Wild Watchtower: Shield & Claw Book One

Chapter Thirty-Five: A Good Way To Die

I took a wide and arcing path to reach the cliff face, to avoid the interest of anyone peering from beyond the fall. Then I silently edged along the natural rock wall, not quite to the place where the overhang above spewed crystalline water outwards, far enough to leave a path between the fall and the gash in the cliff which formed the entrance to the cave.

Ducking behind a boulder, I took a calculated risk, shifting back into my skin and picking up a chuck of loose rock; big enough to make a clatter despite the roar of the waterfall, yet light enough to throw. I sent it skittering across the cave entrance, hoping to draw out a watchman without meriting the alarm of the whole band.

For all any guard knew, the sound might have been cause by a night dwelling animal or a pebble loosened by the waterfall. None of the bandits would ever sleep if their guards woke them at every sound, but whoever they'd left on watch would need to confirm the clatter hadn't been caused by the approach of a foe. I counted on that much, and my ears strained to hear what was happening inside the cave.

"... hear tha'."

"... prob'ly... fox."

"... check... out."

"... will ah... tee."

"Nah... stay... fire. Ah'll... look... Prob'ly walk... bit."

The barely noticeable sound of light footfalls came closer to the cave entrance, and I made sure my body folded entirely behind my boulder. The guardsman seemed to pause behind the fall, and I pick up another stone, tossing it around the other side of my cover, so the guard would need to pass my hiding place to see the location of the next clatter.

"Bliddy foxes," the brigand grumbled, perhaps deciding that no foe would be heading away from the cave entrance. Still, his need for certainty had him edging away from the cave entrance and towards the sound. I heard his boots shifting the loose gravel, and even though I couldn't see him from my hiding place, I knew exactly when he stepped past my hiding place.

Years of hunting and training to fight invaders combined with preternatural strength and stealth. Despite my family doubting my will to defend Cuannagealán, all Tírgardaí were taught to fight and kill if necessary, and I found it dishearteningly simple to ease up onto my feet and step silently behind the brigand. By the time my arm went around his throat, my other hand had already drawn the dagger from the holster at his hip. He was already beaten, even though he hadn't realised it yet.

The pressure crushing his trachea kept him from calling for help, and when he reached for his knife, he found only an empty sheathe. He clawed at my arm instead, thrashing, and the sound of his feet kicking at loose stones made me cringe. He couldn't get free, though. I successfully held on to bucking deer, and no elf was going to wiggle free of my grip.

My arm continued to crush his windpipe while my dagger hand brought its weapon up under his long, loose coat and plunged it into his side, tearing through flesh, muscle, and into vital organs. The smell of blood and bile permeated the night air, but between blood-loss and lack of oxygen, the man soon succumbed to unconsciousness. Even then, I hung onto him; waiting for his weakening pulse to fail entirely before dragging him back behind my boulder.

It was fiddly work to silently tug off his boots, britches, and coat, but I did so. The rank odour of sweaty wool and linen made me gag as I tugged them on, especially when I untied the kerchief from round his neck and fastened it over my face like a mask. His boots were far too big for me, but going barefoot would undermine my disguise.

At least the man was dark haired, his mane shorter than mine but still long enough to be tied at his nape. In the gloomy light of a dying fire, the difference wouldn't be obvious. Or so I hoped.