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Read Captive Prince (The Captive Prince Trilogy)PDF Online get this book immediately from this dutytowarn.infoe Prince (The Captive Prince. Kings Rising (Captive Prince, 3) - C.S. Pacat (pdf) - plik 'English books > Pandora -be'. Inne dokumenty: English books, Pandora-be. Captive prince sekaiichiyaoi: “Online reading/ Download: ⇨ Captive Prince: Book One of the Captive Prince dutytowarn.info

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View and download Captive Prince_ Volume One - S.U. dutytowarn.info on DocDroid. Saga Captive Prince. Introduce aquí el subtítular. PDF. Captive Prince · Prince's Gambit · Kings Rising. Historias Cortas. Green but for a Season · The Summer. Editorial Reviews. Review. Praise for C. S. Pacat and the Captive Prince Trilogy “ You will be completely enthralled and on edge.”—USA Today “Have you read.

Pacat is the author of the Captive Prince trilogy. She has lived in a number of different cities including Tokyo and Perugia. She is a graduate of the University of Melbourne, and was born in Melbourne, where she currently lives and writes. Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture.

He wanted it, wanted a hard fight, wanted to seek out the Regent on the field, find him and take him down, to end his reign in a single fight. If he just did that, just kept to his promise, then after— Damen gave the order to form up.

There would be the danger of arrows soon. They would take their first volley from the north. The uncertain terrain was a valley of doubt, fringed by trees and dangerous slopes. The air was laden with tense expectation, and the high-strung, raw mood that came before battle.

Distantly, the sound of horns. Instead he saw the western flank begin to move, too soon, under the shouted order of Makedon. He reined in around Makedon, a small, tight circle. Makedon looked back at him, dismissive as a general of a child. From the north, the sound of horns. The Regent was too close, too early, with no word yet from their scouts.

Something was wrong. Action exploded to his left, movement bursting from the trees. The attack came from the north, charging from the slope and the tree line. Ahead of it was a solitary rider, a scout, racing flat outover the grass.

Kings Rising (Captive Prince, 3) - C.S. Pacat.pdf

Laurent had never planned to come. That was what the scout was screaming, right before an arrow took him in the back. Damen had no time to think before the situation was on him.

He shouted orders, trying to take hold of the initial chaos, as the first rain of arrows hit, his mind taking in the new situation, recalculating numbers and position. There was a dark logic to it. Have your slave convince the Akielons to fight. Let your enemies do your fighting for you, the casualties taken by the people you despise, the Regent defeated or weakened, and the armies of Nikandros wiped out. Damen found himself alongside Jord.

Throbbing at the base of his skull let him know he had been hit over the head. Something was also inconveniently and intrusively wrong with his shoulder.

It was dislocated. As his lashes fluttered and his body stirred, he became hazily aware of a stale odour, and a chilled temperature that suggested that he was underground. His intellect made increasing sense of this: Very carefully, he made himself do nothing.

Captive Prince_ Volume One - S.U. Pacat.pdf

The cell itself was about twelve feet square, and had an entrance of bars but no windows. Beyond the door there was a flickering stone passageway. The flickering came from a torch on that side of the bars, not from the fact that he had been hit over the head. There was nothing inside the cell except the chair he was tied to. The chair, made of heavy oak, appeared to have been dragged in for his benefit, which was civilised or sinister, depending on how one looked at it.

The torchlight revealed the accumulated filth on the floor. He was hit by the memory of what had happened to his men, and put that, with effort, out of his mind. He knew where he was.

These were the prison cells of Fortaine. He understood that he faced his death, before which would come a long, painful interval. A ludicrous boyish hope flared that someone would come to help him, and, carefully, he extinguished it.

Since the age of thirteen, there had been no rescuer, for his brother was dead. He wondered if it was going to be possible to salvage some dignity in this situation, and cancelled that thought as soon as it came. This was not going to be dignified. He thought that if things got very bad, it was within his capabilities to precipitate the end.

Govart would not be difficult to provoke into lethal violence. At all. He thought that Auguste would not be afraid, being alone and vulnerable to a man who planned to kill him; it should not trouble his younger brother.

