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

of gray flesh hung from yellowish bones, and skeletal fingers clutched the pommels of swords brown with corrosion.
    Despite his new resolve, Deacon started to tremble. His hand grew numb from gripping his sword too tight. He told himself to relax, but his fingers refused to obey.  
    He glanced back at the villagers, who were inching forward in a half-circle. There was fear in their eyes, but grim determination in the set of their jaws. They knew what was at stake if they fled or did nothing. Most of these folk had children in the schoolhouse, or elderly parents stowed away behind locked doors. They advanced only as far as Aristodeus and Deacon, then just stood there, as if they hoped the reavers would change their minds and leave them alone. Deacon knew they wouldn’t. That wasn’t the way of the world. He’d learnt as much from Aristodeus, and his experience with bullies like Brent Carvin only served to confirm it.  
    But he did know his father would have charged before the undead had a chance to fully disembark. Deacon would have done the same himself, if only he’d been bigger.
    Aristodeus was watching him with narrowed eyes. The hint of a smile formed on his lips, and he nodded approvingly, as if Deacon had just voiced his thoughts out loud.
    “I see the lessons are paying off, young Shader. That look in your eyes is what I’ve been after: calculating, seeking the advantage, strategizing. I’d even go so far as to call it ‘predatory’. Not the usual hallmarks of a seven-year-old, which I’d say makes you somewhat exceptional. We’re off to a good start.”
    “Why don’t the people attack?” Deacon asked. “We could bottleneck them on the gangplank.”
    “For myself, I was just waiting for the command,” Aristodeus said. “Every army needs a commander, even one as fragile as ours.”
    The rush of blood pounded in Deacon’s ears. His hand on the sword hilt was slick with sweat. It was no good looking at the villagers for help; they were half-watching Aristodeus, half-watching the undead forming up in front of the carrack.
    “Timing is of the essence,” Aristodeus said, nodding toward the foe.
    “But…” Deacon said. Why don’t you do something? Why doesn’t anybody?
    If not for the slow, lumbering movements of the reavers, it would have all been over already. As more and more shambled down the gangplank, and the decks showed no signs of emptying, Deacon realized there was no need for the the undead to hurry; they would advance like the tide coming in. Either the villagers would be overwhelmed by sheer weight of numbers, or they’d turn tail and flee, and to the Abyss with those locked up indoors.
    “Deacon!” his mother cried from across the square.
    He spun round to face the way he and Aristodeus had come. Gralia waved him toward her, eyes wide with horror. He knew what she was thinking, what she always thought: Something bad was going to happen to him. Well, for once, she was probably right.
    But it was a sin for an Elect knight to leave the field…
    Turning his back on her, he yelled, “Charge!”
    He started toward the undead massing in front of the ship, but Aristodeus yanked him back and ran forward himself.
    The villagers exchanged worried looks with each other, and then they charged.  
    Tendrils of purplish mist streamed down from the deck of the carrack, splitting and dividing again until each connected to the head of a reaver. Deacon followed the tangle of threads upward, where they emanated from splayed, bony fingers.
    Leaning out from the forecastle was a skeleton swathed in mildewed tatters. A coronet of tarnished silver sat atop its cracked and crumbling skull. It waggled its fingers, sending ripples through the tendrils, and the eyes of the reavers blazed crimson. Jerky movements grew suddenly swift and sure. Rusted weapons swept down. Pitted blades shattered on impact with farm tools, but not all were blocked. Blood sprayed, and swords ripped through flesh, slinging gory