Jennifer Roberson - Sword Dancer 4 - Sword Breaker

VIP免费

2024-12-05 0 0 1.87MB 245 页 5.9玖币

侵权投诉

Sword Breaker

Book 4 of the

Sword Dancer

series

By Jennifer Roberson

Prologue

There are things in life you just

know,

without having to think much about them.

now,

for example.

I lurched to my feet in the darkness, staggered two steps through rocks, landed painfully on my

knees. "Oh, hoolies," I muttered.

And promptly discarded my supper.

Supper such as it

was;

Del and I hadn't really had much chance to eat a proper meal the night

before, being too tired, too twitchy, too tense. And, in my case, too dizzy.

Around me, insects fell silent. The only sounds I heard were the scraping of shod hooves in dirt--

my bay stud, Del's blue roan, hobbled a few steps away--and my own rather undignified bleat

that was half hiccup, half belch, and all disgruntlement.

From behind me, a sleep-blurred voice, and the scratch of pebbles and gritty dust displaced by a

moving body. "Tiger?"

I hunched there on my knees, sweaty and cold and miserable. My head hurt too much to attempt

a verbal answer, so I waved a limp, dismissive hand, swiping the air between us, and hoped it

was enough.

Naturally, it wasn't. With her, it never is.

Blurriness evaporated. She wastes little time waking up. "Are you all right?"

My posture was unmistakable. "I'm praying," I mumbled sourly, wiping my mouth on a burnous

sleeve; it was already filthy dirty. "Can't you tell?"

Sand gritted again. From behind she slung a bota, which landed next to me. The sloshing thwack

of leather on stone was loud in the pallor of first light. The stud snorted a protest. "Here," Del

said. "Water. I'll warm the kheshi."

Belly rebelled at the thought. My turn for a protest.

"Hoolies, bascha--kheshi's the last thing I need!"

"You need

something

in your stomach, or you'll be spewing your guts up all day."

Nice way to start the morning. Glumly, carefully, I reached down and hooked the bota thong,

shifting weight to ease aching knees. I was stiff and sore inside and out from the exertions of the

sword-dance.

Well, no, not really a sword-dance; more like a sword-fight, which is an entirely different thing

with entirely different rules; better yet, a sword-war. Del and I had won the battle, with a little

help from luck, friends, and magic--not to mention mass confusion--but hostilities were not

concluded.

I thought briefly about rising, then considered the state of head and belly and decided staying

close to the ground in an attitude of prayer, regardless of true intention, was a posture worth

practicing.

Squinting against my reasserted headache, I uncorked the bota, drank a little, discovered tipping

my head back did nothing at all to still the hammer and anvil. With great care I leveled my head

again and peered out at the pale morning, focusing fixedly on dimming stars to distract me from

the discomfort in offended skull and belly.

Realizing, as I did so, something

besides

my belly desired emptying.

Which meant I had to get up anyway, if only to find a bush.

Hoolies, life was much easier before I joined up with a woman.

"Tiger?"

I twitched, then wished I hadn't. Even blinking hurt my head. "What?"

"We can't stay here. We'll have to ride on."

I grunted, thinking instead of ways to rid myself of the headache. Drinking aqivi might help,

except we had none. "Eventually," I agreed. "First things

first,

bascha like finding out if I can

walk."

"You don't have to walk. You have to ride." She paused: elaborate, sarcastic solicitude. "Do you

think you can ride, Tiger?"

My back remained to her, so she didn't see the oath I mouthed against the dawn. "I'll manage."

She chose to ignore my irony. "You'll need to manage soon. They'll be coming after us."

Yes, so they would be. Every "they" they could muster. Tens and twenties of them; possibly even

hundreds.

The sun began to crawl above the swordblade of the horizon. I squinted against the light.

"Maybe I

should

pray," I muttered. "Aren't I the jhihadi? "

Del grunted skepticism. "You are no messiah, no matter what you say about Jamail pointing at

you."

Injured innocence: "But I swore by my

sword."

She said something of succinct, exquisite brevity in Northern, which is her native tongue, and

which adapts itself as readily to swearing as my Southron one does.

"Hah, " she said, more politely. "You forget, Tiger--I know better. I know

you.

What you are is a

man who's been kicked in the head, and drunk on top of it."

