Kingmaker's Sword (Rune Blades of Celi) by Ann Marston Read Free Book Online Page A

struggling, still and quiet in the shadows.
    “Isgardians, do you think?” I asked.
    Cullin shook his head. “I don’t know. I can’t see well enough. Well, whatever they are, they deserve better than ending up as Maeduni slaves.”
    “Nobody deserves slavery,” I muttered, moving toward the camp. “I’ll be back.”
    Cullin caught my arm. “Be careful.”
    I grinned. “I will. I was thinking if there was no warlock with them, someone might slip down there and set up a small amount of tumult and confusion among the horses. Then it would be a simple matter for someone else to skulk through the shadows and cut the bonds on those prisoners.”
    Cullin’s answering grin was quick. “Aye,” he agreed. “You think well for someone who says he was always a slave.” He reached over his shoulder and made sure the sword on his back moved easily in its scabbard. “Someone might even consider giving those Maeduni a lesson in good manners.” He pointed to a low mound of thornbush a few yards short of the stream. “I’ll wait there. Can you signal if it’s clear?”
    “I do a fair imitation of a nightjar,” I said.
    “Good. When you give the signal, we’ll move. I’ll meet you back where we left the horses. Be careful.” Without further word, he touched my shoulder, and melted into the shadows, moving to the left toward the horses. I made sure of my dagger in its boot sheath, then moved off to the right.
    There wasn’t a lot of cover on the side of the hill, but I had the advantage of a moonless night. The men below were sitting around a fire and their eyes would not adjust quickly to see something moving in the dark beyond the firelight. But if they did have a warlock with them, he might be able to find me if I got too close.
    The sound of their laughter became clear as I crept through the coarse grass. The ground beneath the grass was rocky and hard. I had to move slowly and cautiously so not to disturb the loose stones. I’d heard not so much as a rustle in the grass as Cullin slipped away.
    When I reached the bank of the stream, I was less than a dozen yards from the nearest mercenary. I was downwind. I could smell the strong ale they were drinking, and the scent of cooking meat coming from the pot on the fire. But there was no stench of magic. No warlock. Nothing to prickle my skin or raise the hairs along the back of my neck, or my arms. I lay absolutely still for a long time, watching the mercenaries. Perhaps this band wasn’t large enough to warrant having a warlock assigned to it. This was only a small band. The troops who had come to Lord Mendor’s Landholding usually numbered more than thirty. And with thirty, there was only the one who raised the hackles on my neck.
    Finally convinced there was no warlock with them, I cupped my hands around my mouth and gave the harsh, grating cry of a nightjar. Moments later, it was answered from somewhere downstream.
    I began to move slowly. I had to stand up to leap across the narrow stream, but I made it in one jump. A burst of laughter from the men around the fire covered any sound I might have made on the loose gravel. My heart thudded in my chest hard enough to tear it loose, and I realized I was holding my breath. I forced myself to breathe normally, then dropped to my belly again and crept forward.
    The three prisoners lay huddled together near the embankment. Only a yard or two from them, I sank down onto the gravel strand and unsheathed my dagger, then settled down to wait for Cullin to set up his diversion.
    I didn’t have long to wait. The high, yodeling shriek of a clan war cry split the night. At the same instant, a dozen or more terrified horses burst away from the picket lines and galloped directly at the campfire. One of them sailed over the flames and went flying past the prisoners, narrowly missing one of them. It passed me running flat out, ears laid back, tail raised like a flag. I rolled quickly out of its way barely in time to miss getting