Read The Broken Kings: Book Three of The Merlin Codex for Free Online

eyes of a wren, hopping from branch to branch of a willow—I saw him staring moodily at the flow of Nantosuelta. Fish were shoaling, taking insects; dusk was falling, and the riverside was alive with feeding. The young man was feeding only on his angry thoughts, however.
    Urtha himself, and his uthiin, were still somewhere to the south, hunting the thick forests for deer, wild pigs—even wild horses, which sometimes could be found in the glades. They would certainly be looking for meat, but as likely were also taking the chance to assess the strength of the clans that lived beyond the woods. There had been too many reports of small bands of armed hunters being seen along the banks of the several rivers that flowed south from Urtha’s stronghold.
    He was increasingly attentive to the borders of his realm, as was his Scythian wife, Ullanna, a descendant of the great Atalanta.
    Ullanna and her own retinue were hunting to the north, across the river from the evergroves.
    A long night passed; then at dawn a horn sounded from the walls. Distantly, through the early mist, a group of riders came trotting slowly across the plain from the south, leading pack ponies draped with the tethered forms of two deer, and the carcases of three dark-skinned pigs.
    As his comrades dispersed to other tasks, Urtha was joined by two armed and shield-bearing riders who accompanied him as he rode towards the double gates of his royal enclosure. Catching my eye and frowning as he passed, he beckoned me to follow him into the warmth of his shield-lined house.
    In the three winters that had numbed the land, Urtha had changed very little, though his beard was quite grey, now, and his face horribly scarred where he had taken the glancing blow of an axe during a skirmish with a band of dhiiv arrigi, exiled, vengeful warriors, outcasts from the tribal lands, who existed like lice upon the skin of the world. Their numbers were growing. The blow had missed his left eye, however, and his eyes were as keen and knowing as ever.
    We entered the main part of the lodge, where a good log fire burned, and light streamed from the open roof. “For all your skills with enchantment, Merlin, I can always tell when there’s something troubling you,” he said as he discarded cloak and sword belt and sprawled out in his stout, oaken chair, staring at me. “More omens?”
    “The strangest yet,” I agreed, and he leaned forward as I took a seat on one of the benches that lined the hall.
    When I had finished my account, he scratched the stubble on his chin. Leaning back again—a weary man—he reached for his beaker, draining the contents in a single gulp. “When I was growing up,” he mused, staring at nothing, “the hostels were part of the adventure of storytelling. In this very hall I sat with other boys and listened to the Speaker for the Past tell witty and wonderful tales of the land since the first fortress was built here. All very thrilling. But I never gave the hostels much thought after that. Something to scare your children with. The ways across to the Shadow Hero Land are by certain fords across the winding river, but even then, no one went near the winding river. Not, at least, until you came into my life. And you say that Speaker for Kings doesn’t understand the significance?”
    “No.”
    “And the Speaker for the Past?”
    “Lost in the groves, engaged in training his successor.”
    “But Cathabach thinks they signal a greater danger than we can imagine.”
    “He seems to think so.”
    Urtha nodded sagely, though it was clear that he was hiding a complete and utter incomprehension. “We must certainly strengthen the fortress, and the defences to the west. We need dove-watchers within sight of the hostels.…”
    He meant signallers, doves being the new way of signalling to Taurovinda, as they always flew home to their small cages.
    “I will need to discuss support in arms from Vortingoros. The High King of the Coritani will exact a high price