The Southern Trail (Book 4) by Jeffrey Quyle Read Free Book Online Page A

easily peeled the skin from the man’s hand as though it were a glove.
    “Golden Hand’s hand is golden, as his names implies, and as you’ve noticed no doubt.  It needs to be covered so that his identity is not discovered,” Iasco explained.  She lifted the right arm of the unconscious Marco, then released it so that it floated in air, while she raised the ghastly covering and laid it atop his enchanted hand.  Iasco waved her hand over Marco’s, and the skin from the dead soldier adhered to Marco instantly, covering the golden flesh that marked him as unique.
    She picked up the sword and lightly scored Marco’s scalp, then rubbed it to make blood run onto his forehead.   She looked at him carefully, then reached down to his wrist and carefully removed the silver bracelet he wore, the wedding gift that had been given to him by Mirra at Sant Jeroni on their wedding day; she smiled a sad smile momentarily.
    “Now, let this sword become unnoticeable, not worth observing by anyone who looks at Marco, not worth spending any time on if it is noticed,” she added as she momentarily grasped the sword while she clasped Marco’s concealed golden hand.
    “Here, take him to where the prisoners are kept, and leave him with them,” Iasco told her two guards as she released her hold on him and stepped away.  “Slap his face hard when you’re ready to leave, and he’ll wake up,” she instructed.  “Now take him and go,” she told them, giving an order, and the two women immediately did as instructed.  Iasco walked over to open the door and held it for them, and stood watching them for a long time, even after they were out of sight.
    When she finally closed the door and stepped back into the room, Mitment saw a tear running down her cheek.
    “Pray that he remains alive, Mitment,” Iasco said to her unseen guardian.  “Though if we ever see him again it will likely mean that one or more of us is about to die.”

 
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter 8
     
    When Marco woke up, he was sitting in the dirt and his cheek was stinging.  He momentarily saw the backside of a pair of women walking away, and then the crowd blocked his view and a man next to him was softly kicking him in the thigh.
    “Get up off the ground,” the man told him.
    Marco looked up in a daze.  The sun was overhead, behind the man’s head, leaving Marco blind to any details of his appearance, other than the black uniform he wore, the same uniform that the dozens of men milling around wore.  He pushed himself up and stood, looking around again.
    The man who had spoken to him was gone.  There were guards stationed all around the group of men in black, guards who wore yellow uniforms and carried long pikes with wicked looking blades at their tops.
    “What’s your name?  What unit were you in?” a man spoke to Marco.
    “My name’s Marco.  I don’t remember my unit,” he said.
    “Looks like he got hit in the head,” another man said, pointing to the dried blood that streaked his forehead and hair.  “Where are you from?”
    “I think I’m from Rurita?” Marco asked more than he answered.  The place name sounded right, and yet it didn’t for some reason.
    “I’ve heard of it; didn’t know we had anyone from there in the army,” the man told him.  “I’m Wilh; this is Bram.  We’re part of the Davec unit, not terribly far from Rurita,” the man said as he motioned towards the first soldier who had spoken to Marco.
    “That’s a mighty shiny necklace you have there,” another prisoner spoke to Marco.  “Is that gold?”
    “Gold?” Wilh said scornfully.  “The boy’s from Rurita; there’s no gold there!”
    “It’s just brass, all polished up,” Bram agreed.  “He can’t have any gold.
    “You can stay with us until you find your unit again,” Wilh spoke, dismissive of the talk of gold.
    “If any of us ever get to see our units again,” Bram interjected.
    “What do you mean?” Marco asked.
    “They’re