The Ascent (Book 2) (17 page)

The guards did not see the glinting steel before it plunged into the backs of their necks. Each of them grunted with surprise, stiffening up as their spines were severed. Garret carefully pulled the daggers out one by one, being cautious not to make any noise. When he was satisfied the way was clear, he moved to the entry and lifted the canvas flap enough to peak out.

No one stirred outside. The torchlight revealed nothing but trees and more tents. Perhaps the guards were around the other side of the camp making their rounds, or were tucked away hidden somewhere shirking their duties. The area looked clear.

Garret crept outside, keeping in the shadows that danced around the camp. He went to the next tent and listened for any voices inside. There was nothing but silence. Not wanting to risk leaving a sleeping guard behind to awaken later, he looked inside the flap. The tent, though furnished, was empty. Satisfied, he moved on.

The next tent glowed with the light of a single candle or lamp. The shadow of one man was seen against the wall and Garret saw that his back was to the door. He drew his dagger and quietly slipped inside, keeping his eye on the oblivious occupant. As he crept up behind the man, he noticed the smell of incense that overpowered the small area and filled it with a light mist. It was an unpleasant scent, reminiscent of urine or ammonia. Gasping, he continued his approach.

Garret reached around the man’s head, cupping his hand over his mouth and pulling him back against his chest. The man grunted, reaching up to grab Garret’s arm. The assassin plunged his dagger into the man’s neck, just underneath the jaw, and pushed his head forward to prevent the blood from spraying the tent’s walls. He held tightly as the man struggled, bracing his feet and slowly lowering him to the floor. Seconds later, the Jindala was still.

Garret scanned the tent quickly, trying to find some clue as to why the man was alone. From the looks of the tents, they were set up to house two men apiece, yet this guard was by himself. His partner was probably outside, either relieving himself or doing his rounds alone. Realizing it was most likely the former, Garret swiftly removed the dead man’s robes, dragging him to the shadows at the rear of the tent. He donned the man’s robes, pulling the collar up around his neck. Fortunately, his hair was roughly the same tint of gray and about the same length. He sat in the man’s chair, with his back facing the doorway, and waited.

Several minutes went by. Garret sat motionless, tapping his fingertips on the wooden table before him. His right hand held a dagger, poised to strike at the other guard when he entered. When he finely heard footsteps outside, he stopped tapping, breathing deeply in anticipation.

The guard behind him mumbled something in his native tongue. Garret tensed up as he heard the unfamiliar, guttural language. The mumbled came again, this time in the form of a question, it seemed. Desperate, Garret raised his left hand, waving it in a beckoning motion. He heard the guard sigh sharply, opening the door flap aside to enter. Garret turned, seeing the guard enter and look up, his eyes wide with terror. Garret smiled, flinging his right back to throw his dagger. The guard barely had time to draw a breath to scream. The dagger buried itself in his chest with a loud
thunk
. The guard swallowed and grunted, looking down at the protruding blade as he slowly went to his knees. Garret stood to retrieve his dagger, pausing to let the guard slump forward before pulling it from his chest.

As Garret sheathed his dagger, he looked to the rear of the tent where he had hidden the body of the other guard. He reached down to the guard he had just killed and grasped him by the shoulders. He then pulled him into the shadows and piled him on top of his companion, letting his body flop awkwardly on its side.

Dropping the robe, Garret headed for the doorway, peering out and listening for the other guards. When the way was clear, he darted to the next tent. He crouched near the canvas and listened. Nothing. The doorway flap was closed, and no light was on inside, so he peeked in quickly. The tent was empty, save for two bedrolls, an empty table, and a small pile of clothing. Satisfied, he crept toward the remaining small tent. This, too, was empty, meaning the rest of the guards were either elsewhere in the camp or were with the leader in his larger, more elaborate tent.

He looked around for a large tree to climb that would give him a view of the entire camp. There was a large birch near the center of the camp next to the old trading stand. Taking one last look around him, he dashed across the pathway to the tree. The closest branch was nearly ten foot off the ground. Too high to jump, especially for a man his age. He crouched, reaching into his pack for his climbing claws. Along with those were attachments to his boots, which could be easily slipped over them. He donned the attachments and the claws, testing to make sure they were sturdy, then stepped onto the trunk of the tree.

