Ward of the Philosopher by D. P. Prior Read Free Book Online Page A

closed on all the surrounding houses, and the trestle tables of the market traders had been abandoned.
    Aristodeus tapped Deacon on the shoulder and drew his attention to the east.
    The ghost-ship from the bay was gliding down the sheer slope of Heredwin Hill, its prow rearing and pitching through a sea of grass, an unearthly wind ruffling its shredded sails.
    The blood in Deacon’s veins turned to ice, and his teeth started to chatter.
    “Here!” someone cried from the big barn the traders stored their wares in. It was Gerrick Marny, the fat old man who ran the merchant’s guild. Behind him, through the crack of the doors, Deacon could see dozens of people crammed inside.
    Aristodeus tutted. “You’re only making it easier for them,” he called to Gerrick. “What do you think, young Shader? Is it a sound strategy?”
    Deacon thought about it for a second, eyes flitting between the barn and the approaching carrack.
    “They’ll be trapped. The reavers could burn the barn down.”
    “You think that’s likely?”
    After a moment’s hesitation, Deacon realized he’d been sloppy in his reasoning. “They’ll be captured, taken to Verusia.”
    “Indeed, and I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. Do you know what the Lich Lord will… No, we’ll save that for when you’re older. Your mother would never let me hear the end of it, if I set your mind in that direction.”
    As Aristodeus strode over to the barn to speak with Gerrick, Deacon stood transfixed by the ghostly ship entering the outskirts of the village and drifting along the main road. Its hull was rotten, encrusted with barnacles and slick with algae. The frayed tatters of its mainsail had the consistency of clouds. Men hung from the rigging by their necks, heads twisted at impossible angles. More were packed onto the forecastle, staring straight ahead with ember eyes. The entire ship was cloaked in a dirty miasma the shade of bruises, and a rancid stench rolled off of it.  
    The creak of the barn doors made Deacon glance over his shoulder. A couple of dozen villagers, women and old men among them, edged outside holding pitchforks, scythes, shovels, and knives. They were petrified, but Aristodeus must have convinced them to at least put up a fight. It was a case of simple logic, Deacon had learned that much: hide and be taken, or make a stand and create a chance for yourself, no matter how slight. Some of them started to go from house to house, knocking on doors, banging on shutters, hollering for those inside to come out and join them in defending the village. A few people emerged warily, but the majority didn’t respond.
    “I was hoping your father might have finished with the other ships by now and headed back,” Aristodeus said, returning to stand with Deacon and casting an appraising look over the carrack. “It could be that I overestimated the Coastal Watch.” He raised an eyebrow.
    The philosopher knew more than he was letting on. He’d been unruffled by news of the reavers, and not at all surprised by mention of the fourth ship. As he stepped across the square to confront the carrack, he showed no fear, not the slightest hint of concern.  
    Deacon felt the heat of shame sting his cheeks. He might have only been seven, but if he was going to be an Elect knight, he had no business being afraid. The Grand Master would never stand for it. He tightened his grip on his shortsword so much, his knuckles turned white.
    The carrack came to a halt with its prow jutting into the village square. Dark mist curled away from the ground beneath its hull. A gangplank was lowered, and men came lumbering down it. They were dressed in rags beneath rusted mail. Some wore helms that bore the dents of the blows that had killed them. For there was no doubt these reavers were dead, even though they were moving. Yet it was no natural gait they had: they lurched, shuffled, and shambled, stiff with rigor. Their eyes were smoldering coals that glared hungrily. Strips