The Deadwalk by Stephanie Bedwell-Grime Read Free Book Online Page A

subjects.
    They came in pairs of two or three, staggering on in loose formation. Shop
keepers still wearing their tattered aprons, stone masons, smiths, women,
mutilated children bearing kitchen knives.
    Clouded eyes stared out from blood-streaked faces. Tatters of clothing
fluttered in the breeze like dirty laundry. Some rode on emaciated horses,
others lumbered after them on foot.
    Then in the center, Riordan saw a blaze of light.
    Nhaille's hand covered her mouth as the gasp burst from her lips. She bit her
lip, tasting blood. And still she could not tear her attention from the figure
who rode past her, separated by only a space of grass and the insubstantial
barrier of trees.
    Even in death he sat straight upon his cadaverous mount. His shining black
hair was caked with dust and the ruddy stains of drying blood. The wounds on his
body were hidden by his cloak, but the skeletal hands that gripped the reins
were streaked with dirt. On his head, like some tasteless joke, sat his gold
diadem.
    As though he somehow sensed her presence, his head turned slowly in her
direction. Riordan whimpered low in her throat. Nailed through her father's once
jet black eye was a stake of amber.
    Hot tears blurred her vision, threatening to spill onto her cheeks. Riordan
fought the overwhelming impulse to surrender to grief. If she cried, all would
be lost.
    Scalding tears cooled. The rapid thump of her heart stilled. The urge to cry
froze within her, turning her blood to ice.
    With forced calmness, she watched until the last cadaver disappeared over the
summit of the next hill. Nhaille dropped his hand from her mouth. Riordan licked
blood from the corner of her lip.
    “They will pay for this.” Her words were the barest whisper. “I'll not rest
until Hael lies in rubble and the head of its heir sits on a stake before the
city gates.”
    “Riordan--”
    A harsh shout cut off the last of Nhaille's sentence. As one they whirled, to
find two Haelian riders galloping up the hill toward them.
    “They've seen us!” Nhaille hissed.
    She saw the flash of his sword, found her own in her hand. Having no other
choice, they plummeted down the slope toward the soldiers.
    Grinding her spurs into Strayhorn's flank, she raced past Nhaille. The eyes
of the first Haelian widened in shock as he caught a glimpse of the crazed woman
careening down the hill toward him.
    For a fleeting moment he debated standing his ground. Thinking better of it,
he turned tail and fled. Riordan urged Strayhorn relentlessly onward. The
warhorse obeyed, bearing down on the hapless soldier like Jaador, God of
Retribution himself.
    Nhaille's shouts echoed in her ears. Her impulsiveness could get them both
killed. She knew it well, but couldn't think past the blinding wave of fury
inside. With the sum of her strength she swung. The effort nearly unseated her,
but she felt her sword strike bone.
    Impact reverberated up her arm, jarring her from wrist to shoulder. She swung
again, ignoring her helmet as it slid from her head, freeing her mane of of
silver hair.
    As if from a distance she watched in cold horror as her sword clove the
Haelian's head from his shoulders. His plumed helmet sailed into the morning
sun, coming to rest part way down the hill.
    Still bearing the body of its headless rider, the Haelian's warhorse raced
off on its previous course. His partner stared at the headless horseman and
bolted for the cover of a nearby patch of forest. Riordan chased after him.
    Ground flew by beneath Strayhorn's hooves as he followed the narrow, twisting
path. But the Haelian soldier had the lead and he vanished under the cover of
the trees. A fence of green obscured her view. Within seconds she realized she'd
lost him.
    A gloved hand seized the reins. She gasped staring up at Nhaille suddenly
beside her.
    “It's too late, Riordan.” Nhaille looked nervously around them. “They've seen
us now. We have no choice but to ride for the desert and