Free The Western Wizard by Mickey Zucker Reichert Page B

burst from the shrubs, howling in rage as it raced into the night.
    Startled, Garn stiffened, his sinews clamping into a rigid, painful spasm that, mercifully, passed quickly. Thein shouted words Garn did not understand, clearly profanities by his tone. Apparently, either Garn’s fall had stunned the cat or fear had held it immobile until the spear had shaken it free. For the first time in more than a decade, Garn seriously contemplated the existence of gods.
    “Thein?” The sentry on the wall prodded his companion.
    “One of the princess’s stupid cats,” Thein yelled back.
    “You sure?” The wall guard sounded skeptical.
    “I know what a cat looks like.” Lightning flashed, revealing a burly guard in Béarnian blue, staring at his hand, his shield propped against his hip. “Damn animal clawed me.” Spear butt dragging in the mud, Thein shuffled back to his post.
    Thunder slammed against Garn’s ears, then faded into a rolling grumble. Apparently, the wall guard could not see through the twined branches that had closed over Garn. The gentle splash of his feet signaled that he, too, had resumed his vigil.
    Garn sagged, waiting until his heart rate slowed and the sentries had fully turned their attention from the brush. Then, he freed himself from the jabbing branches, using thunder to hide the rustle of his movements. In the flashes of lightning, he glimpsed trees and outbuildings that did not fit Sterrane’s description. Distant spying had already revealed that the crafted castle grounds had grown, the old wall had been dismantled and a new one carved to enclose more of the surrounding valley. In the nearly two decades since Béarn’s heir had escaped his uncle’s purgings, details of the castle and its courtyard had changed as well. Garn hoped desperately that Sterrane’s escape passage had survived, though its exit nowlay within the repositioned and restructured fortifications.
    Once free of the bushes, Garn followed them and the wall eastward, skirting the castle’s few lit windows. Wind stung, numbly cold against his sodden tunic. He used each branching bolt of lightning to define the location of the sentries and tried to spot the ancient ash that Sterrane had called the “tree of life.”
    The brush grew denser until, at length, Garn was forced to crawl. Mud and thorns stung his cut knees, but the thick brambles hid him from the courtyard guards, and the springy green vines made little noise with movement. Bruised and wet, Garn cursed Sterrane. From the courtyard, the new wall towered higher than they had anticipated. He saw little chance of slipping past the wall sentries a second time to escape, and too many battles lay ahead. The steady patter of rain seemed to mock him, a lone soldier against the defenses of the West’s high kingdom.
    It never occurred to Garn to surrender. Time and again, Santagithi’s guards had shoved him into the gladiator pit to face adversaries who, under other circumstances, would have been strangers, acquaintances, or friends. Then, he had focused on the freedom that would one day become his and the woman whom he would one day marry. Survival had become his religion. And, once too familiar, despair became a stranger.
    Lightning arched above the castle spires, etching a dark ash tree from the gloom, less than a yard ahead. Irrationally afraid he might lose it in the blackness, Garn sprang for it. Bark scraped skin from his fingers. A low moan of thunder sputtered and died.
    Garn groped along the weathered trunk. His palm calluses grated against bark, then caught on the rim of a small hole. His fingers sank into wood chips and fur. Lightning flared. Fully revealed, Garn bit off an oath and dug furiously through the burrow, seeking some sign of the promised door, secured by inner hinges. A fingernail snapped against metal. Garn sucked air through his teeth. It required effort to shift the ancient, rusted latch, but the door yielded with a creak of corroded hinges.