Well, she had the first part right: I

had

been kicked in the head, and, of all the indignities, by my

own horse. But the second part was wrong. "I'm not drunk."

"You were yesterday.

And

last night."

"That was yesterday--and last night. And most of

that

was the kick in the head... besides, I don't

notice it kept me from rescuing you."

"You didn't rescue me."

"Oh, no?" With meticulous effort, I got off my knees and onto my feet, turning slowly to face her.

Movement hurt like hoolies. Sweetly, I inquired, "And who

was

it who held back an angry mob of

people intent on ripping you to pieces for killing the jhihadi?"

Del's tone, surprisingly, was perfectly matter-of-fact. "He wasn't the jhihadi. He was Ajani.

Bandit. Murderer. Rapist." She looked through thready smoke seeping upward from the handful

of coals masquerading as a fire. Lumpy, bone-gray kheshi dripped from a battered cup as she

scooped up a generous serving and held it out to me. "Breakfast is ready."

The stud chose that moment to flood the dirt. Which reminded me of something.

"Wait--"

I blurted intently.

And staggered off to the nearest bush to pay tribute to the gods.

One

I hooked my foot into the stirrup as I caught reins and pommel--and stopped moving altogether.

Which left me sort of

suspended,

weight distributed unevenly throughout sore legs stretched

painfully between stirrup and ground. Since the stirrup was attached to saddle--which was, in

turn, attached to a horse, however temporarily by dint of a cinch--I realized it was not the most

advantageous of positions if the horse decided to move. But for the moment, it was the best I

could manage.

"Uck, " I commented. "Whose idea was this?" The stud swung his head around and eyed me

consideringly with one dark eye, promising much with nothing discernible. Except I know how to

read him. I exhibited a fist. "Better not, cumfa-bait." Del, from atop her roan, with some asperity:

"Tiger."

"Oh, keep your tunic tied." With an upward heave that did nothing at all to ease the ache in my

head--or the rebellion in my belly--I swung up. "Of course, in

your

case, I'd just as soon you

untied the tunic." I cast her a toothy leer that was, I knew in my heart of hearts, but a shadow of

the one I am capable of displaying. But a battered body and too much liquor--

and

a kick in the

head--will do that for you.

One pale brow arched. "That is not what you said last night."

"Last night I had a headache." I gathered loose rein as I settled my rump in the leather

hummock some people call a saddle. "I

still

have a headache."

Del nodded. "It often comes of a man who believes himself a person of repute. The head swells

..." She gestured idle implication.

"That's a panjandrum. I never claimed I was a panjandrum--although I suppose I am, being the

Sand-tiger." I ribbed a gritty, sun-dazzled eye. "No, what

am is a jhihadi; even the Oracle said

so." I displayed teeth again. "Will you call your brother a liar?"

She gazed at me steadily. "Before yesterday, I would have called my brother

dead.

You told me

he was."

I opened my mouth to explain all over again that the Vashni had told me Jamail was dead; I'd

had no reason not to believe the warrior since the tribe is so meticulous about honor. Telling a

falsehood is not a Vashni habit, even though no one in his right mind would even suggest such a

thing. I hadn't, certainly. Nor had I thought it.

No, Del's brother wasn't dead, no matter what the Vashni had told me. Because Jamail--

supposedly dead,

mute

Jamail--had pointed across a milling throng in the midst of a violent

sword fight between his older sister and the man who had murdered his kin--and proclaimed me

the messiah.

Me,

not Ajani, who had gone to great pains to convince everyone he was the jhihadi. Although

no one, including Del

(still),

believed Jamail had pointed at me.

Which had a little something to do with our present predicament.

I stared blearily eastward beyond Del, raising a shielding hand to block the brilliance of the sun.

"Is that dust?"

She looked. Like me, she squinted, lifting a flattened palm. Against the new day she was a darker

silhouette: one-quarter profile, mostly fair hair; a shoulder, an elbow, the turn of hip and the line

of thigh beneath the drapery of Southron silk.

And the slash of a scabbarded sword, slanting diagonally across her back to thrust an imperious

hilt above one taut-muscled shoulder.

"Out of Iskandar, " she said quietly of the gauzy haze. "I would not waste a copper on a wager

that it could be anything else."

Which made a decision imperative.

"North across the border into your territory," I suggested, "but, under the terms of your exile,

that's not exactly an option--"

"--or south," she interposed, "into the Punja again,

your

territory, which will surely kill us both if

we give it the opportunity."

