Inkdeath Read Free Page A

children slept.
    Mo’s hand drew his sword as if of its own accord. As if it had never done anything else. It was the sword he had taken from the Castle of Night, the sword that once belonged to Firefox.

    The first light of dawn.

    Wasn’t it said that they always came at first light because they loved the red of the sky? With any luck they’d be drunk after one of their master’s endless banquets.

    The Prince signaled to the robbers to take up their positions surrounding the village.
    It was only a couple of courses of flat stones, and the huts wouldn’t offer much protection, either. The bear was snorting and grunting, and here they came now, out of the darkness: horsemen, more than a dozen of them, with the new crest of Ombra on their breasts, a basilisk on a red background. They had not, of course, been expecting to find men here. Weeping women, crying children, yes, but not men, and armed men at that. Taken aback, they reined in their horses. They were drunk. Good
    — that would slow them down.

    They didn’t hesitate for long, seeing at once that they were far better armed than the ragged robbers. And they had horses.

    Fools. They’d die before they realized that weapons and horses weren’t all that counted.

    "Every last one of them!" Snapper whispered hoarsely to Mo. "We have to kill them all, Bluejay. I hope your soft heart understands that. If a single man gets back to Ombra, this village will burn tomorrow.’’

    Mo merely nodded. As if he didn’t know.

    The horses neighed shrilly as their riders urged them toward the robbers, and Mo felt it again, just as he had on Mount Adder when he had killed Basta — that coldness of the blood. Cold as the hoarfrost at his feet. The only fear he felt was fear of himself.

    But then came the screams. The groans. The blood. His own heartbeat, loud and much too fast. Striking and thrusting, pulling his sword out of the bodies of strangers, the blood of strangers wet on his clothes, faces distorted by hatred—or was it fear?
    Fortunately, you couldn’t see much under their helmets. They were so young!
    Smashed limbs, smashed human beings. Careful, watch out behind you. Kill. Fast.
    Not one of them must get away.

    "Bluejay."

    One of the soldiers whispered the name before Mo struck him down. Perhaps he had been thinking, with his last breath, of all the silver he’d get for bringing the Bluejay’s body back to Ombra Castle — more silver than he could ever take as loot in a whole lifetime as a soldier. Mo pulled his sword out of the man’s chest. They had come without their body armor. Who needed armor against women and children? How cold killing made you, very cold, although your own skin was burning and your blood was flowing fever-hot.

    They did indeed kill them all. It was quiet in the huts as they threw the bodies over the precipice. Two were their own men, whose bones would now mingle with those of their enemies There was no time to bury them.

    The Black Prince had a nasty cut on his shoulder. Mo bandaged it as best he could.
    The bear sat beside them, looking anxious. The child came out of one of the huts, the little girl who had pushed up his sleeve. From a distance she really did look like Meggie. Meggie, Resa. . . he hoped they’d still be asleep when he got back. How was he going to explain all the blood if they weren’t? So much blood. . .

    Sometime, Mortimer, he thought, the nights will overshadow the days. Nights of blood. Peaceful days — days when Meggie showed him everything she had only been able to tell him about in the tower of the Castle of Night. Nymphs with scaly skins dwelling in blossom-covered pools, footprints of giants long gone, flowers that whispered when you touched them, trees growing right up to the sky, moss-women who appeared between their roots as if they had peeled away from the bark. . .
    Peaceful days. Nights of blood.

    They did what they could to cover up the traces of the fight and left, taking the horses with