It was harder to let go of the battle, to leave his plans at their midway point, to accept that the deadline had come and gone, and that whatever now happened on the border, he would not be a part of it. The Akielon slave would of course assume treachery on the part of the Veretian forces, after which he would launch some sort of noble and suicidal attack at Charcy that he would probably win, against ridiculous odds. One on one: On his best day, he could not take on Govart in a wrestling match and win.

And his shoulder was dislocated. Fighting free of his. He told himself that: Look around. Take a good look. Not even I have a key. What do you have to say to that? The blow rocked him back. He had to strap down the impulse of hysteria, or this was going to be over very quickly.

He forced himself to keep his voice steady. His voice was heavy with satisfaction.

Because I asked him for you. He gives me what I want. He gives me whatever I want.

Even his untouchable nephew. At some point one of us will dispatch the other. He could feel the distracting beat of his heart. He said you had a mouth like a whore. The room around Laurent greyed; his whole attention narrowed, his thoughts attenuating.

Every last broken syllable. His shirt was now unlaced to the waist and hung open, and his right sleeve was red. His hair was a tangled mess ribboned with sweat. His tongue was intact, because the knife was in his shoulder. He had accounted that a victory, when it had happened. You had to take pleasure in small victories.

The hilt of the knife protruded at an odd angle. It was in his right shoulder, already dislocated, so that breathing was now painful.

He had come. Had not made it easy. Layers of thick stone stood between him and the outside world. It was impossible to hear anything. It was impossible to be heard. His only advantage was that he had managed to free his left hand from its bonds. It would gain him a broken arm. It was growing harder to stick to a course of action. Because it was impossible to hear anything, he reasoned—or had reasoned, when more detached —that whoever had put him in here with Govart would return with a wheelbarrow and sack to take him out, and that this would happen at a prearranged time, since there was no way for Govart to signal.

He therefore had a single goal, like moving towards a retreating mirage: Footsteps, getting closer. The metallic scrape of an iron hinge. You can stay and watch if you like. His voice was a little hoarser than it had been starting out; his response to pain had been conventional. Guion was frowning.

//./Pdf Book//./Captive Prince (The Captive Prince Trilogy) - obengnovelspdf

Your clever secret. What it is you have on my uncle. Why he kept him in wine and women all these years? Blackness burst over him, so that he was only distantly aware of what followed. You have some private arrangement with the King? Lifting his own hand was the second hardest thing he had ever done, after raising his head.

Govart was moving to face down Guion, blocking his path to Laurent. Laurent closed his eyes, wrapped his unsteady left hand around the hilt, and pulled the knife out of his shoulder.

The two men turned as his fumbling hands cut his remaining bonds, and he staggered to stand behind the chair. Laurent held the knife in his left hand in as close to a correct defensive posture as he could presently manage.

The room was wavering. The hilt of the knife was slippery. Govart smiled, amused and pleased, as a jaded voyeur at some unexpected minor final act of a play. Laurent had no illusions about his skill as a left-handed knife fighter. At his best, he would land a single knife strike before Govart closed on him.

Govart could weather a single knife cut from a weakened, weaker opponent, and keep fighting. The outcome of his brief excursion into freedom was inevitable. He knew it. Govart knew it. Laurent made his single clumsy left-handed strike with the knife, and Govart countered it, brutally. And indeed, it was Laurent who cried out at the tearing pain beyond anything he had ever known. As, with his ruined right arm, Laurent swung the chair. The heavy oak hit Govart in the ear, with the sound of a mallet striking a wooden ball.

Govart staggered and went down. Laurent half staggered, too, the weight of the swing taking him part way across the cell. Guion was moving desperately out of his way, pressing his back to the wall. Laurent focused all his remaining strength on the task of reaching the barred door and placing himself on the other side of it, dragging it closed behind him and turning the key that was still in the lock.

In the stillness that followed, Laurent found his way from the bars, to the open corridor, to the opposite wall, which he slid down, finding at the midway point that there was a wooden bench, which took his weight. He had expected the floor. His eyes closed. He was dimly aware of Guion, tugging at the cell bars, which rattled and clanged and stayed irrefutably closed.

