look.
“Don’t worry ’bout them. The Archon’s got their king under her pretty thumb.”
A spark of anger made Therrador’s hand twitch toward the short sword at his waist, but getting Graymon back was more important than defending his honor—what little might remain in a man who orchestrated his own king’s death. He nodded and smiled. The man took a few strides toward him and Therrador tensed, fingers curled into fists.
“What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?” the Kanosee said with a tone sounding both suspicious and accusatory.
Therrador swallowed hard. “No,” he ventured.
The man glared at him a few seconds before breaking into a wide grin.
“I’s just having at you. Come have a bite with us.”
Therrador made himself smile back.
“No,” he said again. “Already ate.”
“Fine. Be like that then.” The man waved him off and returned to his companions at the fire. “Don’t tell no one I weren’t hospitable, though.”
“I won’t,” Therrador agreed.
He strode away, a droplet of sweat running down the back of his neck. Tension remained in his limbs as he wondered if the men would see through his ruse and come after him. They didn’t. Years before, during skirmishes with Kanos before Braymon became king, Therrador learned to speak Kanosee out of necessity—if you spoke their language, questioning your prisoners was easier. As king’s advisor, it came in handy dealing with the occasional ambassador, but he never expected he’d use it to keep from discovery infiltrating an enemy camp. He sighed and unclenched his fists.
The camp was vast. Therrador passed more fires and more men as he balanced between keeping to the shadows and looking like he belonged. No one else challenged him and after a while, the tents changed from plain tan canvas to larger structures, colored and striped and decorated. He saw fewer soldiers here, where the higher ranks made their beds, and many of the tents were empty—most of these men now resided behind the wall of the Isthmus Fortress. The thought twisted Therrador’s gut; he set his jaw and pushed on.
As he came around a large red tent with a white roof, Therrador halted and shrank back into the shadows. Ahead, a group of five soldiers were gathered around a tent easily the size of the next four largest combined. He crouched and waited, squinting against the light of the tall torches set on either side of the door. The men didn’t talk, instead grunting and growling at one another. One turned toward Therrador and he receded further into the shadows at the sight of the man’s black breastplate splashed with red.
The undead.
Given its size, Therrador guessed the tent must belong to the Archon. A wisp of smoke curled from the peak of the pavilion, dissipating into the night sky. But a fire wouldn’t be lit if there was no one inside, guards wouldn’t be posted at the door of an empty tent, and he knew the Archon to be at the fortress. Hope stirred in Therrador’s chest.
This is where they’re holding Graymon.
He breathed as deep as the ill-fitting armor allowed to ease his excitement and nervousness, then let it out slowly, quietly. Getting here had been relatively easy, now came the difficult part—rescuing the boy and finding a way back through the camp with him. He shook his head to dispel the thought.
First I have to get past the guards.
Therrador crept back around the curve of the tent until the soldiers were no longer in sight, then stood and adjusted the too-small chain vest. He’d never favored the sneaky approach, preferring instead to face things head on. With little effort, he slipped into a posture of command he’d become accustomed to wearing over the past two decades—back straight, eyes ahead, step purposeful. He strode around the tent and directly toward the guards. One of them saw him immediately and grunted at the others. Hands touched hilts, but none drew weapons. He halted in front of the biggest of the group.
“The
“Don’t worry ’bout them. The Archon’s got their king under her pretty thumb.”
A spark of anger made Therrador’s hand twitch toward the short sword at his waist, but getting Graymon back was more important than defending his honor—what little might remain in a man who orchestrated his own king’s death. He nodded and smiled. The man took a few strides toward him and Therrador tensed, fingers curled into fists.
“What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?” the Kanosee said with a tone sounding both suspicious and accusatory.
Therrador swallowed hard. “No,” he ventured.
The man glared at him a few seconds before breaking into a wide grin.
“I’s just having at you. Come have a bite with us.”
Therrador made himself smile back.
“No,” he said again. “Already ate.”
“Fine. Be like that then.” The man waved him off and returned to his companions at the fire. “Don’t tell no one I weren’t hospitable, though.”
“I won’t,” Therrador agreed.
He strode away, a droplet of sweat running down the back of his neck. Tension remained in his limbs as he wondered if the men would see through his ruse and come after him. They didn’t. Years before, during skirmishes with Kanos before Braymon became king, Therrador learned to speak Kanosee out of necessity—if you spoke their language, questioning your prisoners was easier. As king’s advisor, it came in handy dealing with the occasional ambassador, but he never expected he’d use it to keep from discovery infiltrating an enemy camp. He sighed and unclenched his fists.
The camp was vast. Therrador passed more fires and more men as he balanced between keeping to the shadows and looking like he belonged. No one else challenged him and after a while, the tents changed from plain tan canvas to larger structures, colored and striped and decorated. He saw fewer soldiers here, where the higher ranks made their beds, and many of the tents were empty—most of these men now resided behind the wall of the Isthmus Fortress. The thought twisted Therrador’s gut; he set his jaw and pushed on.
As he came around a large red tent with a white roof, Therrador halted and shrank back into the shadows. Ahead, a group of five soldiers were gathered around a tent easily the size of the next four largest combined. He crouched and waited, squinting against the light of the tall torches set on either side of the door. The men didn’t talk, instead grunting and growling at one another. One turned toward Therrador and he receded further into the shadows at the sight of the man’s black breastplate splashed with red.
The undead.
Given its size, Therrador guessed the tent must belong to the Archon. A wisp of smoke curled from the peak of the pavilion, dissipating into the night sky. But a fire wouldn’t be lit if there was no one inside, guards wouldn’t be posted at the door of an empty tent, and he knew the Archon to be at the fortress. Hope stirred in Therrador’s chest.
This is where they’re holding Graymon.
He breathed as deep as the ill-fitting armor allowed to ease his excitement and nervousness, then let it out slowly, quietly. Getting here had been relatively easy, now came the difficult part—rescuing the boy and finding a way back through the camp with him. He shook his head to dispel the thought.
First I have to get past the guards.
Therrador crept back around the curve of the tent until the soldiers were no longer in sight, then stood and adjusted the too-small chain vest. He’d never favored the sneaky approach, preferring instead to face things head on. With little effort, he slipped into a posture of command he’d become accustomed to wearing over the past two decades—back straight, eyes ahead, step purposeful. He strode around the tent and directly toward the guards. One of them saw him immediately and grunted at the others. Hands touched hilts, but none drew weapons. He halted in front of the biggest of the group.
“The
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