"Then again," I continued, "there is Harquhal. Half a day, maybe--"

"--where they will surely come, all of them, knowing it is the only place to buy supplies, and we

with little to spare."

Which was true. Our sudden and unanticipated departure--better

yet, flight

--from Iskandar had

given us little time to pack our horses. We had a set of saddle-pouches each, thanks to a friend,

but food was limited. So was our water, something we

had

to have if we were to cross the Punja.

While I knew of many oases, cisterns, and settlements--I'd grown up in the Punja--the desert is a

transitory and unforgiving beast. The only certain thing is death, if you don't play the game right.

I spat out a succinct oath along with acrid dust as I lifted eloquent reins, putting the stud on

notice. "Doesn't seem to me as if we have much choice. Unless, of course, you can magick us out

of here with your sword."

"No more than you with yours." Unsmiling, as always. But the glint in blue eyes was plain.

The weight of the weapon in my harness was suddenly increased tenfold, just by the mention of

it. And the implications.

"You sure know how to ruin a perfectly good morning," I muttered, swinging the stud.

"And you a beautiful night." Del turned her roan toward Harquhal, half a day's ride from the

border. "Perhaps if you shut your mouth, the snoring would not be so bad."

I didn't bother to answer. The thundering of the stud's hooves drowned out anything I might say.

The thunder in my skull drowned out the desire to even

try.

We hadn't done much, Del and I. Not when you really think about it. We'd just gone south

through the Punja hunting a missing brother, stolen by Southron slavers. To Julah, the city near

the sea, where we had, with little choice, killed a tanzeer. That sort of offense is punishable by

death, as might be expected when you knock off a powerful desert prince; except Del and I had

gotten clean away from Julah and her freshly-murdered tanzeer. And gone on into the mountains

at the rim of the ocean-sea, where we'd encountered Vashni. The tribe that held her brother.

Except he wasn't really being

held;

not any more. Mute and castrated, he'd nonetheless managed

to make a life for himself. Del's plans for rescue were undone by Jamail himself, who clearly had

no desire to leave the tribe that had delivered him from a lifetime of slavery. While not precisely

a Vashni--they don't take kindly to half-bloods, let alone foreigners--neither was he suitable for

sacrifice. He'd made his place.

So we'd left him, and ridden north, across the border to Del's homeland. Where she had taken

me to Staal-Ysta, the island in black water, and delivered me as ransom to buy her daughter

back.

Well, not

exactly

--but close enough. Close enough that I'd discovered just how single-minded she

could be; to the point that nothing else in the world mattered, only the task she'd set herself: to

find and kill Ajani, the man who'd murdered her family, raped a fifteen-year-old girl, and sold a

ten-year-old boy into Southron slavery.

To find Ajani, she needed to be free of the blood-debt, which she owed to the Place of Swords,

high in Northern mountains. Where she'd left her infant daughter to find and kill the daughter's

father.

And, eventually, where she'd offered my services, me all unknowing, to pay part of her blood-

debt.

services... without even asking me.

Now, I've always known women are capable of doing just about anything they set their minds to,

once they've made a decision. Getting

that decision isn't always the easiest thing, or the most

logical, but eventually they get there. And, when pressed to it, they make promises they have to,

no matter what it takes.

For Del, it took me. And very nearly our deaths.

Oh, we.'d survived. But not before I wound up with a Northern sword, a magical

jivatma

dangerous as Del's--only I didn't know how to key it, and it damn near keyed

me.

And then, of course, there had been that thrice-cursed dragon, which wasn't a dragon at all, and

the sorcerer called Chosa Dei.

A man no longer a man. A

spirit, I

guess you'd call him, who now lived in my sword.

Ahead of me, riding hard, Del twisted in the saddle. Horse-born wind snatched at white-blonde

locks, tearing them free of burnous. Pale, glorious silk masquerading as hair... and the flawless

face it framed, now turned in my direction.

I have never failed, not once, to marvel at her beauty.

"Hurry up," she said.

Of course, then there's her

mouth.

"One of these days," I muttered, "I'm going to pin you down--

sit

on you, if I have to--and pour

as much wine as I can buy down that soft, self-righteous gullet, so you'll know what my head

feels like."

I didn't say it where she could hear it. But of course she

did.

