There it is. Go quickly. The guards at the front are Outriders. Easily dispatched. He will likely have a Kishion as a personal bodyguard. He will be no match for us.
Kiranrao went to the far side of the pavilion, where he anticipated the shadows were gathered like berry bushes. Instead, tall poles wreathed in blue flame were set into the ground on each of the four corners of the pavilion. They cast a brilliant hue around the entire pavilion and filled the air with a steady plume of white smoke.
He studied the pavilion shrewdly, looking at the seams, the tent stakes, the curving poles, and pennants fluttering from the top. Voices murmured within, discussing, undoubtedly, the progress of the siege of Havenrook. Kiranrao boiled with fury. This night would be spoken of in frightened whispers. No one would ever again risk the wrath of Kiranrao.
He was impatient to be finished.
Studying the hem of the pavilion, he saw the widest opening, the fringe tugged down by stakes. It was narrow enough that a man could slide under if a stake was pulled up. He glanced at them all and felt the blade nudge him toward the weakest one. He nodded and stalked forward, a wisp of night himself.
After dropping to one knee, he tugged at the tent stake and it came up effortlessly. He heard the fabric stretch softly, the pressure removed from the cords fastened to the stake. There was a pungent smell in the air, an unfamiliar one. Wrinkling his nose, he dropped low and laid himself down on the ground, parallel to the skirt of the pavilion. He saw furs covering the dirt floor, plump cushions, a few ironbound chests and an armor rack with the king’s armor hanging from it. The helm with the white plume was especially well crafted.
A few soldiers were gathered around a hide-bound stool, sharing some plans with the man seated on it. The King of Wayland, his goatee flecked with streaks of gold and rust, his hair long about his shoulders. He was a handsome man, except for the receding hairline, and his nose was a bit too bulgy. But he had a charming smile and a reputation of ruthlessness that had finally been confirmed. Kiranrao would enjoy killing him. He stared at him, waiting for the pulse from Iddawc revealing the man’s weakness.
None came.
Kiranrao stared at the man, the covenant King of Wayland. Something about him felt…wrong. The gloved fingers stroking his beard were the best money could buy. His chain hauberk was fringed with intricate gold trim along the collar and sleeves—another fortune. There was a necklace of some sort around his neck. A Druidecht talisman? Kiranrao could not tell. He nodded as the men continued to speak to him, treating each with respect and patience.
The king’s eyes flickered to where Kiranrao was laying. He blinked slowly. A small, delighted smile twisted up one corner of his mouth.
Their eyes met.
The blade began to hiss in fear and fury in his grip. It caused an ache to rush up his entire arm. He nearly dropped it, feeling the hideous sensation inside his flesh, as if a thousand grubs were wriggling beneath his skin, trying to burrow into his bones. He almost dropped the blade. But he did not.
That one look told Kiranrao that it was a trap designed for him and that he had blundered his way into it. Rolling away from the pavilion, Kiranrao made it to his feet. Soldiers appeared from the dark.
“He’s over there, boys. Look at the shadow on the ground. Aim at the shadow!”
The light from the torches. Of course. The magic fire burning in them revealed those hidden normally from sight. He had not noticed the shadow he was leaving on the ground behind him. He had to give the King of Wayland credit. He truly had thought it through.
As the crossbows began to fire, Kiranrao whipped one direction and then another and took in a big breath of air, rising above the torches. The light from the flames had no canvas on which to paint his shadow. He floated above the pavilion, watching as some of the bolts tore gashes into the fabric. He scudded like a cloud, breathing even deeper until he rose as high as the monstrous trees. With a kick in the air, he angled his way to the upper branches and grasped a hold of the trunks. The soldiers down below scurried like ants from a kicked hive. He stood on the slender branch, keeping his breath carefully measured so that it would easily support his weight. The throbbing feeling in his arm began to settle. How close he had come to losing the blade! He did not think for a moment he had come close to dying. He was far too clever to ever risk that.
Watching as the army of Wayland began to search the camp, he nearly shouted his laughter from the tree tops. Instead, he slunk away, vowing to return and drive the blade deep into the king’s chest. The siege would continue to choke his people. Murderous rage continued to burn in his heart.
Shoving away from the tree, he rapidly descended into the camp and made his way through the confusion of the raid. Soldiers were talking about an intruder in the camp. A man had been seen. The thief Kiranrao. His name was said with contempt. It made him grind his teeth with fury. He would kill them all. One by one if he had to. One soldier at a time. But would that be fast enough to save his wealth from vanishing? The cask was caved in, the wine already spilling out. He wanted to save as much of it as he could. He was frantic at how quickly his wealth was vanishing.
