“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 soaking his gauntlet and dripping off his knife.
He’d practiced that stroke thousands of times in sparring practice or against wood and sawdust dummies, but had never before used it on another living being.
“Nice work,” Barus commented, grinning broadly. “Almost as smooth as if I’d done it. Next time twist your wrist a little harder to the right, and you can get both chambers.
Even quicker that way.”
“We’d better get rid of the body,” Jezzil said. “Do you want to put on the armor?”
Barus turned the man over and regarded the blood-soaked form measuringly. “No, too stained,” he said. “You stay here, so they’ll think the sentry is still on duty, and I’ll scout the fortress, count how many troops.”
Jezzil nodded, and together they lugged the body out of the tunnel and dumped it into the moat. As before, it barely sank before something they could only glimpse was upon it.
Then Jezzil took up his supposed station, while Barus stole into the fortress.
The young Chonao fretted as he stood guard, his unfortunate imagination presenting him with images of Barus discovered, attacked, killed, and m’Banak alerted and impossible to take from within—their mission a total failure.
Nobody came near him. Jezzil had little way to judge the passing of the time; only his increasing need to relieve himself made him guess that nearly an hour had passed before a gray shadow flowed down the ladder leading up into m’Banak.
Jezzil repressed a sigh of relief. “What took you so long?”
Barus gave him a quizzical glance. “I came and went as quickly as I could. What’s wrong? Place giving you the jumps?”
“Of course not,” Jezzil snapped. “Are you ready to report?”
Barus nodded. “Zajares is quartered in the west dome, on the top floor. The guards are all wearing surcoats with his in-signia, just as Intelligence said. If we put on the ones we brought with us, taken from those prisoners, we can march right in.”
“How many?”
“No more than sixty. They’ve got patrols out, all right.”
“What if one of those patrols returns while we’re attacking?”
Barus made a dismissive gesture. “You worry too much.”
“What about the security surrounding Zajares?”
His friend shook his head. “That will be harder,” he admitted. “They change the passwords with every shift of the guard. But we should be able to divide our force, set fire to the main hall, and use that as a diversion. Then we’ll just have to deal with Zajares’s personal guard. The door’s locked, but we can handle that. We’ll get in, never fear, youngster.”
Jezzil glared at his friend. Barus was a year older than he, and never let the younger Chonao forget it.
“You’d better get back to Gardal and report. I’ll stay here,” Jezzil said, with a swift glance up the ladder. “Try to bring the troop in before midnight. I’m betting that’s when the guard changes.”
“Likely,” Barus agreed. “We’ve got at least two hours before then. We should make it.”
“Don’t forget to bring my blade. I don’t want to have to fight with this,” Jezzil said, resting his hand on the pommel of the Taenarith sword. “Clumsy thing.”
“You said it,” Barus nodded. “Don’t worry, I won’t forget.”
“Good. Hurry.”
When his friend was gone, Jezzil walked a little way down the tunnel to relieve himself, then waited impatiently, striding back and forth to keep warm in the dankness of the tunnel. He found the sentry’s half-eaten supper and drank the half cup of overly sweet wine, then chewed determinedly at the tough, grainy bread and nearly tasteless cheese. Even though he was not hungry, he knew the food would give him energy.
The faint sound of footsteps finally reached his ears, and he straightened, hand on his weapon. Recognizing his Amato in the lead, he saluted briskly and signed, “Quiet here, sir.”
Gardal’s fingers moved in answer. “Good. Follow me, Risore.”
Jezzil joined the small troop of soldiers, all clad in surcoats taken from captured Taenarith soldiers. His heart hammering, the young Chonao fell into step beside Barus, who handed him his sword. As he belted it on, the other Risore gave him an excited grin and a wink.
The troop of Silent Ones climbed the ladder leading into Zajares’s stronghold. They found themselves in a small wooden guard chamber. Outside lay a courtyard. Sentries were stationed on the walls surrounding the fortress, but the doors leading into the stronghold were unguarded. Barus, with Jezzil beside him, moved up to take the lead.
Soft-footed, the Silent Ones scattered and crossed the courtyard, unseen. Stealth was their speciality; each warrior melted into the shadows like something spawned from the darkness. The sentries never heard a thing as the Pen Jav Dal crossed the hard-packed surface.
Barus led them to the western dome. Gardal signaled to the young Risore to take twenty of the men and head right, into the main hall. Jezzil knew the plan. They would fire the hall, making it appear as though there was a troop rebellion in progress.
The other thirty Silent Ones followed their Amato into the western dome. They waited around the curve in the
corridor, backs pressed against the stone, for their signal to begin the planned attack.
