The War Hound and the World's Pain Read Online Free Page A

stop!”
    The riders drew in their own reins and began to raise their pikes to the slope.
    I put my sword between my teeth, drew both pistols from the saddle-holsters, cocked the flints and fired.
    One of the pistols discharged and flung a rider straight out of his seat. The other needed recocking, having failed to spark, but before I could see to it, I heard the voice again.
    It was a woman. “Stop!”
    I would let them debate her orders. In the meantime I had a little time in which to begin my descent. I sheathed my sword and looked down the hillside. I had planned to skirt this party and continue down the road if possible. It would mean driving directly through the pikes, but I believed I could do it fairly easily.
    I prepared myself, while giving the impression that I was relaxing my guard.
    The door of the coach opened.
    A handsome woman of about thirty, with jet-black hair and wearing scarlet velvet, clambered swiftly onto the coachman’s seat and raised her arms. She seemed distracted. I was impressed by her bearing and her beauty.
    “Stop!” she cried to me. “We meant no harm to you.”
    I grinned at this. But since I now had something of an advantage and did not wish to risk either my life or my horse more than necessary, I paused. My loaded pistol was still in my gloved hand.
    “Your men attacked me, madam.”
    “Not upon my orders.” Her lips matched her costume. Her skin was as delicate and pale as the lace which trimmed her garments. She wore a matching broad-brimmed hat with a white ostrich feather trailing from it.
    “You are welcome,” she said. “I swear to you that it is so, sir. You came forward before I could present myself.”
    I was certain that all she was doing now was to change tactics. But I preferred these tactics. They were familiar enough.
    I grinned at her. “You mean you had hoped that your servants would frighten me, eh, madam?”
    She feigned puzzlement. She spoke with apparent sincerity, even urgency: “You must not think so. These creatures are not subtle. They are the only servants provided me.” Her eyes were wonderful. I was astonished by them. She said: “I apologize to you, sir.”
    She lowered her arms, almost as if she appealed to me. She struck me as a woman of substance, yet there was an engaging touch of despair about her. Was she perhaps a prisoner of those men?
    I was almost amused: a lady in distress, and myself a knight-errant to whom the notion of chivalry was anathema. Yet I hesitated.
    “Madam, your servants disturb me by their very appearance.”
    “They were not chosen by me.”
    “Indeed, I should hope that’s so.” I retained my pistol at the cock. “They were chosen by Death long since, by the look of ‘em.”
    She sighed and made a small gesture with her right hand.
    “Sir, I would be much obliged if you would consent to be my guest.”
    “Your men have already invited me. You’ll recall that I refused.”
    “Will you refuse me? I ask,” she said, “in all humility.”
    She was a clever woman and it had been some years since I had enjoyed such company. It was her eyes, however, which continued to draw me. They were wise, they were knowing, they contained in them a hint of deep terror and they were sympathetic, I thought, to me in particular.
    I was lost to her. I knew it. I believe she knew it. I began to laugh.
    I bowed to her.
    “It is true, madam,” said I, “that I cannot refuse you. Boredom, curiosity and what is left of my good manners drive me to accept. But most of all, madam, it is yourself, for I’ll swear I see a fellow spirit and one as intelligent as myself. A rare combination, you’d agree?”
    “I take your meaning, sir. And I share your feeling, too.” Those wonderful eyes shone with ironic pleasure. I thought that she, too, could be laughing, somewhere within her. With a delicate hand she brushed hair away from the left side of her face and tilted her head to look at me. A conscious gesture, I knew, and a flirtatious