 Sharp Sword by Bernard Cornwell Read by Paul McGahn The tall man on horseback was a killer. He was strong and ruthless and young to be a colonel in Napoleon's imperial guard, but no one took advantage of his youth. His curiously pale eyes gave his handsome face a chill of death, enough to make men offer respect. Le Roux was the Emperor's man. He went when Napoleon sent him, and he performed his tasks with skill and pitiless efficiency. Now he was in Spain, and he just made a mistake. He cursed himself for it, but he was also planning how to escape. He was trapped. He had ridden with a cavalry escort to a miserable village at the edge of the Great Plains of Lyon, and there had found his man a priest. He had stripped the skin inch by inch from the living body until the priest talked. They all talked to Colonel Le Roux in the end. Yet this time he had taken too long. At the moment of victory when the priests screamed out the name Le Roux had come so far to learn, the German cavalry erupted into the village. Men of the king's German legion, who fought for Britain in the war, savaged the French dragoons, their sabers rising and falling, their hoofbeats drumming a rhythm behind the screams of pain, and Colonel Le Roux had run. He had grabbed a captain of the cavalry escort, and they'd written desperately north. Now an hour later they had stopped at a wood that grew about a stream that tumbled towards the river Tormes. The dragoon captain looked behind. We've lost them. We haven't. Le Roux's horse was streaked with white sweat. Its flanks heaved, and the Colonel felt the terrible heat of the sun smashing through his gorgeous red uniform jacket, looped with gold. The light breeze could not stir his sweat-plasted blonde hair. He suddenly smiled at his companion. What's your name? The captain was relieved by the smile. He was frightened of Le Roux, and this unexpected friendliness was a welcome change. Delma, sir. Paul Delma. Le Roux's smile was full of charm. Well, Paul Delma. We've done great things so far. Let's see if we can lose them for good, eh? Delma, flattered by the familiarity, smiled back. Yes, sir! He looked behind again, and again he could see nothing except for the bleached grassland silent under the heat. Colonel Le Roux was not deceived by the emptiness. He had spotted the dead ground as they rode, and he knew the Germans, good professionals, were out in the plain, spreading the cordon that would drive the fugitives towards the river. He knew, too, that the British were marching eastwards, that some would be following the river, and he guessed that he was being driven into an ambush. So be it. He was trapped, outnumbered, but not beaten. He could not be beaten. He had never been beaten, and now, above all, he had to regain the safety of the French army. Then he would hurt the British. He felt the surge of pleasure at the thought, by God, he would hurt them. He had been sent to Spain to discover the identity of El Mirador, and he had succeeded. And now all that remained was to take El Mirador and squeeze from the British spy the names of all the correspondents throughout Napoleon's empire who sent their messages to El Mirador in Salamanca, but first he must escape this trap. He let his horse walk into the cool greenness of the wood. Come on, Delmar. He found what he wanted, a fallen beech tree, its trunk rotten in a tangle of brambles and leaves. Leroux dismounted. Time to work, Delmar. Delmar didn't understand what they were doing, but he followed Leroux's example, stripped off his jacket, and helped the Colonel clear a hiding place behind the log. He smiled diffidently at Leroux. Where do we hide the horses? In a minute. Leroux dismissed the question. The Colonel seemed to be measuring the hiding place. He drew his sword and poked at the brambles. It was a weapon of exquisite craftsmanship, a straight-bladed, heavy cavalry sword made by Clegantar, as were most of the French cavalry blades, but this sword had been made specially by the finest craftsmen. It was longer than most, heavier too, for Leroux was a tall, strong man. The blade was beautiful. The hilt and guard were of the same steel and the handle bound by silver wire, the sword's sole concession to decoration. The weapon proclaimed itself a beautiful, killing blade. Leroux straightened, seemingly content. Anything behind us, Delmar? The dragoon captain turned. Leroux... Sample complete. Ready to continue?