"Even a fool knows better than to drink after being kicked in the head," she commented over the

noise of our horses. "So what does that make you?"

I shifted on the fly, finding a more comfortable position over the humping spine of my galloping

horse. "You left me," I reminded her, raising my voice. "You left me lying there on the ground

with my broken, bloodied head. If you'd stayed, I probably wouldn't have drunk anything."

"Oh, so it's

fault."

"Instead, you went flouncing off to fight Abbu Bensir--

dance, I might add--"

"You were in no shape to dance."

"That's beside the point--"

"That

the point." Del reined her roan around a dribble of rocks, then tossed hair out of her face

as she twisted to look at me again. "I took your place in the circle because someone had to. You

had been hired to dance against Abbu... had I not taken your place, you would have forfeited the

dance. Do you want to consider the consequences?"

Not really. I knew what they were. The dance was more than merely a sword-dance: it was

binding arbitration between two factions of tanzeers, powerful, ruthless despots who, whenever

they could, chopped the South into little pieces among themselves and passed out the remains as

rewards.

A reward

had been promised, if I won.

Except I didn't win, because the stud kicked me in the head, and Alric got me drunk.

My belly was, I thought unhappily, riding somewhere in the vicinity of my breastbone, jounced

and bounced and compressed within the cage of my ribs. Knees, bent by shortened stirrups,

reminded me whenever they could that I was gaining in age, while losing in flexibility. And then

there was my head, which shall go unremarked so as not to give it ideas.

Hoolies, this sort of thing is enough to give a man pause. To remind him, rather emphatically,

there are better ways than this of making a living.

Except I don't know of any.

The stud's misstep threatened to rearrange a portion of my body I was rather fond of. I bit out a

curse, lifted weight off formed leather, and thought rather wistfully of other fleshly saddles.

"You're falling behind," she said.

"Just wait," I muttered. "There will come a day--"

"I don't think so," Del said, and bent lower over her roan.

Harquhal is ... well, Harquhal. A border settlement. The kind of town no one

means

to build,

really, because if it had been planned from the beginning, everyone contributing would have

done the job right.

Oh, it was good

enough,

but not the sort of place I'd want to raise a family.

Then again, I didn't have a family, nor did I intend--to start one, which meant the kind of town

Harquhal was was good enough for me.

Del and I rode in at a long-trot, having dropped out of a gallop sometime back, then from lope to

trot as we approached the wall-girded town. The stud, who has an adequate gallop and a soft,

level

long-walk,

does not, most emphatically, know how to trot very well. He just isn't built for it,

any more than I am built for low doorways and short beds.

A long-trot, trotted by a horse who does not possess the ability to offer this gait in anything

approaching comfort, is nothing short of torture. Particularly if you are male. Particularly if you

are male, and your head has been abused by aqivi and the kick of the horse you're riding.

So why trot at all? Because if I dropped to a walk I surrendered the advantage to Del, except I

suppose it wasn't really an advantage, since we weren't actually racing. But she can be so cursed

patronizing at times... especially when she thinks I'm in the wrong, or have done something

stupid. And while I suppose there

have

been times I haven't been right, or I've behaved in such

a way as to cast doubt upon my intelligence, this wasn't one of them. It hadn't been my fault the

stud had kicked me. Nor my decision to suck down so much aqivi. And anyway, I

had

still

managed to save her.

No matter what she said.

We reached the first sprawl of adobe wall encircling Harquhal. I eased the stud to a walk,

breathing imprecations as he took most of the change of gait on his front legs, instead of

distributed through his body. It makes a man sit up and take notice, in more ways than one.

Del cast a glance at me over a shoulder. "We shouldn't stay long. Only to buy supplies--"

"--and get a drink," I appended. "Hoolies, but I need a drink."

She opened her verbal dance pedantically, in the glacial way she has that ages her three

decades. "We will not waste time on such things as wine or aqivi--"

I reined the stud next to her roan, hooking a knee just under the inner bend of her own. It is a

technique, when fully employed, that can unhorse an enemy. And while Del and I were not

precisely

enemies,

we were most distinctly at odds. "If I don't get a drink, I'll never make it

through the day. In this case, it's

medicinal...

hoolies, bascha, haven't you ever heard of biting

the dog back?"

