Read The Tournament at Gorlan for Free Online

his skull. His knees folded up under him and he went facedown in the mud.
    A huge Scotti, apparently the leader, bellowed with rage as he saw his men wounded. He pointed his broadsword at the two mounted men and shouted a command. His warriors responded with an incoherent cry of their own and began to advance, shields up and weapons raised.
    Three more of them went down in the space of five seconds—two with leg wounds and the third with an arrow through his shoulder. Aside from the pain of the wounds themselves, the sheer force of the arrows at this range, propelled by eighty-pound longbows, knocked them backward. Another arrow slammed into one of the shields and its owner was forced back several paces. It was too much to expect them to continue to advance in the face of such withering shooting. The arrows came thick and fast and men screamed in pain and rage. One man turned and ran, followed almost immediately by another. Then the entire group had broken and were retreating at full pace to the north, those who were so far untouched by the arrow storm helping their wounded comrades to hobble with them at the fastest pace they could manage.
    â€œThat’s enough,” said Crowley, lowering his bow. He had no wish to shoot at men who were retreating and, effectively, defenseless.
    Halt nodded agreement. “They’ll keep running until they reach the border.”
    They turned their horses and began to walk the remaining fifty meters to the barricade. As they approached, the villagersstraggled out from behind the tangle of tables, chairs, handcarts and the other paraphernalia they had thrown up to stop the attackers.
    A ragged cheer went up as the two riders stopped and dismounted.
    A tall, heavily built man in his mid-thirties stepped forward. He was one of the better armed and equipped among the villagers, with a single-bladed battleax in one hand and a large wooden shield on his other arm. He wore an iron helmet, a simple piece in the shape of an acorn.
    He leaned his ax against a nearby handcart and greeted them, right hand outstretched.
    â€œCan’t tell you how glad we are to see you,” he said, smiling broadly. “We were on our last legs here. You arrived just in time. I’m Yorik, headman of the village.”
    Halt deferred to Crowley, motioning for him to step forward. The Ranger did so, shaking the headman’s hand and grinning at the other villagers who were clustering around.
    â€œGlad to be of service,” he said. “My name’s Crowley, and this cheerful chap with me is named Halt.”
    Halt nodded a greeting as Yorik appraised them keenly. He took in the cowled cloaks, the dual sidearms—saxe and throwing knife—and, of course, the mighty longbows both men carried.
    â€œJudging by the way you shoot,” he said, “you’re King’s Rangers.”
    Crowley nodded. “I am. He’s as good as.” He gestured around the village, taking in the still figures lying in the street and the burning and smoldering buildings. “What caused all this?”
    Yorik’s face clouded over. “Prince Duncan caused it. He went raiding with his men over the border and stirred up the Scotti.Then he moved on before they could retaliate, leaving us to face the music. Curse his criminal hide,” he said bitterly. Then a look of sudden fear swept over his face. These were King’s Rangers, after all, and likely to owe their allegiance to Prince Duncan as a member of the royal household. “Forgive me,” he said, dropping his gaze. “I spoke without thinking.”
    Crowley shook his head. “No forgiveness necessary,” he said. “We’ve been hearing some strange tales about Duncan. Sounds like they’re true.”
    Yorik nodded warily. He still wasn’t totally sure of his ground.
    Halt entered the conversation. “We heard he’d been throwing his weight around—stealing and helping himself to anything