Storms of Destiny Read Free

final twitch, then lay still.
    “We’ve got to hide him, before he’s missed,” he said.
    Barus nodded, then eyed the prone figure measuringly.
    “He’s closer to your size. Take his armor and surcoat. We’ll dump him in the moat.”
    Carefully, Jezzil turned the sentry over and began tugging at the fastenings. Barus had slipped the garroting wire in so expertly that there was little blood; only a few drops stained the top of the surcoat. Jezzil donned the armor, concealing his own weapons beneath the scout’s metal-studded leather kilt. Buckling on the short, straight Taenarith sword, he slapped the helm on his head. “How do I look?”
    Barus studied him critically. “Stay in the shadows,” he advised. “In a dim light, you’ll pass.”
    Quickly, the two scouts grabbed the stripped body and carried it down the bank of the moat. After listening for a moment, they swung it back and forth, then sent it splashing into the dark waters, where it sank with scarcely a bubble or ripple.
    “They say—” Jezzil began, only to fall silent and step back hastily as a monstrous, barely seen form slid past in the black water.
    “Wh-What was that?” Barus sounded, for once, faintly unnerved.
    “I was about to tell you. They say there are monsters in the moat.”
    “I would say they are correct,” muttered Barus. “I wouldn’t swim across that thing for a year’s pay.”
    Returning to the trapdoor, the scouts levered it up out of its frame and prepared to descend into the torchlit tunnel at the bottom of the ladder. “You first,” Barus said. “If you meet anyone, don’t try to talk to him. Your accent would give you away.”
    Jezzil gave his friend an exasperated glance. “I know that.
    Stop treating me like a first-year recruit.”
    “Sorry,” Barus muttered.
    The Chonao warriors made their way along a stone-blocked tunnel. Green ooze and the faint sheen of oily water stained the sloping walls, ceiling, and floor, making the footing treacherous. They did not speak, only conversed in the Pen Jav Dal’s language of signed gestures.
    When the tunnel began sloping upward, obviously nearing its end, Jezzil gestured for Barus to stay behind him. His friend gave him a quick victory gesture with thumb and two fingers and dropped back.
    Jezzil eased forward, inwardly cursing the clumsy Taenarith boots that made squelching noises in the wet muck on the floor. Mentally, he assessed the armor he had donned, calculating its weak points. The metal strips studding the boiled leather shirt started several inches above the belt …
    Flexing his right wrist and little finger, he felt the blade strapped to the inside of his forearm ease downward. A hard squeeze and twist would send it sliding down into his waiting grasp.
    The guard at the top of the slope turned as he heard a faint splash. Seeing Jezzil, he visibly tensed. “What’s going on?
    It’s not time for shift-change.”
    Jezzil shook his head grimly within the concealing shadow of the helm and, turning, pointed back down the tunnel. “What did you say?” he mumbled in Taenarian, careful to keep his voice muffled so it echoed oddly in the tunnel.
    “What?” asked the guard, coming toward him. “Speak up, Carad!”
    Jezzil coughed, clearing his throat like a man who was catching a rheum from the dank air. Just as the man reached him, he bent over, hawked and spat. When he straightened, the knife was in his hand, a muted metal flash in the torchlit dimness. Jezzil put the entire force of his body into the thrust; the razor-honed blade entered the sentry’s body just above his heavy belt, stabbing upward through leather, flesh, and viscera in one swift stroke. Jezzil’s aim was exact; the blade found its target in the left chamber of the man’s heart.
    The sentry gasped with the force of the blow, gurgled once, and sagged, dead already.
    Jezzil stepped back, yanking his blade free with a practiced gesture, then, feeling queasy, he stood looking down at the blood