Del disentangled her leg by easing the roan over. Her expression was wondrously blank. "Biting

the dog? What dog? You were not bitten. You were

kicked."

"No, no, not like that." I scrubbed at a stubbled, grimy face. "It's a Southron saying. It has to do

with having too much to drink. If you have a taste of whatever it was that made you sick, it

makes you feel better."

Blonde brows knitted. "That makes no sense at all. If something makes you sick, how can it

make you feel better?"

A thought occurred to me. I eyed her consideringly. "In all the time I've known you, I've never

seen you drunk."

"Of course not."

"But you do drink. I've seen you drink, bascha."

Her tone was eloquent. "It is possible to drink and not get drunk. If one employs

restraint

--"

"Restraint is not always desirable," I pointed out. "Why employ restraint when you

want

to get

drunk?"

"But why get drunk at all?"

"Because it makes you feel good."

Lines appeared in her brow. "But you have just now said spirits can make you sick. As you were

sick this morning."

"Yes, well... that's different." I scowled. "Drinking spirits, as you call them, is not a good idea

after you've been kicked in the head."

"It is not a good idea to drink so much at

any

time, Tiger. Especially for a sword-dancer." She

tucked a strand of hair back. "It was a thing I learned on Staal-Ysta: never surrender will or skill

to strong spirits, or you may defeat yourself."

I scratched my sandtiger scars idly. "I don't lose much, strong spirits or no. Matter of fact, I

haven't

ever

lost, not when it counted--"

Del's tone was level as she cut in. "Because you and I have never danced for real."

The riposte was too easy. "Oh,

yes

we did, bascha. And it nearly got us killed."

It shut her up altogether, which is what I'd meant it to. It's how you win a dance: find the

weakness, then exploit it. It is a strategy that carries over even to life outside of the circle, in

every single respect.

Del knew it well. Del knew how to do it. Del knew how to win.

Except this time she didn't.

And this time she knew she couldn't.

Two

Under the eye of the morning sun, Del and I dismounted in an elbow-bend of a narrow, dust-

choked street. She headed in one direction, leading her roan gelding, I in the other with the stud,

until we realized what had happened and turned back, each of us, speaking at the same time.

Telling one another which way was the proper direction.

I pointed my way. She pointed hers.

I pointed a bit more firmly. "Cantina's down there."

"Supplies are down

here."

"Bascha, we don't have time to argue--"

"We don't have time to do anything more than reprovision and leave."

"Getting something to drink

reprovisioning."

"For

some,

perhaps." Nothing more. She obviously believed it enough. Del is very good at saying

much with little. It's a woman's thing, I think: they get more out of a tone of voice than a man

out of a knife.

Of course, some men might argue a woman's tongue is sharper.

"Or," I continued, overriding what she would undoubtedly refer to as common good sense, "we

could hole up in one of the cantinas. Rent us a room." Which

thought was good sense; we'd

have plenty of provisions, plus a roof over our heads.

One hand perched itself on a burnous-swathed hip. A jutting elbow cut the air, eloquent even in

silence. "And do what, Tiger? Wait for them to come find us?"

I ground teeth. "They

might

assume we'd ridden on."

"Or they might realize we'd need provisions and rest, and search all the rooms. Each and every

one." She paused. "Then again, I think there would be no need for such trouble. Do you truly

believe there is a soul alive in Harquhal who would not sell us to them?"

Maybe one or two. Maybe three or four.

But all it took was one.

We glared at one another, neither of us giving an inch. The roan slobbered on Del's left shoulder;

with a grimace of distaste, she shook off the glop of greenish grass-slime. Meanwhile the stud

dug a hole, raising gritty Southron dust that insinuated itself between my sandaled toes.

Which put me in mind of a bath; I'm as clean as I can be, mostly, though the desert makes it

hard. The sun makes you sweat. Dust sticks to sweat. Pretty soon you're caked.

I hadn't had a bath in days.

During

those days I'd gotten real sweaty, drunk, and bloody, not to

mention dust-crusty. I needed a bath badly. And if we had a room, I could

have

a bath.

But.

"How many do you think?" I asked finally, ignoring the dispute altogether.

She shrugged, avoiding it also; thinking, as I did, of other considerations. "We killed the jhihadi--

at least, the man they

believe

was jhihadi. It is all to pieces, now--the prophecy, the Oracle, the

promises of change. Many will not come, but the zealots will not give up."