The climb was easy, as the trunk was mostly straight. He quickly reached the lowest branch, hefting himself onto it, and climbed as high as he could. There, he hugged the trunk and looked around at the camp below. All was quiet. There were no signs of any guards patrolling the camp. Only the dim light of several lamps inside the main tent could be seen. He made a mental count of all the guards he had seen and slain. The count seemed correct. He had killed four guards earlier in the day, and four inside their tents. That was eight total, out of five tents. That left one more tent’s worth of guards. Two more. No doubt they were the leader’s personal guards.

Seeing no point in remaining in the tree, he climbed down quietly, and slipped back into the shadows for safe measure. The large tent was open, and he could clearly see inside. Though no one could be seen. He approached slowly, keeping in the shadows, and stopped a ways outside the entrance. He could see the two guards inside, standing on either side of the main entrance, their pikes in hand.

Garret drew his daggers, facing them outward, and crept up behind them. They were too far apart to kill simultaneously. He would have to kill one, then quickly move to kill the other before he could react. It would be a difficult task, but he was up to it.

Taking a deep breath, he decided on the guard to the left first. He crept up silently, reaching out with his left hand to grasp the guard’s right shoulder. He pulled roughly, spinning the guard around and plunged his dagger in the man’s gut. The guard grunted, prompting his companion to turn and poise his pike to strike. The thrust came quickly, catching Garret off guard. Nevertheless, he dodged the strike, grabbing the pike with his left hand and flinging his dagger in a counter strike. The guard’s eyes widened as the dagger struck his throat. He choked and gagged, struggling to pull the dagger free. Garret calmly pulled it out, watching as the guard breathed his last breath.

There was still no sound from deeper inside the tent. Only the canvas walls separated him from the occupants, so it was unlikely that anyone inside was oblivious to what had just happened. The leader, or at least Twyla had to have heard. Carefully, he sheathed his daggers and drew his sword, walking casually into the tent’s main area. He was completely expecting what he saw.

Standing in the center of the room was the Jindala leader, richly dressed, perfumed, and holding a dagger to a young woman’s throat. The woman was still tied to the main support post, her head held back, and the dagger placed against her soft flesh in a position to be quickly drawn across in a killing move. Garret looked the leader in the eye, smiling as he pondered the enjoyment he would get in killing him.

“Who are you?” the leader asked.

“You needn’t concern yourself with that,” Garret replied coldly. “It will not matter shortly.”

“What do you want?”

“I want the girl,” Garret demanded. “Release her now and face me like a man.”

“She’s just a peasant,” the leader insisted. “She means nothing.”

Garret casually slung his sword against his shoulder, pacing slowly back and forth.

“Maybe not to you,” he said. “But she is loved by her father and her friends.”

Twyla looked at Garret out of the corner of her eye. She was smiling slightly, and her eyes did not convey any fear. Garret returned her look, smiling also, knowing that a girl like this always had a plan.

“My name is Mamoud,” the leader said. “I am the military Governor of this outpost. I have guards in the field. They will be returning shortly.”

“If you are referring to the guards you sent to Jax’s Pub to relieve the attachment there, then I must warn you that I already killed them.”

Mamoud’s brow furrowed, a look of anger on his face.

“That’s correct,” Garret continued, inching closer and closer to Mamoud. “All of your guards here are dead. And when I return this young woman to her father, I will kill the rest of them.”

“What are you?” Mamoud demanded.

“I am the Queen’s loyal subject,” Garret replied. “And I protect my Queen and our people.”

Mamoud laughed wickedly, his brown teeth showing through his thick facial hair. “Then you protect a dead woman,” he taunted. “And her doomed subjects. When the Prophet arrives with her escorts, your peop—“

Twyla’s foot in Mamoud’s groin cut short his threat. She had grabbed his knife hand and pulled it away from her throat, driving her foot into his vital area. The leader doubled over in pain, and Garret seized the opportunity to rush forward and slash at the dazed man. But Mamoud was quick and had drawn his scimitar as he crouched, slapping Garret’s own sword aside as the assassin struck.

