again at the red lambskin rugs. I wondered if they’d been dyed with blood. But surely blood wouldn’t stay so red. . . .
The creature appeared through a doorway to my right. It now clutched weapons in both hands: in its left was a curved sword, which is sometimes called a saber; in its right, a long-bladed dagger.
I attacked immediately, driving the beast backward. But it was very skilful: the saber met each blow of my sword, filling the room with the clash of metal upon metal.
I was wary of the dagger, which the creature held close to its side, waiting for an opportunity to strike. I resolved not to step too close. My opponent might drag me in and use that short blade.
There are two effective modes of combat. One is to remain cold and calculating, observing every detail of an opponent’s technique, assessing strengths and weaknesses, before delivering the death blow. The other is to surrender to what the mind and body already know and fight using instinct, the weapons and moves mere extensions of one’s own body, which then acts faster than thought.
But there is also a third, more dangerous way of doing battle—to fight driven by rage. Those opponents who attack you filled with a berserker fury are the easiest to counter and kill.
This was how I fought now. My anger was fueled by the creature’s behavior—by the way it had treated Jenny, biting her back and shoulders, tying her up and hanging her by her feet from the ceiling like an animal ready for the slaughter before drinking her blood. Moreover, it had murdered the other three girls. Its arrogance and presumption . . . to think that it could enter the County, which I guarded against the dark, and treat women like slaves, taking their lives as if they were of no value.
In a fury, I drove the beast backward until I had forced it right up against the heavy table. Then I did something I hadn’t planned; I simply used what was at hand. I seized one of the bottles of red wine from the tabletop and smashed it into the beast’s head.
The bottle broke, showering the creature with red wine. It staggered back, shaking that huge head as if momentarily stunned. Taking advantage of its predicament, I thrust my blade past its guard and deep into its chest.
“This cannot be!” the beast rasped, falling to its knees as I withdrew the blade. It looked up at me, eyes filled with pain and surprise. It tried to speak again, but when it opened its mouth, blood gushed out, soaking the front of its black coat. Then it slowly pitched forward onto its face, gave a shudder, and was still.
I shuddered too, at what I had to do next, but I had no choice. Who knew what regenerative powers such a being might have? I swung the sword down with all my strength and cut the beast’s head from its body.
I rushed over to Jenny, lowering her gently to the floor. I feared that she was dead. She did not appear to be breathing, and I could find no sign of a heartbeat.
In desperation I carried her through the trees to the nearest stream and laid her down on the grass beside it. Then I removed my cloak, tugged off my shirt over my head, and wet it in the cold water. I used it to clean her face and wipe the blood from the bite marks on her shoulders, whispering her name as I did so.
“Jenny, Jenny, Jenny . . . it’s all right. You’re safe now. Open your eyes. Please open your eyes.”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
8
John Gregory’s Apprentices
I repeated Jenny’s name for some minutes, willing her to wake up—until I remembered something Dad had once told me: an old laborer who’d once worked on the farm had what Dad called “funny turns.” The man would become breathless and say that his heart was “all a-flutter.” But Dad had a remedy for it. He would plunge the old man’s head into a barrel of ice-cold water, and that would sort him out immediately. The funny turn would be
The creature appeared through a doorway to my right. It now clutched weapons in both hands: in its left was a curved sword, which is sometimes called a saber; in its right, a long-bladed dagger.
I attacked immediately, driving the beast backward. But it was very skilful: the saber met each blow of my sword, filling the room with the clash of metal upon metal.
I was wary of the dagger, which the creature held close to its side, waiting for an opportunity to strike. I resolved not to step too close. My opponent might drag me in and use that short blade.
There are two effective modes of combat. One is to remain cold and calculating, observing every detail of an opponent’s technique, assessing strengths and weaknesses, before delivering the death blow. The other is to surrender to what the mind and body already know and fight using instinct, the weapons and moves mere extensions of one’s own body, which then acts faster than thought.
But there is also a third, more dangerous way of doing battle—to fight driven by rage. Those opponents who attack you filled with a berserker fury are the easiest to counter and kill.
This was how I fought now. My anger was fueled by the creature’s behavior—by the way it had treated Jenny, biting her back and shoulders, tying her up and hanging her by her feet from the ceiling like an animal ready for the slaughter before drinking her blood. Moreover, it had murdered the other three girls. Its arrogance and presumption . . . to think that it could enter the County, which I guarded against the dark, and treat women like slaves, taking their lives as if they were of no value.
In a fury, I drove the beast backward until I had forced it right up against the heavy table. Then I did something I hadn’t planned; I simply used what was at hand. I seized one of the bottles of red wine from the tabletop and smashed it into the beast’s head.
The bottle broke, showering the creature with red wine. It staggered back, shaking that huge head as if momentarily stunned. Taking advantage of its predicament, I thrust my blade past its guard and deep into its chest.
“This cannot be!” the beast rasped, falling to its knees as I withdrew the blade. It looked up at me, eyes filled with pain and surprise. It tried to speak again, but when it opened its mouth, blood gushed out, soaking the front of its black coat. Then it slowly pitched forward onto its face, gave a shudder, and was still.
I shuddered too, at what I had to do next, but I had no choice. Who knew what regenerative powers such a being might have? I swung the sword down with all my strength and cut the beast’s head from its body.
I rushed over to Jenny, lowering her gently to the floor. I feared that she was dead. She did not appear to be breathing, and I could find no sign of a heartbeat.
In desperation I carried her through the trees to the nearest stream and laid her down on the grass beside it. Then I removed my cloak, tugged off my shirt over my head, and wet it in the cold water. I used it to clean her face and wipe the blood from the bite marks on her shoulders, whispering her name as I did so.
“Jenny, Jenny, Jenny . . . it’s all right. You’re safe now. Open your eyes. Please open your eyes.”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
8
John Gregory’s Apprentices
I repeated Jenny’s name for some minutes, willing her to wake up—until I remembered something Dad had once told me: an old laborer who’d once worked on the farm had what Dad called “funny turns.” The man would become breathless and say that his heart was “all a-flutter.” But Dad had a remedy for it. He would plunge the old man’s head into a barrel of ice-cold water, and that would sort him out immediately. The funny turn would be
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