached around tentatively and felt it, he knew that it would kill him: it had lodged in his liver. The pain was excruciating. Outside, the cries of glee showed that the success of the shot had
been seen.
    But he wasn’t dead yet. He could sting back, he promised himself. Climbing slowly up the wall, he pulled the shutter over the window and tied it in place. Then he could hop along the wall
to his stool. Once he was sitting on that, he could snap the arrow-shaft in his back with both hands. It was less painful than the one in his leg, perhaps because he was already growing weak and he
simply couldn’t cope with more pain; his frame had registered all it could. He didn’t care. Now all that mattered to him was killing as many of them as he could. His
neighbours
, his
friends
, he sneered to himself.
    The bow hung from a beam, away from the damp. He could just touch it with his fingers at full reach, and that was enough to knock it down, falling across his head and then down his back, where
it snagged on the broken arrow. A scream broke from his lips. Standing, he grabbed the bow and with slow determination he rested one end on the ground and leaned forward, pushing the bow and
bending it, shoving the gut string up and over the curve until it could fit into the two slots at either side.
    It was done. His back was soaked, and he knew he was losing a lot of blood, but he carried on. The small quiver with his arrows was near the door, and he plucked one and nocked it on the string
before dropping back with a grunt to his stool to wait.
    But now the rats were closer. He had husbanded all the energy he could, and he rose, shuffled to the doorway and peeped out from behind the leather curtain. He hoped that the
men would not notice him there but if they did, the leather might serve as some protection.
    Outside, the light was swiftly fading, and he could scarcely make out anything, save the great trees which towered all around. He could see none of his attackers in the gloom, but he could hear
them moving about. He couldn’t be sure of hitting them, not aiming by sound alone.
    When the man called to him, the sound of his voice was so unexpected that Athelhard caught his breath.
    ‘Athelhard, surrender to us.’
    He made no answer. The voice was coming from the right of the beech tree, and he squinted, but he couldn’t be sure of a target in the