Tales of the Vangen: The Dead King of Danic (Book 3)

Chapter 37: Deals in the Dugout

"Time," Libro demanded.

"One hour, fifteen minutes, twenty three seconds," Moss said.

"We were right after all." Libro nudged the spyglass shut with his chin and crawled back into the dugout, chest and neck caked deeply with muck. He hit the ground with a wet plop, head brushing the woven tarp they'd made from moss and sticks, and settled into the only decent thing they had in their makeshift hole, a stone stool he'd stolen from Veil along the way through.

No one would miss it. The town had long since been burned to the ground. Whether by passing rebels or passing Chosen, he couldn't say. That's the problem with fire. It holds no loyalty.

Moss came slithering down as one, brown shadow, eyes shining in the dimness. Cent stood near the entrance watching for signs of life, all quiet, all thoughtful, ever since he'd watched his Captain turn a man's head into pulp with a hammer.

Libro, meanwhile, kept reminding himself that he hadn't killed a man at all. It had merely been a corpse that had forgotten how to die. "The patrols in and out of Kel Dracon are set in perfect intervals. Twelve patrols walk in. Twelve patrols walk out. By the time the sixth patrol enters, the first one is already out the door."

"Like farking clockwork," Moss said.

"Even without the bloody sun, they just can't help themselves." Libro pressed his back against the muddy wall, no longer bothering to scrape the stuff off his armor and skin. They'd spent a good week already traveling outside in the muck, hiking along the craggy hillsides towards Veil. Countless freezing nights without a fire in the deep woods to avoid being caught. Countless frigid days braving the elements, the bitter truth that all their work may be for nothing if Elba was already dead.

Libro shook his head. His mind was trailing off. He needed to stay focused. Stay on the path. "If we eliminate patrols two through six, we can give ourselves just enough time to get in with our disguises, extract Elba from her holding cell, and then leave before patrol seven arrives.

"An hour and fifteen minutes," Cent muttered under his breath. "To find one person in a place that big. Like trying to find spun gold in a hay bale, I reckon."

Libro swallowed past the heavy lump in his throat. He'd pondered over the castle a time or two while counting the patrols off with Moss. The place was a towering mockery of jutting stone towers, tough iron battlements, and thick, ice coated walls. The prison looked more akin to a citadel, one that'd seen better days, no doubt, but its resilient majesty could still not be denied.

"Is that how we're getting in?" Moss asked. "False prisoner exchange?"

"Worked last time." Libro shrugged. "Ended up killing everyone when we tried it at the border tower, but I figured it couldn't hurt to give it another go."

"Plans got holes in it," Cent said.

"Fill 'em in then."

"One," Cent held up his hand, eyes still trained outside as he was ordered too. "Getting you in is going to be difficult, but getting you back out is going to be damn near impossible. You'll more than likely be handed off to someone else once we get in, if we get in, and then we'll lose contact with you. That'll be bad."

"Sound advice," Libro said.

"Second, those Chosen bastards we keep stumbling into are all Wyrd touched. I can smell it all over them. Which means they probably have a way of sniffing each other out as well. We can wear their gear and hide our faces, but we'll never smell like them."

"Very true."

"And lastly," Cent paused, taking in a deep breath before puffing his cheeks. "Is that we're three men against what could be countless Chosen and Forsworn packed inside the damn place, much less the damned Right Hand himself. The odds are heavily stacked against us."