Blood in the Water by Juliet E. McKenna Read Free Book Online Page A

hospitality’s bunch of grapes in red as bright as blood.
    Rega Taszar led his forces away over the fields to the east. Hedges dividing the vassal lord’s fields from his tenants’ gave Dalasorian horses scant pause. Pata Mezian’s regiment stayed on the high road, nine troops each of four-score riders. Two of his troops were armed with the recurved bow of the grasslands, cunningly wrought from bone and sinew for the lack of trees. Rega Taszar had four such troops of archers under his command and eight of lancers.
    Sia Kersain rode with only a few score shy of a thousand horses. Now they quit the high road for the westerly flank. Aremil’s stomach lurched as Jettin’s horse leaped. Dust rose as their hooves pounded the hard, dry ground.
    Ahead, the market town came clearly into view. He saw tiled roofs above the ragged battlements. He couldn’t see much of the town’s walls. Well inside Carluse, not threatened by war within a generation, the guildmasters of Ashgil had permitted all manner of building beyond their gates. Houses with grey shingled roofs stretched along the high road.
    At some signal that Jettin missed, every horse shifted from the trot to a canter, pennants streaming from the riders’ lances.
    He could see people now, where the fields met vegetable gardens. There must surely be shouts of alarm but he couldn’t hear them. The thunder of hooves, the rattle of harness filled his ears as the canter became a gallop. He gripped the saddle with his thighs, the reins digging into his gloved hands. The morning chill was a distant memory amid the heat rising from the horses.
    How by all that was holy could the Dalasorians ride one-handed, managing lances at such a breakneck pace? Aremil realised Jettin was shamefully relieved that he wouldn’t be called on to fight. He needn’t risk making a fool of himself, or worse, injuring his own mount as he fumbled his sword
    The Dalasorian riders swept on. He glimpsed women fleeing towards the town’s walls, their aprons fluttering white. Men threw aside hoes and ran. Some fool opened a sty, desperate to save his pig. The beast disappeared into an orchard.
    None of Sia Kersain’s archers wasted their arrows on such targets. They were heading for the town’s western gate. The reports from Evord’s scouts had been clear. Duke Garnot’s militia were guarding the roads. They were going to fight them for control of the western gate, for the road leading to Thymir and Carluse Town beyond. Rega Taszar’s forces were circling to capture the gate on the Tyrle Road heading south. Pata Mezian’s regiment would smash through the north gate, coming straight down the high road from Sharlac.
    He didn’t have time to think about that. There was the Thymir Gate still standing proud of the crumbling wall. Duke Garnot’s white flag with its black boar’s head flew from the topmost coign. Down on the ground, the militiamen on guard were being overwhelmed by panicking people desperate to force their way through.
    Incredibly, the horses drew still closer together. Dalasorian boots jostled his own as they rode stirrup to stirrup. He was seized with sudden terror lest a spur dig into his ankle. But there was no time to be afraid. They were wheeling around, charging up the road. Would the militia drop the portcullis and deny them at the last gasp?
    His mount snorted, the bit clamped between its teeth. If he’d wanted to stay clear of the fray, he had no chance now. This horse was going to charge with its herd mates and there was no way he could hold it back.
    He had no idea where the archers were but he saw militiamen fall from the battlement, pierced by arrows. The first horses were charging through the gate’s arch, bodies disappearing beneath their hooves. Lancers broke away on either side, pursuing anyone in ducal colours still outside the walls.
    A few militiamen swung their swords. One frantic blade cut a lancer’s hand clean off at the wrist. The rider stuffed his reins in