Ladyhawke by Joan D. Vinge Read Free Book Online

with fury as he realized that Navarre had done it intentionally.
    Navarre smiled grimly. Reaching behind him, he jerked a blazing branch from the firepit and drove it at Marquet’s face. Marquet leaped aside, lost his balance, and tumbled into the fire. Guards rushed to his aid, dragging him from the pit and beating out the flames on his cloak. Navarre seized his chance in the confusion and began to fight his way back toward the exit.
    Outside in the street, Phillipe pushed himself away from the wall of the nearest building and forced his leaden feet to move, stumbling with shock and exhaustion. He looked back at the tavern, still hardly able to believe what had just happened, or that there were still no guards in sight. Turning the corner blindly, he blundered into the tethered horses the guardsmen had hidden in the stableyard beside the tavern. He jerked to a stop, keeping his feet by an effort of will; he was struck with the sudden inspiration that one of these horses would probably improve his now shaky escape chances by one hundred percent.
    But he had never ridden a horse in his life. Horses terrified him. The animals, so massive beside even a large, heavy man, seemed to loom over him like mountains. Under normal circumstances he would never even have considered this insanity. But these were hardly normal circumstances. He untied the reins of the nearest horse with fumbling hands. Grabbing hold of the saddle, he tried to get his foot into the stirrup. Sensing his nervousness, the horse flattened its ears and shied away from him.
    “Nice horse,” Phillipe soothed unconvincingly, “good horse . . .”
    The horse jerked back and bolted away down the street.
    Phillipe looked tensely toward the tavern. The shouts and screams, the clash of metal, told him that the fight was still going on. Navarre was holding off the entire company of guards single-handed. For a fleeting instant it occurred to him that he should go back and help the man who had just saved his life a second time. Just as swiftly, he realized that the idea was not only suicidal but completely absurd. He pulled the reins of the next horse free and jammed his foot into the stirrup.
    He held on to the saddle, boosting himself up, without seeing the dangling cinch strap. The saddle slid off the horse’s back and crashed to the ground on top of him. Cursing with frustration and humiliation, Phillipe ran to the next horse.
    Back in the yard, Navarre slashed another man’s sword arm, watched blood spurt and the other’s sword fly free. His own body smarted with cuts, none of them serious. His reaction time was slowing; but only two guards and a few more feet separated him from the gateway. He pressed his attack with fresh determination, inching his way toward freedom. Marquet was still alive; but he had accomplished the thing he had come to do, the truly vital thing—he had saved the young thief.
    Navarre knocked a last guard aside with the flaming brand and sprinted out of the courtyard. Glancing down the street as a riderless horse cantered by, he saw, with incredulous dismay, that Phillipe Gaston was still in view. The boy stood in a milling herd of horses, trying vainly to catch one after another. He looked up as Navarre burst into view, and his own face filled with dismay. He turned and ran.
    Swearing furiously under his breath, Navarre ran to his stallion and vaulted into the saddle. The hawk, waiting on his saddlebow, spread its wings and soared up into the air. Pulling his horse’s head around, he galloped away down the street after the boy. Behind him, one of the guards blew a warning call on a horn. Navarre looked ahead, his mouth tightening, knowing what it meant. That damned idiot, he thought, watching the boy run straight into another trap.
    The town wall loomed ahead of them. The high wooden gate at the end of the street was open, but the guardsman stationed there had heard the horn blast. As Navarre watched, he began to push the gate