Siege of Macindaw Read Free

identification. He kept the lance upright. To level it would be an unnecessarily provocative gesture.
    He studied the five men approaching him. Four of them were obviously men-at-arms. They carried swords and shields but no lances, the sign of a knight. And they all wore surcoats emblazoned with the same symbol, an ornate gold key on a quartered blue-and-white field. That meant they were all employed by the same lord, and Horace recognized the livery as belonging to Macindaw.
    The fifth man, who rode a meter in front of the others, was something of a puzzle. He carried a shield and wore a leather breastplate studded with iron. He had greaves of the same material protecting his legs, but apart from that, he wore woolen clothing and leggings. He had no helmet, and there was no symbol on his shield to give any clue to his identity. A sword hung from his pommel – a heavy weapon, a little shorter and thicker than Horace's cavalry sword. But strangest of all was the fact that, in place of a lance, he carried a heavy war spear some two meters long.
    He had long black hair and a beard, and he looked to be in a perpetual state of ill temper, with heavy brows set in a permanent frown. Altogether, Horace thought, he was not a man to be trusted.
    The riders were some ten meters away when Horace called out.
    "I think that's close enough for the moment."
    The leader made a brief signal, and the four men-at-arms drew rein. The leader, however, continued to ride toward Horace. When he was five meters away, Horace freed the butt of the lance from the socket beside his right stirrup and brought the point down so that it was leveled at the approaching rider.
    The stranger had chosen to be provocative. He could hardly take offense if Horace reacted in kind.
    The unwavering iron point of the lance, gleaming dully where it had been carefully sharpened the night before, was aimed at the rider's throat. He brought his horse to a stop.
    " There's no need for that," he said. His voice was rough and angry.
    Horace shrugged slightly. "And there's no need for you to come any closer," he replied calmly, "until we know each other a little b etter."
    Two of the men-at-arms began to edge their horses out to the left and right. Horace glanced at them briefly, then returned his gaze to the other man's face.
    " Tell your men to stay where they are, please."
    The bearded man swiveled in his saddle and glanced at them.
    " That's enough," he ordered, and they stopped moving. Horace glanced quickly at them again. There was something not quite right about them. Then he realized what it was. They were scruffy, their surcoats stained and crumpled, their arms and armor unburnished and dull. They looked as if they'd be more at home hiding in the forest and waylaying innocent travelers than wearing the arms of a castle lord. In most castles, the men-at-arms were under the orders and discipline of experienced sergeants. It was rare that they would be allowed to become so disheveled.
    "You're getting off to a bad start with me, you know," the bearded man said. In another man, the remark might have had overtones of humor or amusement to soften implicit threat in the words. Here, the threat was overt. Even more so when he added, after a pause, "You might come to regret that."
    "And why might that be?" Horace asked. The other man had obviously got the point. He raised the lance again and replaced it in its stirrup socket as the man replied.
    "Well, if you're looking for work, you don't want to get on my wrong side, is why."
    Horace considered the statement thoughtfully.
    "Am I looking for work?" he asked.
    The other man said nothing but gestured toward the device on Horace's shield. There was a long silence between them and finally the man was forced to speak.
    "You're a free lance," he said.
    Horace nodded. He didn't like the man's manner. It was arrogant and threatening, the sign of a man who had been given authority when he wasn't used to wielding it.
    " True," he