Whenever she prepared herself to die, she would always recall her master's words: "Remember, Jarah: The gods are under our control." Fingering the array of tokens that dangled from her belt, Jarah drew in a cleansing breath. "They're under my control," she said aloud, though the hot wind that blew in from the distant Desert Lands pushed them up and into the air, unheard.
Swallowing, she raised the black scarf over the bottom half of her face, tucking the hem into the bottom of her darkened goggles. Having her vision obscured and her mouth covered made her claustrophobic, but that was all for the good: She could harvest that emotion. Prowling along the crenelated wall, the blood-red sun spilling into the horizon and casting rusty hues on the sandstone, Jarah worked her way toward the closest stairwell. She could hear the guards laughing in the compound, some thirty feet below her, and that helped her mentally map how many obstacles lay between her and her target. Swallowing back against the nerves that fluttered in her stomach--another useful emotion, should she need it--Jarah shifted to better peer over the lip of the wall. Her head, fully muffled in the scarf and her eyes covered by the goggles, would likely appear as no more than an additional stone on the crag-marked wall. She hoped, anyway. Jarah dropped back down, shifting the cloak that she had wrapped around her shoulders. She wore armor, of course--it would be stupid to attack a slumlord's compound without some protection, gods notwithstanding--and her curved knife sat in its frog, ready to flash out…only if absolutely necessary, of course. Touching the belt from which hung her tokens, she mentally counted what she'd seen in her quick glance: Five guards, standing in a loose circle near the pillared entrance to the building, with two roving the grounds and at least one on the far side, on the wall. The sun's descent continued to darken the sky--which, no thanks to her tinted goggles, looked even darker. As soon as it fully disappeared, she would strike. The guards laughed again, the noise brought to her on the hot wind. Glancing over one shoulder, Jarah smirked. Luck was with her tonight. Billowing over the ruins of the city, a dust storm approached. It would strike in a few minutes--right about the time she had planned on dropping in. Shifting to the balls of her feet, she padded her way closer to the stairs, the sun-warmed stones still radiating heat. She could feel it through the tough leather of her shoes and through the carefully wrapped trousers. The unbearable heat of the day had yet to fade into the night, so sweat dripped down her back and pebbled her forehead. Jarah ignored it. It was her fault it was so hot, anyway: The least she could do was suffer a small part of the consequence. At the stairs, she peeked her head around, then snapped it back, heart hammering. She swallowed against the panic: Had she been seen? Tucking that emotion into the back of her mind, she shifted, her blade--wiped in tar to make it invisible in the darkness--out and ready. The sound of approaching boots floated over the wall. "…upid idea, really." The guard was talking to himself. Jarah tensed, anxious. "I mean, what's so special about that girl?" A snort. The words were clearer now as the guard, between stair-induced gasps, groused aloud. "It's not like he doesn't have dozens of those whenever he wants." The voice took on a mocking tone. "'Can't have any interruptions now that he's found her.'" Another snort. "Yeah, well, won't he be…" The voice trailed off. Jarah stared up at the corner behind which she crouched, blade out. The guard stood two strides off, on the landing where the stairs connected to the sandstone wall. The shadows kept her hidden so long as he didn't look down. If he did, Jarah would have to kill the man and drag his body away. It'd be best--for many reasons--if she could avoid that. The man stopped, obviously winded. He turned. Jarah flexed her toes in her quiet boots. Her empty hand drifted toward a token on her belt. The guard swore. Before Jarah could move, he spat again. "I'm not going to be hanging out in a sandstorm, especially not up here." He turned and pounded down the stairs. Jarah could barely hear the sound of his footsteps retreating over the thudding of her heart in her temples. Closing her eyes, Jarah pulled down her scarf and swallowed a couple of comparatively cool breaths, storing the emotions of fear, anxiety, and thrill. With her skin free, she could sense the change in air pressure that let her know that a sandstorm was approaching: The air had a thickness to it that only came with the sands. Looking out over the cracked domes of Gallhin, the place she called home, Jarah saw lights in the ruins of buildings snuffing out as people hunkered down. Shifting her feet so that she could peer over the other side of the wall, she saw the shadowy shapes of people rushing to find shelter. Below her, the guard she'd nearly killed shouted about the onrush of the storm. The chaos of Gallhin preparing matched the furor of her heart. Taking another deep breath, then tucking her scarf back into place, Jarah returned to her position by the stairs. Peeking around the edge, she could see the guards heading into the main slumlord's lair, the largest of the three buildings in the compound. The biggest was her target; the other two were barracks or prisons. Jarah's source had been unsure which was which. Nevertheless, she'd been right about the cowardice of Tenhaim's men. That, at least, was a blessing. Something caught the corner of her eye. She shifted to glance over her shoulder. Nothing was there. Jarah shook her head. She needed to move; the strain of stress was getting to her. Ducking onto the small landing of the stairs, Jarah leaped over the waist-high balustrade. Using her hands and feet as brakes, she skidded downward, her right hand on the outcropping on which the stairs were built, her left against the outer wall. The dry, rough texture of the stone--and the heat that they created as she slid--was tangible through her thin gloves, but not so much that it bothered her. Jarah dropped lightly on her feet, a dust cloud falling about her from the disturbed wall and billowing up from beneath her because of the landing. If the guards had been doing their jobs, they would've noticed the disturbance in the gloom of almost night. Fortunately for her, they weren't doing their jobs. Jarah cocked something approaching a smile on her lips. Satisfaction was a rare emotion, and she carefully filed it away. It was nice when things worked out correctly, even in a world she had helped to destroy. Using the shadows where she could and sprinting where she couldn't, Jarah made her way toward the outside wall of the main building. The hasty map--provided by her source--let her know the general layout of the compound. If the information were correct, this wall was connected to the pantry. No one would likely be in there, should she need to pass through it. Plucking one of the tokens from her belt, Jarah carefully adjusted the dial to the appropriate rune, then wedged it into a crack in the wall. Next to it, she attached a piton, tying a small hammer just above the token's center button. As she worked, she recalled the surprise she'd felt at the guard's departure, as well as the idea that had gotten her here in the first place: Tenhaim knew things about the Breaking of the World. Mentally shoving that emotion into the cylindrical token, she double checked that the dial was at Transt's rune. It wouldn't work if she missed that detail. Almost done. Jarah drew in a breath, then released the weight that held the hammer in check. It started its slow descent toward the ground. When it at last landed, the knot tying the hammer in place would unwind and the hammer would fall. She had, maybe, ten minutes. If she was going to break into the home of one of the most dangerous men in all Gillhan, she needed to hurry. Comments are closed.
|
Archives
February 2019
Categories |