Mock's hands were still wet with blood by the time the Paleskin fighters came for them.
'How many?'
'Fifty mounted, maybe more,' Beltho answered.
Mock slithered along the ground, using his elbows to push himself along. He settled beside Beltho and thrust aside the long grass, squinting. Breastplates glinted. Shields gleamed. Helms glared. Here and there were flashes of uniform: red and white. A formidable force and as pretty as maidens in their colourful dresses and coward's armour. Mock dug his fingers into the earth. The muscles of his broad shoulders bunched around his neck. But let me peel them bare as babes and let's see that squishy, pink flesh beneath.
Mock licked his lips. 'That all?'
'They equal us man for man.'
'You are wrong. We are Quarthi. They are the Paleskins. One man of ours is worth two of theirs.'
He pushed himself to his feet in full view of their enemy. Beltho looked up at him warily, then did the same. Though his sight wasn't as sharp as Beltho's, Mock imagined he saw those pretty helms turning one by one. That's right. Look at me. To see the great Mock is to see death made flesh. Come for me if you dare.
YOU ARE READING
The Barbarian
FantasyIt's a time of war and Mock's land has been invaded, his people routed, killed or enslaved. Out for revenge, Mock and his band of brothers cut a swathe of destruction across the land. Grinda is an innocent village girl who's heard tell of the barba...
