Free The Sunset Warrior - 01 by Eric Van Lustbader

Corridor and around a turning, very still and silent and watchful, they were caught in the periphery of his vision like rodents in a web.
    Flicker: dark shadows against the light.
    And he did not stop: he moved neither faster nor slower because they had not seen him and he did not want to do anything to attract their attention. Stillness within the organism, not without. Into the darkened surgery as fluid rolls within a jar. Now pause, let eyes adjust, and move again only when all the shadows are in their proper place. Because two daggam stand guard just down the Corridor.
    ‘I shall take you to Borros.’ Stahlig drained his cup and stood.
    He has not mentioned them, Ronin thought, as they went across the room and into the surgery, aware that Stahlig did not light a light or make a sound.
    They stopped at the far wall and the Medicine Man reached out and touched something in the gloom. An opening appeared in the wall, automatic and perfectly silent, and they stepped into the small cubicle and beyond.
    It was dimly lit by two lamps, flames flickering in the draught created by the opening. Cabinets lined one side wall, a door cut into the centre of the other. And Ronin had it, the pieces fitting all at once: the daggam, Stahlig’s silence, the hidden door. And he looked to the far wall, at the two narrow beds, knew one was filled even before his eyes registered it, knew too that it contained a man with yellow skin, the nexus of an obscure power struggle within the Freehold.
    Stahlig’s arm waved like a flag. ‘Behold,’ he whispered. ‘Borros.’
    ‘How did you manage it?’
    The Medicine Man’s eyes lowered. ‘It was not—uhm—all that difficult. Borros had not regained consciousness when I returned the last Cycle, and I told Friedal that if he was not brought here immediately he would never again be conscious. Freidal had no choice, really.’
    ‘Would Borros have died?’
    Stahlig rubbed his eyes. ‘Perhaps. But the important thing is that he has since awakened and talked to me.’ He sank on to the empty bed. ‘I have not yet told Freidal because I do not understand any of this. What can his value be to Freidal now? He is quite mad. Perhaps at one time—’ He shook his head, and Ronin crossed the room, stood over Borros. ‘Such a terrible waste,’ Stahlig said wearily. ‘Human life means nothing to them. They had him for much too long—his mind is not the same.’
    But he did not tell them what they wanted to know, thought Ronin, or Freidal would not care whether he lives or dies now. He must have been a strong man. ‘Still, I would talk with him,’ Ronin said.
    Stahlig shrugged. ‘You can learn nothing from him. He is so full of drugs—’
    Ronin turned. ‘Then how can you tell that he is mad?’
    ‘It is not—’
    The sound was tiny but distinct, coming from the anteroom. Stahlig jumped up, his face pale, his eyes wide. ‘Oh, Frost,’ he whispered hoarsely, ‘this was a mistake. I never should have agreed to it. Do not move.’ He passed through the doorway to the surgery, and it closed silently behind him.
    Ronin stared down at Borros, at the high gleaming pate the colour of old bones, at the long closed eyelids. His breathing was deeper.
    The stillness was palpable. Outside he heard the low murmuring of voices. He bent over Borros, gripped the sides of his jaw in his hand. The skin felt smooth and dry. The eyelids fluttered, opened slowly, gazed blankly up at him with unfocused pupils. Still, the eyes were so extraordinary that Ronin almost failed to react to the sound behind him.
    He straightened and whirled in time to see Stahlig stepping through the doorway. ‘Freidal wants to see me immediately,’ he whispered. ‘Probably concerned about Borros,’ he added needlessly. ‘Remain here until I have left with the messenger. I have reminded the daggam outside that their presence in here would be harmful to the patient’s health. But even so, you must leave as quickly as possible. Borros