Warrior Mage (Book 1) by Lindsay Buroker Read Free Book Online Page A

dropped the weapon. Cursing himself, he jumped back, giving himself room to recover. This was no duel in a practice arena for show. This man wanted to kill him.
    His elbow brushed against something. Lakeo. She was still fighting her own opponent.
    Knowing he could not back up farther without impeding her, Yanko stood his ground under the next barrage that the man launched at him. Each blow numbed Yanko’s arms with its power, but he blocked them nonetheless and tried to find an opening in the blur of metal dancing in front of him. The man wielded the two blades effectively, but Yanko noticed that the swipes from his right hand weren’t quite as quick and deadly. He must favor his left hand. If Yanko could take that out of action, he might gain the advantage. He wished he could hurl some mental attack at the same time as he fought, but blocking the rain of blows took all of his concentration.
    The man’s foot bumped the arm of one of his fallen comrades, and he glanced down. He was only distracted for a split second, but Yanko turned the attack on him. Instead of defending, he launched his own series of blows, first a slash toward the man’s head with the long blade, and then he lunged in, aiming for the vulnerable inner thigh. Getting so close on someone tall and with two swords was a risk—the man’s reach was far greater than his own—but Yanko was fast and believed he could skitter back out again if he needed to. Fortunately, his rapid barrage of blows, half more feints than true attacks, made the bigger man step back. Finally, Yanko found his opening, and he whipped his shorter blade across, the edge cutting into the invader’s dominant hand. The blade bit deep, and the man dropped the weapon.
    Yanko ducked, anticipating the frenzied, defensive attack from the other hand. It came, and the longsword sailed over his head, so close that it almost relieved him of his topknot, but in his moment of slight panic, the man swung too hard. The sword struck the wall, biting into the salt.
    Before his foe could recover from the wild blow, Yanko leaped in close and plunged his kyzar into the man’s kidney.
    The intruder gasped, his back going as rigid as a tree. He dropped his sword, clutched at Yanko’s arm, and stared him in the eyes, horror and pain contorting his features. Yanko jumped back, in case the invader had one more attack in him before he passed on, but not before the impression of that face imprinted itself in his mind forever. His stomach churned, and his mouth was drier than desert sand, but he couldn’t stop to dwell on this now, on the fact that he was taking the lives of other human beings.
    He turned toward the archer he had attacked earlier, expecting that the man would have recovered by now. But there was a knife buried in his chest.
    He turned to check on Lakeo. Blood dripped from a cut at her temple, but she had defeated her opponent, and she must have been the one to throw the knife, as well. She gave him a quick nod and waved her sword to signal she could go on. Her face was pale, and Yanko wondered if she, too, despite all her bravado, had never had to kill a man before.
    The miners that had been following them had climbed over the rubble pile and still had their pickaxes, but they hadn’t made any move to join in with the fight. A twinge of frustration ran through Yanko, and he had to remind himself that they had no reason to feel loyal to the mines or to him. Yelling at them wouldn’t do anything.
    Apparently, Lakeo didn’t feel the same way. She pulled her knife out of the archer’s chest and used it to point at the leader. “You ox brains help us with the fighting, and maybe Yanko will be more inclined to look the other way when you skulk off.”
    Remembering the cry that had come from the living quarters, Yanko headed off, not worrying about the conversation.
    “That what happened with those Turgonians?” the miner asked.
    “That’s right,” Lakeo said and ran to catch up with Yanko.