Immortal Champion by Lisa Hendrix Read Free Book Online Page A

and set off to collect his kiss. Now the true sport would begin.
    As he rounded the end of the wall, two men hit him hard, one high and one low. He went down, but managed to twist so he landed atop one, who grunted as Gunnar’s bulk flattened him. A third man piled on, fists flying. A truncheon-tap to the head took the fight out of that one; Gunnar heaved him off, then jerked one arm back sharply to elbow the bottom man, connecting with his chin. He went slack, leaving only the man wrapped around Gunnar’s knees.
    Gunnar threaded his fingers into the fellow’s hair and hauled up hard until he yowled and turned loose. He was hardly more than a boy—a squire, perhaps, or even a page. Gunnar hesitated, unwilling to beat a page, not for mere sport, and in that instant the lad clouted him in the nose, so hard it made his eyes water.
    Sport be damned. Gunnar punched back—not too hard, but hard enough to make his point—and then put a foot in the boy’s gut and sent him flying.
    Gunnar scrambled up and started once more for the tower. A half-dozen other men with blood in their eyes spread out to block his way. With a roar of pleasure, Gunnar lowered his head and hurtled into them. Two went flying, but two leapt onto his back. In a flash, the other two pinned his arms. He whirled, throwing one off, but another man stepped in, truncheon raised.
    The world exploded and went dim and woolly. As Gunnar’s knees buckled, he felt a swarm of hands plunge into his shirt, scrabbling for the veil and none too gently. Reeling, he wrenched one arm free and grabbed to save his prize.
    He was too slow. The veil whipped past his face, and its captor sprinted off toward the tower. In an instant, the others bolted after the fellow, leaving Gunnar on his knees in the dirt, skull ringing, nose aching, and missing a fair portion of his chest hair, by the feel of it.
    A fine fight, all in all, but now it was time to get serious. He’d spent a penny, after all, and he wanted his kiss, not to mention the silver that went with it.
    He shook off the fuzziness, clambered to his feet, and squinted around in the torchlight. The battle was rapidly shifting toward the foot of the tower as the many who’d missed out on a favor fought to steal from those few who had succeeded. With the same thought in mind, Gunnar waded into the middle of the mêlée, cheerfully trading blows with whoever came to hand as he worked his way to the foot of the scaffolding.
    Lord Tunstall had just started up the tower, but the determined squire was hard on his heels. The lad hurled himself upward to snag his belt. Tunstall strained for the next rung, but the boy, slim as he was, clung to him like a leech. Snarling, the bigger man twisted and reached down toward his boot. Gunnar frowned as Tunstall drew a fine dagger from a hidden sheath.
    Knave. Without waiting to see how he intended to use the blade, Gunnar pitched his truncheon. It hit Tunstall square on the elbow. The noble bawled with pain, and the knife dropped from his nerveless fingers and buried itself to the hilt in the ground, narrowly missing a pair of pursuing knights. Cries of “Foul!” rose, far angrier than what Gunnar had earned for his little cheat.
    “Forfeit. Lord Tunstall forfeits for carrying a banned weapon,” bellowed the herald at the window. “Withdraw, my lord. Withdraw.”
    As boos and jeers echoed off the walls. Gunnar retrieved his truncheon and turned his attention back to finding someone with a favor to steal. Anyone . . . with any favor...
    There. A man escaped a skirmish a few yards away, dashed to the foot of the tower, and started up. Two men charged out of the knot after him. Gunnar grabbed the nearest one by the back of the neck and tossed him into a cluster of men a couple of yards away. They all went down in a muddle.
    The second one had managed to get one foot up before Gunnar disposed of him in similar fashion. That just left the man with the favor, whatever it was. God’s toes,