Rebels of Vulvar (Vulvarian Saga Book 2), стр. 14
“Thank you, brother,” I said.
Greyson grabbed my arm. “Promise me you will return before the first hour,” he said. “If you do not, the officers will note your absence.”
“I promise,” I said. “I should be gone no more than three hours.”
Satisfied, Greyson nodded. “I will leave the door unbolted. When you return, we will replace the crate.”
“Goodbye, brother,” I said as if I was only going to take a post for guard duty. But, with a heavy heart, I turned away and entered the passageway. I felt a choking sensation in my throat, knowing I would not see Greyson again. With what I had planned, it would be impossible for me to return.
When I mounted the steps at the end of the passageway and climbed out the opening, I found myself at the base of a knoll that concealed me from the view of any guards manning the wall I had passed beneath. We have finished our training early, and I estimated at least a half-hour remained before six bells, the twelfth hour. I had ample time to walk to the blacksmith shop near the square before the twelfth hour arrived. After closing the door, I walked swiftly toward the city center.
When I entered the shop, the female metalsmith I had struck the bargain with was alone and putting away her tools. She glanced over at me at the sound of the door opening. I removed my helmet.
“Good timing,” the woman said. “My master was here most of the afternoon and left not over ten minutes ago.”
“Did you finish the sword?” I said.
The woman nodded. Climbing onto a wooden box, she reached up and retrieved a cloth-wrapped bundle where she had hidden it among the rafters. Stepping off the box, she unwrapped the cloth to expose a scabbard made of two pieces of zaya-wood banded together with straps of flat steel. The leather-wrapped handle of a sword extended from the sheath. She walked over and handed it to me.
Grasping the sword handle, I pulled from the sheath a blade of polished steel and felt amazed by the artistry. From the guard to the point, the sword was an almost perfect copy of the katana I’d owned on Earth.
Setting the scabbard aside on a table, I grasped the sword in both hands. I lifted it above my head and slashed downward, cutting the air several times. I found the sword well-balanced.
“You’ve done excellent work,” I said with appreciation. “The sword exceeds my expectations.”
The woman smiled. “It is an interesting weapon,” she said. “It delighted me to make it.”
“How much for the scabbard?” I said. “We agreed only on a price for the sword.”
The woman dismissed me with a wave of her hand. “You paid me well. Consider the scabbard a gift. A fine blade requires protection until the owner finds the need for it.”
“Thank you,” I said, replacing the sword in the scabbard.
After bidding the woman farewell, I put on the helmet and left the shop. In my heart, I hoped the sword in my hands might soon help restore to the woman her rightful ownership of her smithy.
* * *
With stealth, I made my way through the side streets of the city to the back wall. Some twenty minutes after leaving the blacksmith shop, after darkness had fallen, I found the stockade. Luck had been with me. I had avoided any contact with the patrolling guards who probably would have stopped me and questioned my presence in the city.
Keeping to the shadows, I examined the enclosure from all four sides. It was little more than an open compound that might have been used to pen animals. The builders had formed the exterior walls of the enclosure from strips of flat iron arranged in a criss-cross or diamond pattern with spaces in between.
There were two watchtowers, one each on the diagonal corners of the enclosure. From each tower, guards would have a view of two sides, which provided all-around coverage. At the front, I found there was a large gate in the center with a guard hut outside it. I observed two guards there, armed with spears, shields, and swords. Burning torches, with ends stuck into the dirt, illuminated the gate area.
Because of the darkness, I could not see how many guards occupied the watchtowers, but assumed there would be two guards per tower. That meant I probably faced a total of six. The number did not concern me. I felt confident now that I had the katana-like sword. What did concern me was the number of warriors who might respond if a guard at the stockade discovered me and sounded the alarm.
The brutal necessity of it did not make my heart glad, but I accepted the reality that none of the guards on duty could survive the night if I planned to succeed.
It was dark around the enclosure, save for the torch-lit front gate. I made my way silently to the base of the first watchtower. There I found a crude ladder leading to an opening in the platform above me. Removing the cape, I placed it on the ground along with the katana. I knew I would be unable to deploy the sword properly within the confines of the small watchtower. The rakir in the sheath on my sword belt would have to suffice.
Noiselessly, I placed my hands and a foot on the ladder and climbed. I stopped once I could see above the floor through the eye slits of the helmet. In the dimness, I saw one guard standing at the rails with his back to me, looking outward. Another was on the floor wrapped in his cape, snoring. They were committing a severe infraction, one sleeping while one watched. But I knew warriors were apt to see to their comfort when circumstances allowed, regulations be damned. When