Samual Read Free Page A

some of them had found him. Thus far they'd all failed badly at killing him, mostly at the cost of their own freedom, limbs and sometimes lives as they attacked with all the fury of a rabid dog. Fortunately he was a knight of Hanor as well as a wizard and the king's son, and he could fight. They kept forgetting that. And at least some good had come from their losses, as their defeat had provided him with some more weapons,  armour, horses and anything else of value they had on them, which he could then sell for good coin.
     
    He'd also sold those assassins that survived into slavery, figuring it was a more than suitable punishment for those who chose to kill others for coin; especially his half-brother's coin. A life for a life was his thought. There were still a few slavers who plied the trade path that ran along the Shavarran border down to the seaport of Schist Harbour. It was probably a dangerous thing for him to do, but despite the risk that his would be killers might talk, leading to yet more bounty hunters and assassins on his tail, he thought it also the right thing to do. He wasn't a murderer which was the only alternative he had. He also enjoyed the irony of making a profit at his half-brother's expense. It was somehow fitting, and it kept him fed and sheltered.
     
    Assassins though usually only came in ones and twos, and mostly they had the good sense to at least muffle their horses' hooves with sacking, if they were foolish enough to bring them into ear shot at all. These he realised, as he heard more and more of them, were not assassins.
     
    Nor were they visitors from the nearby town of Torin Vale or Torin Endess mi Idril – the Vale of Torin's Tears – as it was more properly called in High Elvish. They would call out to him as they arrived. He had lived among them for five years. Long enough to know many of them.
     
    Puzzled rather than alarmed, Sam threw off his covers, pulled himself out of bed and walked over to the window in the main room, a genuine glass window he'd bought especially for his little cottage. All it had cost him was a brace of poisoned stilettos – another of his half-brother's generous gifts to one of the many assassins he'd hired. Heri had no doubt expected the man to stick the dagger in his chest. Sam had had other ideas. It pleased Sam to know that even his half-brother's hatred and evil could be used to build him a home and keep him warm and comfortable.
     
    His might not be a particularly proud cottage, barely large enough for him to have a separate bedroom upstairs from the living area and kitchen, but it was home and whenever he had a few coins to rub together, he liked to spend some of them on it.
     
    In the five years since he'd found the abandoned building and made it his home, he'd increased the size of the main room and put in a sleeping loft. Then he'd re-roofed the entire cottage, replacing the old rotting thatch with new oiled planks. He'd also bricked out a new internal fire place so that he could cook inside, an absolute must when it rained so often, and replaced the rotting rope stairway leading up to it with a sturdier, permanent staircase spiralling around the oak tree's massive trunk. Finally he'd purchased glass for his windows; all four of them.
     
    Then there were the extensive gardens and orchards which he'd planted, both for food and income, and the stables around the tree's base. It was still a modest cottage, certainly not large enough for his wife and the hoped for children he would by now have had, had it not been for Heri. But it was comfortable, it kept him fed, warm and dry, and above all else it was home.
     
    So who was outside it?
     
    Sam stared out the window and from the light of the nearly full moon, not to mention the torches the group were carrying, he could just make out the horses and their riders. And the moment he set eyes on them he knew there was trouble. Riding at night by torch light usually meant trouble in itself. There was too