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the air from the lungs of every soldier in his
path. How many would he know? How many
had he trained? A small part of him prayed the
number would be few. That if they knew him,
they’d be wise and stand down. He had no
intention of stopping, though.
Rowan freed the hatchet from his side, a
long knife already glinting in the other.
A killing calm had settled over him hours
ago. Days ago. Months ago.
Only a few more minutes.
The six guards at the camp entrance stirred
from their watches. The sentries in the trees
behind him, unaware of his presence this
night, would spot the action the moment their
fellow sentries went down. And certainly spot
him the moment he broke from the trees,
crossing the narrow strip of grass between the
forest and camp.
He’d debated flying in, but the aerial