Wounds of Honour: Empire I by Anthony Riches Read Free Book Online Page A

open, propelling Marcus through it with a hefty shove in the back.
    ‘Here he is! Take a good look at a traitor !’
    The incoming watch’s centurion goggled at Marcus’s face.
    ‘You’ve had a go at him!’
    ‘Yeah, but it was no fun. All he did was beg me to stop. Even you wouldn’t have enjoyed it at all.’
    The other man put his hands on his hips and laughed uproariously.
    ‘I see what you mean. I doubt he’ll offer any fight to the first robbers he meets.’
    ‘Yeah, and since those Asturians are bum boys to a man it might be quite a morning for our friend here.’
    He reached out, pushing Marcus’s saddlebag at him.
    ‘Go on, take your bag. It’ll be a small compensation for the boys that have been out half the night waiting for you. Now get on your horse and bugger off. Open the gate!’
    Marcus climbed on to the beast’s back, eyeing the soldiers that surrounded him with a sense of complete powerlessness. A scent of violence filled his nostrils, the energy generated by men eager to deal out pain. The main gates opened with a ponderous swing as half a dozen legionaries strained against their weight. The centurion pointed out into the darkness beyond the gate’s flickering torches.
    ‘Right, piss off. I only hope they get the time to do a proper job on you! Go! ’
    He slapped the horse’s rump, and the gate towers were suddenly behind Marcus as the animal bolted out into the pre-dawn gloom, across the bridge, past the houses and shops of the town and away down the dark road, pursued by the shouted insults of the gate guard.

2
    Out on the open road, even without the magnifying effect of the tightly packed buildings, the sounds of Marcus’s horse’s hoofs on the road sounded deafening. He steered the animal on to the softer grass verge, diminishing the staccato clatter to a gentle patter. When the stunted tree loomed out of the slowly lightening murk he dismounted, finding the promised sword and shield hidden in a tangle of roots that curled sinuously over the massive boulder around which the oak had flourished. His father, he mused, would have paid a fortune for such a decoration in the house’s courtyard. His father …
    The sword’s edge glittered slightly in the moonlight. Marcus touched the blade, his fingers snagging against a razor-sharp line of minutely ragged steel, rough-sharpened for combat, rather than the smooth steel of a peacetime weapon. He’d heard of the practice from old soldiers, but never seen it carried out. Someone expected him to need every small advantage that could be put his way. He remounted, riding cautiously on with an ear cocked for trouble, holding the reins with the hand that gripped the sword’s hilt. Shadows moved and swirled in his vision, purple and black, each eddy in the night’s mist taunting his senses.
    At the one-mile marker he thought he could just make out the distant sound of horses’ hoofs in front of him. He halted his own mount to listen in silence, but could hear nothing other than the wind’s moan. Another five minutes of uninterrupted progress relaxed him a little, and he started to worry more about exactly who he would find waiting for him at the two-mile marker than what might happen in the intervening stretch of road. He reached down to pat the horse with the back of his sword hand, as much seeking as offering reassurance.
    Looking up, he saw them materialise out of the mist to either side of the road, a pair of horsemen with swords held upright like cavalry troopers on parade. Wanting him to see the weapons, he guessed. He started as a voice spoke in the murk behind him, the Latin made crude by the edges of the man’s German accent.
    ‘Give up now and we’ll make it easy for you. Run, and these two will have their fun with you before you die.’
    Three, or more? Marcus let the sword and shield, already held low from stroking the horse’s mane, slip down against the animal’s flanks, hopefully invisible in the dim grey light of