Kiranrao went to the far side of the pavilion, where he anticipated the shadows were gathered like berry bushes. Instead, tall poles wreathed in blue flame were set into the ground on each of the four corners of the pavilion. They cast a brilliant hue around the entire pavilion and filled the air with a steady plume of white smoke.
He studied the pavilion shrewdly, looking at the seams, the tent stakes, the curving poles, and pennants fluttering from the top. Voices murmured within, discussing, undoubtedly, the progress of the siege of Havenrook. Kiranrao boiled with fury. This night would be spoken of in frightened whispers. No one would ever again risk the wrath of Kiranrao.
He was impatient to be finished.
Studying the hem of the pavilion, he saw the widest opening, the fringe tugged down by stakes. It was narrow enough that a man could slide under if a stake was pulled up. He glanced at them all and felt the blade nudge him toward the weakest one. He nodded and stalked forward, a wisp of night himself.
After dropping to one knee, he tugged at the tent stake and it came up effortlessly. He heard the fabric stretch softly, the pressure removed from the cords fastened to the stake. There was a pungent smell in the air, an unfamiliar one. Wrinkling his nose, he dropped low and laid himself down on the ground, parallel to the skirt of the pavilion. He saw furs covering the dirt floor, plump cushions, a few ironbound chests and an armor rack with the king’s armor hanging from it. The helm with the white plume was especially well crafted.
A few soldiers were gathered around a hide-bound stool, sharing some plans with the man seated on it. The King of Wayland, his goatee flecked with streaks of gold and rust, his hair long about his shoulders. He was a handsome man, except for the receding hairline, and his nose was a bit too bulgy. But he had a charming smile and a reputation of ruthlessness that had finally been confirmed. Kiranrao would enjoy killing him. He stared at him, waiting for the pulse from Iddawc revealing the man’s weakness.
None came.
Kiranrao stared at the man, the covenant King of Wayland. Something about him felt…wrong. The gloved fingers stroking his beard were the best money could buy. His chain hauberk was fringed with intricate gold trim along the collar and sleeves—another fortune. There was a necklace of some sort around his neck. A Druidecht talisman? Kiranrao could not tell. He nodded as the men continued to speak to him, treating each with respect and patience.
The king’s eyes flickered to where Kiranrao was laying. He blinked slowly. A small, delighted smile twisted up one corner of his mouth.
Their eyes met.
The blade began to hiss in fear and fury in his grip. It caused an ache to rush up his entire arm. He nearly dropped it, feeling the hideous sensation inside his flesh, as if a thousand grubs were wriggling beneath his skin, trying to burrow into his bones. He almost dropped the blade. But he did not.
That one look told Kiranrao that it was a trap designed for him and that he had blundered his way into it. Rolling away from the pavilion, Kiranrao made it to his feet. Soldiers appeared from the dark.
“He’s over there, boys. Look at the shadow on the ground. Aim at the shadow!”
The light from the torches. Of course. The magic fire burning in them revealed those hidden normally from sight. He had not noticed the shadow he was leaving on the ground behind him. He had to give the King of Wayland credit. He truly had thought it through.
As the crossbows began to fire, Kiranrao whipped one direction and then another and took in a big breath of air, rising above the torches. The light from the flames had no canvas on which to paint his shadow. He floated above the pavilion, watching as some of the bolts tore gashes into the fabric. He scudded like a cloud, breathing even deeper until he rose as high as the monstrous trees. With a kick in the air, he angled his way to the upper branches and grasped a hold of the trunks. The soldiers down below scurried like ants from a kicked hive. He stood on the slender branch, keeping his breath carefully measured so that it would easily support his weight. The throbbing feeling in his arm began to settle. How close he had come to losing the blade! He did not think for a moment he had come close to dying. He was far too clever to ever risk that.
Watching as the army of Wayland began to search the camp, he nearly shouted his laughter from the tree tops. Instead, he slunk away, vowing to return and drive the blade deep into the king’s chest. The siege would continue to choke his people. Murderous rage continued to burn in his heart.
Shoving away from the tree, he rapidly descended into the camp and made his way through the confusion of the raid. Soldiers were talking about an intruder in the camp. A man had been seen. The thief Kiranrao. His name was said with contempt. It made him grind his teeth with fury. He would kill them all. One by one if he had to. One soldier at a time. But would that be fast enough to save his wealth from vanishing? The cask was caved in, the wine already spilling out. He wanted to save as much of it as he could. He was frantic at how quickly his wealth was vanishing.