He did laugh then, a breathless sound, with the sweet, cool feel of the stone at his back. His head lolled. Do you think name-calling will hurt my feelings? But apparently I cycle through all the usual responses. Guion took a single, gratifying step back from the bars. You left them to die like rats in a trap at Charcy. The passageway flickered. He reminded himself that this was just the torch. He heard the dreamy sound of his own voice. Unfortunately for you.

I wonder how my uncle is going to react when he finds out that you killed Govart and helped me to escape.

He was aware of the return of his critical faculties, in place of which up to now had been the tenacious adherence to a single idea. My uncle instructed that if you captured me, you were to let Govart have me, which was a tactical blunder, but my uncle had his hands tied, thanks to his private arrangement with Govart. Or maybe he just liked the idea.

You agreed to do his bidding. I can only surmise, despite a truly staggering array of evidence to the contrary, that there is still some rationality left on the Council. Pressing his left hand to his shoulder, he pushed away from the wall and came forward. Guion, inside the cell, was breathing shallowly. He waited. It came in a different voice, with a different expression, flatly.

The whole vista was one of destruction, an unending stream of enemies, so numerous they were like a swarm. But he had seen at Marlas how one man could hold a front together, as if by will alone.

In the beginning, they had thrown themselves towards him, but when they saw what happened to the men who did that, they became a churning mass of hooves trying to fall back. Faces were impersonal flashes, half shielded by helms. He was more aware of horses and swords, the machinery of death. He killed, and it was simply that men got out of his way, or were dead. He lost half his men in the first wave.

After that, he took the charges head on, killing as many as were necessary to stop the first wave, and the second, and the third. Fresh reinforcements arriving at that moment would have been able to slaughter them all like week-old pups, but Damen had no reinforcements.

If he was aware of anything beyond the fight, it was of an absence, a lack that persisted. He had grown used to something that had been temporary, like the flash of exhilaration in a pair of blue eyes for a moment catching his own. All of that tangled together inside him, and tightened, through the killing, into a single hard knot.

The arrows by now were less, because Damen had broken enough lines that firing into the chaos was dangerous for both sides. The sounds were different too, no longer roars and screams, but grunts of pain, exhaustion, sobs of breath, the clang of swords heavier and less frequent.

Hours of death; the battle entered its final, brutal, exhausted stage. Lines broke and dissolved into mess, degraded geometry, heaving pits of straining flesh where it was hard to tell enemy from friend.

Damen stayed on horseback, though bodies on the ground were so thick that the horses foundered. The ground was wet, his legs were mud-spattered above his knees—mud in dry summer, because the ground was blood. Thrashing wounded horses screamed louder than the screams of men. He held the men around him together, and killed, his body pushed beyond the physical, beyond thought.

On the far side of the field, he saw the flash of embroidered red. Why fight the whole army, when you can just— D. Damen drove his spurs into his horse, and charged. The men between him and his object were a blur. He barely heard the ringing of his own sword, or noticed the red cloaks of the Veretian honour guard before he hewed them down. He simply killed them, one after another, until there was no one left between himself and the man hesought. His body listed unnaturally, then hit the ground.

Damen dismounted and tore the helm off. Damen flung the helm aside. He used the little name that Damen had been called as a boy; the childhood name, reserved for intimates. Damen realised that he was on his knees, his own chest heaving like the chest of his horse. It felt like closing his hands on nothing. All he could think was that if the Regent still lived, nothing was over. Thought was slow to return after so long living by action and reaction, the responses of the moment.

He needed to come back to himself. Men were dropping weapons around him. The field was a rutted earthworks strewn with the dead. The ground was a churned mess of flesh, ineffective armour and riderless horses. Killing ceaselessly, for hours, he had not been aware of the scale of it, of what he had caused to happen here. Those left standing were all Akielon; and they stared at Damen as at something impossible.

There was a fallen Akielon banner on the ground beside him. The banner was torn and it stood lopsided, weighed down by the mud that spattered over its fabric, but it held. And that was when he saw it, as in a dream, appearing out of the fog of his exhaustion, on the far western edge of the field.

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