Free The Western Wizard by Mickey Zucker Reichert Page A

not or could not directly interfere in the affairs of mortals. Of the two remaining possibilities, Mitrian seemed best suited. Trained by Colbey to Renshai sword mastery, she might fight her way free if subtlety failed. But Garn had argued against the choice, phrasing his points carefully to mask his fears and protectiveness behind the guise of logic. His heart fluttered at the thought of Mitrian killed or jailed, guards’ grimy hands fouling the companion he had won only with battles of conscience and honor over instinct. He loved her too much. Instead, he pointed out that he had more experience with stealth, theft, and escape. And though Mitrian’s morality would not tolerate deceit, Garn could distort the facts, if necessary.
    The second sentry passed around the bend, and another appeared as he did, their succession impeccable. Garn frowned, aware he would need to call upon the same timing and intuition that had kept him alive in the gladiator pit. At first, he cursed the guards’ fastidiousness. Then, almost as quickly, he realized it would make their patterns predictable which might work to his advantage.
    A moist breeze blew wisps of fog across the stars, obscuring them. All but blinded by darkness, Garn edged closer, counting footsteps as the sentries made each pass. He watched, assessing with a hunter’s patience, as the clouds thickened in the heavens. Lightning flared, revealing the nearest sentry. Thunder boomed between the granite crags. Suddenly, rain pelted from the heavens,soaking Garn. He welcomed the storm’s cover.
One, two, now.
Garn sprinted for the wall. A second flash sputtered, then lit the sky like day, revealing him.
Damn!
Garn ran on, head low. As he came to the wall, he skidded to a stop, whirling and pressing his back to the stone. Beneath his own stifled panting, he heard the uninterrupted slap of feet above his head.
    As the sentry passed, Garn turned, seeking irregularities in the wall that could serve as handholds. Finding many, he climbed, fully attuned to the positions of the sentries. One retreated toward the bend, and another approached. Hugging the wall, Garn kept his face buried in the stone to muffle his breathing, tasting mossy dampness. Cold seemed to penetrate his hands, making them ache. Rain slicked the granite, forcing him to gouge his fingers into stone. Again, lightning split the clouds. Garn held his breath. He had given up on gods and prayer as his months in cages and pits stretched to years. Now fully displayed by the storm, he placed his faith in luck; and, apparently, it did not fail him. A booted foot touched the wall a hand’s breadth from his nose. When it passed, Garn flung himself across and over the ramparts, prepared to roll on the ground below. He plummeted.
    Garn snapped off a gasp, nearly biting through his tongue. Thorns clawed his face. A branch pierced his arm and splintered. He landed hard in a tangle of shrubs, wood snapping in a widening path beneath him. Incensed by pain, Garn gritted his teeth and lay motionless, preferring the stab of limbs to a guard’s spear.
    A sentry shouted from above in Béarnese. “Who’s there?”
    Raised on the Western trading tongue, Garn had only learned a spattering of Béarnese in the last few months. This challenge, he understood. He dared not move.
    “Who’s there?” The voice became gruffer with repetition. Footfalls thumped in the courtyard, and another guard answered from the ground. “What’s the problem?”
    “Thein!” called the sentry on the wall.
    A third sentry answered from the ground, a few yards to Garn’s right. “You call me?”
    “There’s something in those bushes. Something big.”
    Garn pursed his lips, tasting blood.
    Boughs crackled. A spear darted toward him. He shied back as far as he dared, and the point became tangled in the brush. The guard tugged, sending the branches into a rattling dance. He pulled harder, and the tip came free in a wash of leaves and twigs. Suddenly, a cat