Garret spun around behind him, slashing low. Mamoud also spun, blocking Garret’s attack and backing away from the dangerous woman. Garret shot her a glance as she casually leaned against the support post to watch the fight. Mamoud struck, spinning his blade in alternating arcs interspersed with horizontal attacks. Garret blocked, backing away with each attack.

“I thought you were tied up!” Garret said to Twyla as he parried the Jindala’s strikes.

“I was,” she replied. “But I got meself loose before ye came.”

“Quiet, wench!” Mamoud yelled, releasing a series of vicious forward and backhanded strikes at Garret.

Garret saw Twyla’s eyes narrow as he blocked Mamoud’s attacks. He continued parrying and striking at the skilled Jindala, amazed at how quick the man was. Suddenly, a vase sailed across the room, smashing Mamoud in the side of the head. The Jindala stopped, his sword arm going limp and letting loose. He turned, dazed, to look at Twyla, who stood ready to hurl another vase at him. Mamoud stumbled to the side, turning back to Garret as the assassin sheathed his sword. Then, he fell to the floor.

Garret stared at him briefly as he lay there, then turned to Twyla, who stood smugly. He gave her a questioning look.

“I almost had him,” Garret said. “Why did you do that?”

“I don’t like when the patrons call me wench,” she hissed. “And I sure don’t like a fancy pants dog doing it, either.”

Garret chuckled. “How long have you been untied?” he asked.

“For nearly an hour,” she replied, rearranging her garments, which had been torn. “I was planning on waiting until he fell asleep. Then I would make me escape.”

“He would have done something to you before he ever fell asleep,” Garret reminded her.

“Aye,” Twyla replied. “He already tried that. Couldn’t...uh...get his dagger sharp enough, if ye catch me drift.”

Garret shook his head, amazed at the young woman’s demeanor in the face of such a potential trauma. Obviously, she was a young woman capable of handling herself. Garret respected that.

“Come then,” he said. “I’ll escort you back home. There are guards remaining who are awaiting their relief. If they get rowdy enough, they may not be as polite as they’ve been before.”

Twyla nodded. “Alright,” she said. “But I’ll drive. We’ll take the wagon. I’m not much for tramping through the woods.”

“Agreed.”

Twyla gathered what little things of value were in the tent—which wasn’t much—and smiled.

“I’m ready,” she said, and walked out the door. Garret chuckled again, and followed.

It would be an interesting trip.

Farouk was in the grips of a deep sleep; a sleep that only a Druid can experience. Before him in his mind, a dark dream took place. He knew he was not the dreamer, but that he was observing, or taking part, in the dream of another. He could only feel the faint aura of this person's identity in his soul. It was an aura of a troubled mind, a troubled heart. Someone whose life had been turned upside down and was now filled with hardship.

It was Prince Eamon.

He saw through Eamon's eyes. When the Prince walked, Farouk walked. Whatever the Prince beheld, Farouk beheld. He could feel Eamon's fear and confusion. He could feel his need for answers. He knew that Eamon had a question on his mind. One that only Farouk, perhaps, could answer.

Eamon walked along a dark corridor; Dol Drakkar, Farouk knew. He was descending a long stairway into what Farouk could only guess would be some kind of antechamber. The stairway was carved of onyx, and the walls were decorated with draconic symbols and lit with the faint glow of reddish torch light. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, a large set of double doors opened, revealing darkness inside.

He entered the room, nervous, Farouk could feel. The light slowly began to grow as he walked farther in, revealing the carved walls, and many murals that the Prince had seen before. They were murals of great battles of the past, picturing the Dragon, the past kings of Eirenoch, and the many knights that had served under them. The murals were a celebration of all of the men who had been known as the Knights of the Dragon. And as Farouk gazed at them through Eamon's eyes, he felt the pride that the Prince himself felt.