The Eye of Winter's Fury Read Free Page B

under that look, knowing what he sees. A spoilt prince. Pampered by comfort and luxury. A prince adorned in gaudily-coloured silks and velvet, with court-fashion lace at the collarand sleeves. No armour for you, save for a padded undershirt. Fine if your assailant had a blunted dagger perhaps, but nothing that was going to stop an arrow or a sword.
    So much for royal protection. But then, you’re not the one who’d be doing the fighting.
    Not like the knights, rattling behind you in their armoured livery, pennants fluttering in the chill wind. Or the king’s own guard, in their mail coats and tabards, iron helms catching the drab pale light. You glance back at Molly, hunched sullenly in the back of the supply cart. Your maid. The woman who has nursed you since birth – since your mother passed away. It is a bitter truth that you have more in common with a frail old woman than your armed escort.
    You wince with shame. They couldn’t even trust you to travel without her. A grown man who needs to be looked after by his nursemaid. ‘Molly-coddled’, some of the knights had teased. They had every right to. In their eyes you were not a man, just a weak and sickly boy. It wasn’t fair.
    The inquisitor clears his throat. ‘Well?’
    You look back at the giant warrior. A veteran of a hundred campaigns. He has seen war in all its grim and nightmarish glory. He has lived it for real, not second-hand through the pages of a book or a bard’s whimsical yarn.
    ‘You were at Talanost when it fell, weren’t you?’ It is a question that has been nagging you for days. The books were still being written of the epic battle between the city’s militia and an invading army of demons and monsters. The shadow legion. If anyone was going to tell it as it was, it would be Inquisitor Hort. He was there. On the front lines. ‘Is it true that a Nevarin, one of their own, betrayed the legion?’
    The warrior’s jaw sets hard. He regards you with his usual steely glare – the one you can never hold. You lower your eyes back to the saddle, water dripping off the curls of your fringe. ‘I’m sorry. I understand you wouldn’t want to talk about it.’
    Your cheeks flush as you surrender yourself once again to the rhythm of the road, the rattle of harness and the clump of hooves in mud. It has been another long day of travel and every muscle knows it, knotting in protest as you lurch and bounce in the saddle. Tiredly, you reach for your pouch, knowing that its stash of medicines will help to ease the suffering. By accident, your hand brushes against yoursword hilt. You instinctively snatch it back, the enchanted steel burning cold against your skin.
    Even the stupid sword hates me.
    It had been a gift for your thirteenth birthday. A rare and exquisite weapon, its clawed pommel of blue steel clasped around a heart-shaped diamond. Alone, the gemstone is worth thousands – enough to buy a fleet of ships, a royal palace, a whole army . . . But even that pales into insignificance next to the rest of its craftsmanship. The blade is the finest Assay steel, flame-hardened and etched with a hundred lines of scripture. It was the last blade to be inscribed by Abbot Duran before he passed away, each holy letter draining the last of his fragile health. Duran’s Heart, they called it. Some say it was his finest work. His last work. A mighty sword fit for a mighty hero.
    Not a spoilt prince.
    Angrily, you tug open the pouch and pull out a handful of dried leaves. You stuff them into your mouth, chewing rather than sucking to release their bitter taste more quickly. It takes only a second for the potent magic to kick in – a fiery spark that rushes through your body, starting with your head and then tingling along your spine. You sit rigid in the saddle, shivering as it runs its course, punching fresh energy into your weary limbs. Keeping sleep at bay. Keeping the nightmares away.
    ‘Artemisa Draconis.’ The sharp voice slides under your skin,