Free The Western Wizard by Mickey Zucker Reichert

soldiers would have told me whether or not you fought with them. If I never went, I could always believe you died in the battle. No one could tell me that you had just chosen to abandon us and returned to the woods instead.”
    Arduwyn closed his eye, nearly suffocated with the guilt of how, outside the Pudarian gates, he had nearly run again. He would see to it Bel never knew how close she had come to losing him for no better reason than his own uncertainty. “Are you . . . are we really going to have a . . . a baby?”
    Bel nodded, the movement clear against Arduwyn’s neck. “Just promise me our child won’t grow up without a father. Promise me you’ll never leave again, for any reason.”
    Arduwyn knew the danger of making such a vow, yet, at that moment, he would have promised Bel anything. And he did.
    *  *  *
    Garn rose to a crouch after hours of crawling across jagged rock that Sterrane had dared to call a road. Afaintly glowing circle traced the outline of the new moon. Stars burned through a veil of clouds, scarcely revealing the trees, carts, and cottages surrounding Béarn’s streets in rows and clusters. Other shapes towered darkly, unidentifiable to Garn, apparently devices used for breaking or collecting the famed Béarnian building stone or for carving the magnificent statues he had seen for sale in the Pudarian market. Ahead, surrounded by peasant cottages and shops, a wall protruded directly from the mountain. Beyond it, Morhane’s castle loomed gray against the blackened sky, carved, like its curtain wall, from the granite of the Southern Weathered Range.
    Garn ran for a gnarled pine growing within the boundaries of the mountain city, and cramps ached through his heavily-muscled chest and legs. Huddled behind the tree, he worked knots from his muscles, using a rag to stem the flow of blood from his tattered knees. He shook back bronze-colored hair, now entwined in a long snarl. From long habit, he readjusted his tunic and breeks to cover the whip, blade, and shackle scars left from his eight years as a gladiator. A metallic rattle caught his attention, and he trained his green eyes on the ramparts.
    A tall silhouette paced the top of the wall. Links of mail clicked beneath his cloak, and his bootfalls added a hollow, clomping harmony. Garn watched the sentry march across the back wall. The Béarnide walked with a stiff precision that radiated professionalism and training. A tabard flapped through the open front of his cloak. Darkness robbed Garn of his color vision and distance did not allow him to perceive details, but he could make out a lighter patch against a dark background. Months of preparation by Sterrane and Shadimar, the Eastern Wizard, gave Garn reason to guess that the sentry wore the tan rearing bear on a blue background that was Béarn’s symbol.
    The man passed around a bend in the wall. A moment later, another guard appeared from the far side. Garn frowned, hand falling naturally to his hilt. His fingers curled around empty air, and a sudden jolt of panic shot through him in the instant it took to remember that he carried no sword. It would hinder the many maneuvers he would need to perform to enter Béarn’s castle, addbulk to a stocky frame that might already wedge him into the tighter corners, and would be impossible to explain should his mission fail. Feeling naked, he curled his hand to the inner pocket that held his dagger and the bladder of wine, laced with a mild poison, which he would use to incapacitate the king. He also carried a tinderbox and two wax-coated torches.
    Garn’s painful crawl had raised irritation, and he forced it away. He had no need for nor right to bitterness. When the time had come for a volunteer for this responsibility, he had all but stolen the opportunity. Clearly, the heir to Béarn’s throne could not have gone. Even ignoring the unacceptable risk, childlike Sterrane had no experience with subterfuge or guile. The Eastern Wizard would