The Traitor's Blade by Kevin Sands (fiction books to read .TXT) 📕

the gunpowder from the frizzen, then tied the first of the fireworks to the end. Then I lit the fuse, pointed the pistol at the sky, and waited, eyes closed.

I did burn my skin. But it only stung a little as the firework shot upward, into the sky.

The paper cone came off about ten yards up, spiraling down onto the road. Unbalanced, the firework wobbled and flew in an erratic arc.

Then it exploded. There was a boom, a little too soft, and while the burst flared, it was only half of what it should have been. The cylinder must have lost powder along the way.

My heart sank. I had only one more chance. I double-wrapped this firework, using the Templars’ final letter, and smeared all the gum I had on the cone until it wouldn’t come off in my fingers. I smeared aloe on my hand, too, berating myself for not thinking of doing that the first time, to shield me from the burning powder.

A shot flew over the road. I ignored it. I held my pistol straight up, away from my face, and lit the fuse.

It flew. My firework rocketed away, burning so furiously that I was shocked. Until I remembered with joy that—just as an experiment, of course, and while Tom’s back had been turned—I’d double-loaded a couple of the fireworks.

This one performed flawlessly. It flew so high that the flame out the back looked little more than a candle.

Then it exploded.

The BOOM echoed in my ears. Streams of silver light burst outward, a glorious display that lit up the night. I wondered what the Covenanter out there was thinking. I hoped it was nothing good, and wished him every evil in the world.

A cry came from up the road. “Christopher!”

“Tom!” I stared in horror at the lantern, rocking up and down in the distance as Tom approached, astride Lightning at full gallop. “Get down! Someone’s out there!”

“What?”

He couldn’t hear me over his horse. Desperately, I dumped powder into the frizzen of my pistol, the wood scorched and smoking, and stuck my head up over the ditch, aiming into the meadow.

The firework had lit the whole area like a flare. I saw a glint of metal where I’d seen the shooter earlier. His musket!

I nearly fired; I stopped my finger from pulling the trigger just in time. The musket was on the ground. The shooter had left it behind when he fled.

My fireworks had chased him away.

Tom slowed, pulling on the reins until Lightning came to a snorting stop, stamping his feet as he eyed the rope-snake in the road.

Tom looked horrified as, muddy and bleeding, I climbed from the ditch. “What happened?” he said.

“They set a trap,” I said. “Blossom hit the rope—she fell.…”

Tom looked around, still confused, but there wasn’t much to see anymore. My firework had burned out. The only light now came from Tom’s lantern, my fallen torch, and the stars.

“Where is Blossom?”

I’d have liked to find her, see she was all right, but there was no time. We had to get to the king.

I found my other pistol; it was near where I’d first hit the ground. I stuffed it in my belt. Then I climbed up on Lightning, behind Tom. He kicked his heels, and we were off.

The old warhorse tore up the road. I held on to Tom, bleeding, aching, afraid I might fly off the back. And an image came to me then, as we’d seen it in Paris.

Two brothers on one horse, I thought.

A symbol of the Knights Templar. Was it an omen?

Then I heard the sounds of battle up ahead.

CHAPTER

48

IT WAS A SCENE OF horror.

The road stretched away, disappearing into the woods.

And that road was littered with bodies.

There had to be nearly forty of them, starting from the edge of the trees, over a span of seventy yards. The king’s carriage, adorned with golden trim, lay overturned, its horses dead, still tied in the traces. My stomach dropped as my eyes fell on the wreckage, expecting to see the lifeless form of His Majesty

(my fault)

but he wasn’t there.

More horses lay among the men, the scene cast in the eerie glow of fallen, fluttering torches. There was enough light to see that most of the dead did not wear beige tabards with the king’s coat of arms—they were not the King’s Men. These were Covenanter dead.

The roar of battle came from our right. There the King’s Men were making their stand, fighting atop a ridge to which they’d retreated. It was a good defensive position—at least, the best that could be found in the meadow. Around the ridge was a ditch, which acted like a natural, dry moat. It gave the King’s Men the advantage of height, from which they could strike down at the surrounding Covenanters.

Around them was a ring of bodies: carcasses of the King’s Men’s horses, which, from the bullet wounds, had taken the brunt of the initial volley of gunfire from the ambushers, saving the men sheltered behind them. Now more bodies were being added to the ring, as the battle was fought, forming a mound the enemy needed to stumble over.

Lord Ashcombe stood side by side with his troops, holding the Covenanter mob at bay. The odds looked grim. Even though the King’s Men were in a strong position, I counted less than twenty of them standing. There were four times as many Covenanters still alive.

Holding Lightning’s reins one-handed, Tom drew Eternity from its sheath. The blade rang with holy song. Tom’s arm was steady, even as his voice quavered.

“Hold on tight,” he said, trembling.

Then he turned his horse directly into the fray.

Lightning’s hooves churned the dirt as he reached his full speed. He roared, a challenge, as if remembering battles long fought and eager to relive them. I drew a pistol, my other hand clinging to Tom’s waist.

A gap was forming in the circle of King’s Men atop the ridge. Tom angled Lightning toward it, sword