"Unless your brother has managed to talk some sense into them. Convince them Ajani wasn't

their man at all." And that I

was,

but that I doubt they'd believe. To everyone in the South--well,

at least to the people who knew me, which wasn't

quite

the whole South (if I do say so myself)--

I was the Sandtiger. Sword-dancer. Not messiah. Not the person who was supposed to,

somehow, change the sand to grass.

Del raised an illustrative finger intended, I knew, to put me in my place by pointing out lapses in

logic. She likes to think she can. She likes to think she can

tell.

"If my brother

can

talk. You say

he can. You say he

did--"

"He did. I heard him. So did a lot of others. The only reason

you

missed it was because you were

dancing with Ajani."

"It wasn't a dance," she countered instantly. (Trust a woman to change the subject in mid-

discussion.) "Dances have honor attached. That was an execution."

"Yes, well ..." It had been, but I didn't feel like debating it just now, under the circumstances.

"Look, I don't know what those religious fools are going to do, and neither do you. They could

still be back in Iskandar--"

"Then what was all that dust we saw earlier?"

Sometimes she has a point.

I sighed. "Go get the provisions, bascha. I'll go get us some wine."

"And

water."

"Yes. Water."

And aqivi as well. But I didn't tell her that.

Eventually, she came looking. I'd known she would, because women always do. They make you

wait forever when

you

want to go somewhere, but when

they

want to leave they don't give you

even a moment. I'd barely swallowed my aqivi.

second

cup, that is, but I wouldn't tell Del that.

The cantina was dim, because cantinas in border towns--in any desert town, for that matter--

always lack for light except for what the sun provides. Here in the South, a little sun goes a long

way; hence, windows are nearly nonexistent, and usually cut in the eastern wall because the

sun's morning eye is coolest. Which means that by midday the sun's altered angle cuts off much

of the light that would otherwise slant through a window and illuminate the room. By late

afternoon, it starts to get downright gloomy. But at least it's not so hot.

Del pulled aside the door sacking hung to cut the dust, and stepped into the cantina. One swift

glance assessed the place easily: tiny, grimy, squalid. A barely breathing body sprawled on the

dirt floor in a corner near the door, far gone in huva dreams. A second, more lively body hunched

on a stool by one of the eastside windows. As Del entered, it murmured and sat up. I'd gotten

used to that. I wondered if Del had.

For just that suspended moment, I saw her as others did; as

had, so often, the first few times

I'd laid eyes on her. She was--and

--spectacular: tall, long-limbed, graceful, with a powerful

elegance. Not feminine, but

female,

in all the vast subtleties of the word.

Even swathed in a white burnous the body was glorious. The flawless face was better still.

Something flared deep in my guts. Something more than desire: the knowledge and the wonder

that what other men might dream about was freely shared with me.

A brief, warm moment. I lifted my cup in tribute. "May the sun shine on your head."

Del eyed me in speculation. "Are you ready yet?"

I grinned fatuously, still oddly touched by the moment. "A swallow, but a swallow ..." I downed

the last of my drink.

Blue eyes narrowed beneath down-slanting, dubious brows. "How many have you had?"

The moment was over. Reality intruded. I sighed. "Only as many as I had time for in the very

brief moment of freedom allowed while you purchased provisions." I inspected the interior of the

cup, but the aqivi was gone.

"The way

you

gulp wine, you might have had an entire bota." She scowled at the numerous

suspect botas hanging over both shoulders. "Can you ride?"

文档加载中……请稍候！
如果长时间未打开，您也可以点击刷新试试。

下载文档到电脑，查找使用更方便

5.9 玖币 0人已下载

立即下载 VIP免费下载

摘要：

SwordBreakerBook4oftheSwordDancerseriesByJenniferRobersonPrologueTherearethingsinlifeyoujustknow,withouthavingtothinkmuchaboutthem.Likenow,forexample.Ilurchedtomyfeetinthedarkness,staggeredtwostepsthroughrocks,landedpainfullyonmyknees."Oh,hoolies,"Imuttered.Andpromptlydiscardedmysupper.Suppersuchasi...

展开>> 收起<<

Jennifer Roberson - Sword Dancer 4 - Sword Breaker.pdf

共245页,预览10页

还剩页未读，继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

Jennifer Roberson - Sword Dancer 4 - Sword Breaker

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: