scraping lazily along the ground. When he’d gone a few yards, Therrador inched forward, his gaze fixed on the man’s back to see if he’d continue on. After a moment, the man’s shape faded into the dark; Therrador hurried past silently.
The edge of the Kanosee encampment lay ten yards ahead. He wanted to rush in, to rifle through tents until he found his son, but Therrador forced himself to wait, to gauge how many men remained in the camp and where they most likely kept Graymon.
The smells of cook fires wafted to Therrador on the salty breeze. Pork, robbed from the stores of the Isthmus Fortress. He clenched his teeth, biting back anger at how things had played out so far, but the blame lay with no one but himself. It was his jealousy and anger that led to this. He could hardly be mad at the Archon or the Kanosee without shouldering a large measure of the responsibility.
Therrador pushed the thoughts from his mind—the time to set things right would come. Not now, though; as long as the Archon held Graymon captive, he could do nothing but what she asked of him without endangering his son. He started forward again, satisfied the sentry wouldn’t likely return shortly. His nerves jumped and danced, controlled but ready for battle.
He reached the outer line of tents and dropped the black cloak from his shoulders, exposing the Kanosee mail beneath. The man from whom he’d taken the armor was slightly smaller than himself and it restricted his breathing, pinched his skin if he turned too quickly. Such discomfort would have meant nothing years ago when soldiering was his world, but king’s advisor was a much easier life. He shifted the mail shirt, pulled it down, suddenly identifying with Braymon’s oft-heard lament about going soft sitting on the throne. It seemed the same had happened to him.
Thank the Gods experience doesn’t wane with age.
Touching first the hilt of the short sword, then the dagger on his right hip, Therrador stepped across the camp’s threshold, out of shadow and into firelight. He chose a spot where he saw no one around and looked left then right, wondering which way to go.
There will be a guard, that’s how I’ll know which tent.
He went right and passed the debris of camp life littering the ground: gnawed chicken bones, fruit and vegetable rinds, worn through boot soles. A rat the size of a farm cat scuttled away before him, a chunk of some rotted food in its jaws. Therrador’s lip curled—he’d never have allowed a camp to look like this, no matter how long the occupation.
Of course, I never commanded soldiers raised from the dead.
Therrador strode the path between tents like a man who belonged. Some tents he passed by lay silent, others hid snoring men or hushed conversations. He ignored them all, concentrating on where he might find Graymon.
If I had a captive, I’d keep him near the center of camp.
He took an abrupt left and headed toward the heart of the Kanosee encampment. Ahead, three men sat around a fire, one of them rotating a spit skewering the leg of pork he smelled earlier. Therrador relaxed, trying to look natural, but his mind tensed, ready to throw his body into action at half a second’s notice.
He looked sideways at the men to see if they were indeed men or the undead. One of them looked up at Therrador’s approach; sparse gray hair speckled his cheeks, his eyes looked suspicious.
“Oy,” the man called confirming him a living thing. “Go get your own food. Leave ours alone.”
Therrador nodded, not trusting his Kanosee would be accent-free enough to keep from giving him away. He strode past the fire with the purposeful gait of a man with a task to accomplish. Ten paces past, he thought himself safe when the man called out again.
“Hey, stop,” he bellowed. Therrador did, turning slowly. The man stood and gestured at him. “What’s with the armor? Afraid those cowards will attack?”
Therrador shrugged; the man’s face pinched in a questioning
The edge of the Kanosee encampment lay ten yards ahead. He wanted to rush in, to rifle through tents until he found his son, but Therrador forced himself to wait, to gauge how many men remained in the camp and where they most likely kept Graymon.
The smells of cook fires wafted to Therrador on the salty breeze. Pork, robbed from the stores of the Isthmus Fortress. He clenched his teeth, biting back anger at how things had played out so far, but the blame lay with no one but himself. It was his jealousy and anger that led to this. He could hardly be mad at the Archon or the Kanosee without shouldering a large measure of the responsibility.
Therrador pushed the thoughts from his mind—the time to set things right would come. Not now, though; as long as the Archon held Graymon captive, he could do nothing but what she asked of him without endangering his son. He started forward again, satisfied the sentry wouldn’t likely return shortly. His nerves jumped and danced, controlled but ready for battle.
He reached the outer line of tents and dropped the black cloak from his shoulders, exposing the Kanosee mail beneath. The man from whom he’d taken the armor was slightly smaller than himself and it restricted his breathing, pinched his skin if he turned too quickly. Such discomfort would have meant nothing years ago when soldiering was his world, but king’s advisor was a much easier life. He shifted the mail shirt, pulled it down, suddenly identifying with Braymon’s oft-heard lament about going soft sitting on the throne. It seemed the same had happened to him.
Thank the Gods experience doesn’t wane with age.
Touching first the hilt of the short sword, then the dagger on his right hip, Therrador stepped across the camp’s threshold, out of shadow and into firelight. He chose a spot where he saw no one around and looked left then right, wondering which way to go.
There will be a guard, that’s how I’ll know which tent.
He went right and passed the debris of camp life littering the ground: gnawed chicken bones, fruit and vegetable rinds, worn through boot soles. A rat the size of a farm cat scuttled away before him, a chunk of some rotted food in its jaws. Therrador’s lip curled—he’d never have allowed a camp to look like this, no matter how long the occupation.
Of course, I never commanded soldiers raised from the dead.
Therrador strode the path between tents like a man who belonged. Some tents he passed by lay silent, others hid snoring men or hushed conversations. He ignored them all, concentrating on where he might find Graymon.
If I had a captive, I’d keep him near the center of camp.
He took an abrupt left and headed toward the heart of the Kanosee encampment. Ahead, three men sat around a fire, one of them rotating a spit skewering the leg of pork he smelled earlier. Therrador relaxed, trying to look natural, but his mind tensed, ready to throw his body into action at half a second’s notice.
He looked sideways at the men to see if they were indeed men or the undead. One of them looked up at Therrador’s approach; sparse gray hair speckled his cheeks, his eyes looked suspicious.
“Oy,” the man called confirming him a living thing. “Go get your own food. Leave ours alone.”
Therrador nodded, not trusting his Kanosee would be accent-free enough to keep from giving him away. He strode past the fire with the purposeful gait of a man with a task to accomplish. Ten paces past, he thought himself safe when the man called out again.
“Hey, stop,” he bellowed. Therrador did, turning slowly. The man stood and gestured at him. “What’s with the armor? Afraid those cowards will attack?”
Therrador shrugged; the man’s face pinched in a questioning
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