Watcher in the Woods by Robert Liparulo Page B

Blinding light flooded in, along with a wind that carried stinging grains of sand and swirling smoke. The wind whipped through the small room and back out the door from which it came, like a genie’s invisible hand reaching for the assassin. He squinted against the light and the blowing sand, and his hair flapped like a flag pointing at the wide-open door.
    When he looked, the man in the corridor was staring back at him. The wind pulled the door out of his hand, opening it all the way. The wind was pulling everything . The hem of his chiton, which hung from belt to mid-thigh, snapped up and down and then pulled tight toward the open door. He thought again of a hand tugging at him.
    The body of the prince began sliding along the floor. The shafts of the arrows extending from his back bowed in the fierce wind. A gust howled in and, as it departed, took the prince’s body with it. The assassin watched the prince fly through the door and vanish in the light. The wind pulled at the assassin’s feet, and he fell. His knife was ripped from his hand. It disappeared into the bright void beyond the threshold. The assassin would have gone through next, had he not gripped the frame of the other doorway.
    The man in the corridor rushed toward him, his expression changing from bafflement to alarm.
    The assassin was powerless to defend himself. It was all he could do to hold on to the frame and resist the force that pulled at him. Everything in him screamed out against being taken through that other door. Before the wind had come, he had seen the crevasse and smoke-filled sky on the other side. Now there was nothing but light and wind. Perhaps his nation had angered the gods by attacking this land. Or maybe he had stumbled into the lair of some beast unknown to his people. At that moment all he knew was that he must not go back through that door.
    He pulled with all his might toward the hall, but the wind’s grip on him was too strong. The other man reached him, grabbing for his arms. He seemed suddenly to become aware of the storm. He lurched forward, and the assassin thought this man, too, was going to fly right past him and out the door. But the man jammed his feet into the corridor wall on either side of the door’s frame. Over the howl of the wind the assassin could hear the man yelling in a strange tongue. The man held firmly to the assassin’s arms.
    The assassin noticed the man’s clothes and hair were flapping only slightly and realized the pull of the wind was not as fierce outside the small room. He had to get out. Seeking to gain more leverage, he released one hand from the door frame and gripped the man’s clothes under his neck. The man canted his body backward, pulling the assassin with him.
    The wind grew even stronger. The assassin’s sandals came apart and flew away—first one, then the other. Near panic now, he tugged hard on the man in the corridor, putting him off balance. The man flipped forward, over the assassin and into the blinding light beyond the other door. The assassin squinted back, watching the man disappear. As soon as he vanished, the door slammed shut, and the wind died.
    The assassin gripped the door frame and kept his eyes on the closed door for a long time. When it didn’t burst open again, he pulled himself into the corridor, rolled away from the room, and stared up at the ceiling until his breathing and his heartbeat slowed to normal. Finally he sat up. The corridor was dimly lit from vessels of light attached to the walls. Like the light in the ceiling of the small room, they did not flicker with flame. Everything about this place was strange.
    He nodded to himself. He had thought a beast resided here. The strangeness seemed to confirm that suspicion.
    Grunting, feeling his wounds and aching muscles, the assassin stood. With the caution and stealth that was as natural to him as breathing, he approached the open doorway to the little room. It was cleared of