Belly of the Beast Warren Thomas (e novels for free .txt) 📖

would pass near her position. In such a quiet camp, almost devoid of mounted soldiers at the moment, she should be able to spot the spectacle of any patrol returning with prisoners. If no prisoners passed her way, she would assume everyone escaped and were heading for their rally point. But if someone had been taken, then she would see to their rescue.

            Slipping inside the tent, she paused to allow her eyes to adjust. That’s when a lantern flared up.

            Raven found herself staring at a man and woman. Neither looked to be zombies. Then she noticed the two piles of gray robes. They all stared open-mouthed at each other for a long moment.

            When the man started to move, Raven threw her dagger at him. He took it in an up-flung forearm. Raven followed the dagger, then cut right to let fly with a savage kick to the woman’s head. With the priestess moaning and clawing at the ground, Raven turned on the priest as he rose up to confront her.

            “You will pay for attacking servants of the one True God!” he hissed.

            “You’re a priest of Ashtar?”

            Raven smiled brightly to distract him further, and then dropped low as she spun around. Her booted foot connected with his knee, snapping it back with a sickening sound of joints separating. Her hand clamped over his mouth before his scream erupted.

            Grasping his jaw in one hand, and taking a handful of hair in the other, she jerked his head around and snapped his neck.

            Her grin was fierce. “And my father didn’t want me studying unarmed fighting techniques! Thought I’d only get myself hurt. Wouldn’t he be proud of me now?”

            Retrieving her dagger from the priest’s arm, Raven quickly dispatched the stunned priestess by slitting her throat. Strangely, her hands violently shook for a moment afterwards. That had never happened before. Not even her first kill had shaken her so. But killing priests and priestesses was unholy business, even servants to such an evil God as Dakar.

            Looking at the priestess’s discarded robes, she said, “I guess I get to be a priestess of Dakar for a while. At least until I can steal a uniform. And a sword.”

Chapter 69

            Though dark, the benighted forest was a riot of shouts and horses. Angry shapes raced by, looking, searching. Joelle and Armin hid in the shadows, awaiting opportunity.

            “We should move,” Armin said. “We’re too close to the clearing.”

            Joelle looked about, her eyes lingering on the campfires to the south. So many. So terribly many. She was filled with despair at the sight, at what it represented. And they had to go through that hostile camp, of that she was certain. Skirting the periphery would be suicide, what with all the patrols alerted and out looking for them.

            “One will ride by soon enough,” she said. “Then one of us will have a mount.”

            The sound of horses came closer. Armin tensed, eager for a chance to fight. Joelle almost smiled. At such times he was almost as crazy as Raven. He denied any battle joy, knowing how she disapproved of such insanity. A line of twenty riders passed by, close like Joelle promised, but too many and too alert to threaten. They let them pass.

            Armin was relaxing, disappointed, when she heard another rider coming. Only one, of that she was sure. When Armin’s head rose in anticipation, she laid a hand on his forearm. He relaxed under her hand, nodding his acceptance of her request to be still.

            The rider came, alone. He was riding along the opposite side of the small clearing, and very attentive to his surroundings. Joelle cast out her magicks, gently, studying him with care. There were priests about, and she dared not let them feel her spellcastings, so had to choose her spells carefully. She found no wards upon his person.

            Closing her eyes, Joelle chanted the spell she needed. As the last word passed her lips, she pointed a finger at the man. He suddenly reined in, frantic, one hand darting to his throat, as if someone was strangling him with a garrote. Joelle clenched her fists, concentrating so hard her temples began to pound. He was strong. Maybe too strong for such a spell. She began to wonder if she could outlast him, it now being a test of will and strength between them.

            When the mercenary fell out of his saddle, still struggling, still fighting her, Armin rushed from cover. Joelle stayed put, still concentrating on her spell. She was becoming dizzy with the strain. The man wasn’t dying, or even passing out. Armin’s dagger finished his struggles.

            By the time Joelle staggered to her feet, Armin had rounded up the horse and was leading the gelding into cover. Joelle went straight to the fallen mercenary. Thankfully, Armin had been careful with his daggerwork, delivering a thrust through the eye into the brain. His black and gray uniform and cloak were unsullied by blood.

            “Carry him into cover, Armin,” Joelle ordered, already carefully hiding what little blood painted the snow.

            The mercenary wasn’t a small man, so Armin struggled under his weight. Joelle followed, covering their trail the best she could. Snow was falling, though lightly. Given enough time, their trail would be invisible. As it was, no one would see it unless looking real close, and then they would need the light of day to find it. By that time she expected to be well past the encampment.

            Armin began stripping the man next to the horse. Joelle used a little of her precious life energy to cast a calming spell on the skittish gelding. She made him not notice the scent of blood pervading the air.

            “An ill-fit, but good enough,” Armin said, claiming the uniform for himself. He now had good mail and an iron open-faced helmet. Once he donned the uniform, black cloak hanging from his shoulders, he asked, “Should