devilstone chronicles 01 - devils band Read Free

his belt and smashed its point into the roof. The tiles splintered as if they’d been hit by a culverin ball but the blade bit into a wooden rafter and his descent stopped. Pausing only to thumb his nose at the crowd, Thomas scrambled to his feet and disappeared into the darkness.
    “He’s up, after him!” Pynch cried and to encourage the pursuers to greater efforts he declared that if the king’s disgraced alchemist was caught Cardinal Wolsey would sentence the wretch to be hanged, drawn and quartered in public as a reward. The promise of this grisly spectacle had exactly the effect Pynch desired, the mob roared with delight and the chase began again.
    The thought of having his privy parts sliced from his half strangled, still living body and thrown onto a bonfire of his own guts drove Thomas on but it had been days since he’d eaten anything more solid than gruel and lack of food was slowly robbing him of his strength. He forced his legs to carry him forward but his growing weariness and difficult path slowed his progress. Meanwhile, the pursuing crowd’s easier route through the streets meant they soon overtook him and as he reached another group of chimneys, Thomas’ instincts told him to hide. He ducked behind a particularly ornate stack of twisted brickworkjust as two figures emerged from a skylight twenty yards ahead.
    Even in the darkness he recognised these vengeful furies as Ned, the uninjured twin, whilst the other man’s grotesque profile could only belong to Pynch. For all his fat, the avaricious usurer could run like a greyhound if there was a promise of gold and Cardinal Wolsey always paid handsomely for the head of a rival.
    “Surrender you cur!” cried Pynch.
    “Never, if you want me, come and face me like a man, you turd from the arse of a whore!” Thomas yelled back.
    “Is that the language of a high born gentleman?” taunted Pynch as he signalled for Ned to end the game and arrest the fugitive. Behind the chimneystack, Thomas pressed his sweating fingers around the falchion’s hilt and watched Ned, who was now armed with an ancient but serviceable halberd, begin his nervous advance along the slippery rooftop. The moonlight caught the combined axe blade, spear point and billhook of Ned’s lethal weapon and Thomas felt the hot humours of battle course through his veins.
    “You won’t get me with that pig sticker!” Thomas cried but Ned was not to be put off.
    “Come out from behind those pots and you’ll see what I can do, I’ll cut off your pox-ridden cock you pigeon livered, lack gall, northern bastard!” Ned growled.
    For some reason the final taunt was too much, something snapped in Thomas’ brain and he emerged from his hiding place to launch an attack but his first stroke was premature. Ned was still ten feet away and though his witswere as slow as treacle the extra reach of his halberd gave him an advantage. The instant Thomas revealed himself, Ned thrust his poleaxe towards his enemy and had he been an inch closer, the halberd’s spike would have ripped open his opponent’s belly. Even so, the weapon’s point tore through Thomas’ clothes and scraped a shallow gash across his stomach but he ignored the scratch and used the pain to fuel his anger.
    With a great cry of rage Thomas rolled around the opposite face of the chimney to attack Ned from behind and as soon as he could see his target’s unprotected flank, he swung his sword with all his strength. Ned saw the falchion flash through its arc but now the length of his halberd and the chimneystack conspired against him. The brickwork blocked any attempt to parry Thomas’ counterattack and Ned screamed in agony as the heavy sword bit into the bones of his thigh. The brute collapsed like a felled tree and great red rivers of his blood began to stream down the roof.
    “You bastard, my leg!” Ned shrieked as he tried to staunch the gore that was pouring from his partially severed limb but it was too late, in the space of a