Shadow War: Book 3 of the Shadows Rising Trilogy (WIP Rough Draft)

3. In the House of the Northside King

6th of Eylestre

Larosh Razhan's pre-war mansion rose from the hill above Northside in a massive five-story jumble of heavy rose granite walls and ornate scrollwork. The grounds around it were beautifully manicured, with neat hedge gardens and a lovely, rolling lawn stretching out on all sides like a soft, velvety green carpet. Countless windows twinkled and glimmered gold in the waning purple of a late-summer sundown.

At first glance, it was all much too pretty to be the home of a cut-throat murdering thug – until one caught sight of the men in dark grey jackets and black pants patrolling the yard near the main house and outbuildings. There were more men walking the three-meter-high stone wall that marched along the entire streetside perimeter of the property before disappearing into the dense forest that stretched to the north and east of the city.

That wide-open expanse of lovely velvety lawn was a spy's worst nightmare.

A quavering moan brought my attention back to the grey-clad thug sprawled on his backside beneath me. Slowly, he stopped struggling, his body going unnaturally relaxed against Arramy's torso.

Carefully, Arramy lifted the knock-out rag from the guard's face, then smacked the man's cheek a few times before pressing two fingers to his jugular, making sure he wasn't faking it. Or dead. 

After a moment, Arramy tucked the rag into his pocket and gave me a nod.

I shifted my weight and moved off the guard's legs. Then Arramy proceeded to muscle the fellow's unresisting body up into a sitting position at the base of the burl oak we had dragged him under.

None too soon. Orrelian – dressed in a grey jacket and black pants – had nearly reached the end of the guard's patrol, and was about to start back toward us, the guard's lantern swinging from his hand.

Arramy looked at me. "Ready?"

Whether I was or not, it was time. I dragged in a breath, my heartbeat rising to thunder in my throat. With a shaky nod I got into position, sinking into a runner's stance in the deep shadows beneath the oak, facing the south-east corner of Razhan's fortress of a house.

There wasn't any other conversation. As soon as Orrelian had reached the right point in his route, and Arramy whispered, "Run!" I bolted forward, feet flying up and over the hill Orrelian had just walked along. It was an exercise in trust. Trust that Ynette and Rugga had gotten the rotation of the guards right; trust that Orrelian's pretense at being one of those guards was working, and my ragged green velvet cloak would be enough camouflage; trust that I was approaching the walls of the manor in the 'blind spot' Arramy had found in Razhan's defenses. The only thing between me and being caught by Razhan's thugs was a pile of long odds and split-second timing.

Twenty-eight seconds. I had twenty-eight seconds before the guards patrolling the garden turned and walked back the way they had come, and I became a fully visible target on an open shooting field.

Twenty-five seconds. Twenty seconds. Legs pumping at a full-out run. Fifteen seconds. Ten. Five. The mansion loomed ahead of me, windows gleaming in the dusk like long yellow eyes.

Two seconds. One. I flung my cloak wide, dropped to the ground facedown, made like a velvety green lump in that velvety green grass, and began counting to thirty, my pulse a heavy staccato in my ears.

I got to twenty-seven. Then twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. I had to move. Smothering a moan behind my lips I shoved myself back up onto rubbery legs and lurched forward again, sure there was going to be a shout, the blinding sweep of a searchlight, a bullet, even as I raced across the last stretch of lawn and dove into the low ornamental shrubs growing below the windows of the east wing.