Despite the chill air, Jezzil was sweating, and he was vaguely sorry he’d eaten. The food roiled uncertainly in his stomach, and the wavering dance of the smoky torches added to his queasiness. He couldn’t stop remembering the way it had felt when his knife had punched upward through the sentry’s vitals, ending his life.
What had his name been? Had he had a mother, father, perhaps brothers and sisters? Or a wife, children? Was he young, or old? He would never know.
As they waited, breathing shallowly, evenly, every muscle poised to explode into action, they heard shouts and crashes from behind them, in the direction of the main hall. The others were doing their part.
A minute or so later a dozen or more guards came thundering down the ancient wooden staircase, shouting harried orders and directions at each other: “Buckets! Get them from the stables!”
“You, Ranla, stand by at the well!”
“Weapons at the ready! This is sabotage!”
“I told you Adlat wasn’t to be trusted!”
As Zajares’s men charged around the corner, the Pen Jav Dal were ready. Blades flashed, throwing discs whizzed.
Meaty thunks, grunts, and a muffled scream or two— —and it was done. Fourteen guards lay dead. Gardal’s troops made no effort to hide their bodies. At this stage in their attack they wanted their work to be seen, to strike fear into the hearts of Zajares’s soldiers. The troop merely pulled the bodies out of the way, stacking them up along the wall to leave a clear path, should a retreat be necessary.
All the while, the sounds behind them had intensified.
Jezzil smelled smoke, then heard the pounding of running feet. He checked his fighting stance, then relaxed as he heard a familiar whistled signal. Moments later Barus and the others appeared and saluted quickly.
Mission accomplished, the young Risore signaled.
Gardal acknowledged the message, then the Amato pointed to the rightmost corridor, making a questioning sign.
The young Chonao scout nodded. Zajares’s quarters lay in that direction. At Gardal’s signal, the Silent Ones followed their Amato deeper into m’Banak.
In response to a silent order, Jezzil and two other men grabbed torches off the wall and fired the next two rooms they came to. The main structure was stone and would not burn, but there was plenty of wood around, and oil lamps to kindle it with.
Barus pointed to a stairway, then the young Risore’s hands moved in quick gestures. “Upstairs. Zajares has the upper-most apartment, right beneath the dome. There’s a back stairway down to the courtyard, the one I told you about.”
Gardal nodded. “Let’s go,” he signaled.
With Barus in the lead, the Silent Ones raced up the stairs.
Twice they had to pause, and each time when they moved on, a guard’s body was shoved to the side. The stairs dead-ended in a huge, timbered door. Barus stood before it.
“Locked,” he signaled.
Something flashed in Gardal’s hand, and the Amato positioned himself before the massive timbered portal. His fingers moved, twisted, slid, twisted … and the door swung open.
Gardal did not hesitate. He opened the door halfway, using his body to block off the sight of the troop, and began yelling at the occupants. “Help! They’ve turned against us!”
he screamed, his Taenarian accent perfect. “Adlat has rallied them!”
A babble of questions and orders followed. Gardal’s fingers moved in a quick signal, then, without warning, he kicked the door all the way open and leaped in, his troop on his heels.
So far Gardal’s bluff had worked—but the officer in charge was no fool. The moment he got a clear view of the newcomers, he shouted, “Kill them! They’re Chonao! Call for reinforcements!”
Chaos erupted around Jezzil as the guards fired their pistols. Several Chonao went down. Jezzil tried to stay beside Barus, but they were quickly separated. Chairs and furniture went flying as the Taenarith guardsmen surged forward.
Men shouted battle cries and curses, and someone was blowing a horn. He tried to listen for Gardal’s voice but couldn’t make it out. Jezzil realized he was nearly surrounded by Taenarith troops. So far they had taken him for one of their own, probably because of his stolen armor and helmet.
A hard blow resounded against his helm, and he found himself almost engaged with one of his own troop. Quickly, he shouted at Darin in Chonao, then yanked off the helm to prevent being attacked again. A blade whizzed by his ear, nearly cutting it off, and Jezzil whirled, his sword at the ready.
He found himself engaged with a burly Taenarith guardsman, fighting to stay on his feet and not trip over broken furniture or other men. The man attacked furiously, and Jezzil forced himself to concentrate on watching for an opening in his guard. All around him the Chonao forces were similarly occupied, and he was constantly being shoved and bumped.
Jezzil drew his dagger and used it to parry thrusts aimed at his left side. His curved blade flashed in the light of ruby-crystal lamps hung from the domed ceiling on silver chains.
There was a loud crash behind him, then a man’s shriek.
Jezzil smelled smoke, guessed that someone had knocked over a lamp and started a fire. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a flash of yellow. The tapestries were alight.
His opponent was immensely strong, but Jezzil was faster, far faster. The young Chonao forced himself to concentrate on the work at hand, and a few strokes later an opportunity presented itself. He did not even have to think about it; his blade turned and sought out the opening in the man’s guard, slipped through, and slid neatly into his throat like an extension of Jezzil’s arm. He gave his wrist a quick twist, then smoothly disengaged and looked for another Taenarith.
Smoke stung his eyes. The shouting intensified, suddenly, behind him. There seemed to be more Taenarith than before—where had they all come from? Jezzil turned in time to see the door behind him, which presumably led into Zajares’s bedchamber, slam back on its hinges. Armed figures poured out through the veil of smoke. Jezzil leaped forward, his sword at the ready.
The din was incredible, and it was nearly impossible to tell friend from foe in the welter of fighting bodies and the haze of smoke. A sword rang against Jezzil’s, and he half turned to engage again. A pale figure, short, half wreathed in smoke …
Parrying automatically, the Chonao blinked sweat and smoke-born tears out of his eyes, trying to clear his blurred vision. At that moment a gust of fresher air swept past his
face, parting the clouds of smoke. Jezzil’s eyes widened as he caught sight of his new opponent.
She was small, lovely, and naked.
Jezzil hesitated, completely taken aback. He had never fought a woman opponent; indeed, as a Pen Jav Dal, he was sworn to celibacy as a novice priest of the warrior god Arenar. He would serve Arenar as a soldier until he became too old or crippled to fight, then live out his days as a full-fledged priest. Women, especially naked ones, were completely outside his experience.
Yet despite his training, his years of conditioning to reject and despise females, he was still a man, and he could not help noting her beauty—her long black hair, which rippled as she moved, the brown circles that surrounded erect nipples, and the dark thatch of hair between her legs. She must have realized her effect on him, for her teeth shone in a savage grin as she lunged at him inexpertly, swinging the huge sword that was far too heavy and long for her to wield.
Jezzil parried again, automatically. He could not fight her, he decided. It would be butchery. She was scarcely more than a child, she knew nothing of weapons … and she was so beautiful. It would be unthinkable to slay her. He blinked stinging sweat from his eyes, forcing himself not to stare at her breasts, her sex. In all his life he had never seen a woman naked, and the sight fascinated him the way a snake’s swaying form fascinated a tree vole. He parried another clumsy lunge, his mind formulating strategies for disarming her.
There was no doubt in his mind that she would not give up; her entire countenance fairly shouted determination. He admired her courage, even as he twisted his wrist, his blade engaging and then twisting hers from her grasp.
The girl gasped and made a frantic lunge for the sword that was already falling. As she did so, Jezzil found himself shoved violently from behind. His weapon, still extended, pierced her left breast, and her own impetus spitted her on the blade past any hope of survival.
Shocked, Jezzil jerked back, retreating from the spurt of crimson that followed his blade’s exit path. He had one final glimpse of her, eyes wide and accusing, before she fell forward and was lost amid the surging melee of struggling bodies.
Even as he stood gaping, he caught a blur of movement out of the corners of his eyes. Only years of training saved him; without having to think about it, he tucked and rolled away from the sweeping slash that would have turned his head into a wall trophy. Coming up to his feet, blade in hand, he engaged for a moment with his opponent before he recognized Barus, even as his friend did likewise. “Sorry!”
his comrade shouted, his wide, infectious grin nearly splitting his sweaty features. “Damned smoke’s in my eyes! We should—”
Jezzil caught another blur of motion, and leapt forward, but was a fraction of a second too late to deflect the mace that thudded against his friend’s helmet. Scarlet blossomed beneath the steel even as Jezzil’s sword pierced the throat of Barus’s attacker.
Grief-stricken, Jezzil shouted, “Barus!” and threw himself toward his friend. At the same moment a screaming, flaming form hurtled across the room and crashed into him, writhing and shrieking. Jezzil shoved the dying warrior away violently, then tried again to reach Barus, but dead and dying bodies were everywhere and he had lost his sense of direction. As he peered desperately through the smoke, Jezzil was horrified to realize he was the only Chonao still standing. His comrades lay strewn around him like straws from a child’s pickup game.
Gasping, half sobbing, Jezzil focused on his Amato’s features, grimacing horribly above the gaping red maw that had been his throat. Some of the Taenarith were still alive, and he knew Gardal would have decreed that he should fight to the death and take as many of his comrades’ slayers with him as he could.
Storms of Destiny Page 2