Except the Maridrinian soldiers stopped right next to where Lara dangled by her fingertips, voices filtering down.
“The Ithicanians are up to something,” the first one said. “I can feel it. All those horns blasting the other day, the same message over and over.”
“So what if they are. It’s wishful thinking. Can’t be more than a few hundred of them left alive, and if they feel like throwing themselves against their own defenses, so much the better. The sooner they’re all dead, the sooner I can return to my wine cup and women.”
The Maridrinians laughed, the sound echoing through the mist.
Aren stiffened in anger, but Jor’s grip tightened on his arm. “Save the fight for later.”
But Lara, it appeared, had other plans.
Aren watched helplessly as she climbed silently onto the bridge top.
The air split with screams.
A shrieking soldier flew off the side, plunging down to land with a thud on the sand, the snakes on him in an instant. But Aren couldn’t tear his gaze from the swirls of mist above, which was all he could see of the battle. Grunts and thuds filled his ears, and then another man fell, this time into the water.
Lia was on the dying soldier in a flash, slitting his throat before he could betray their presence.
Another scream, then running feet.
Then silence.
Aren couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t do anything but stare up at the bridge, waiting.
Please be alive.
Then a whistle sounded, two quick tweets followed by a long trill, and he exhaled a heavy breath and retrieved his bow from where it floated in the water. A heartbeat later, Lara dropped the end of the rope.
Lia fastened the heavy knotted rope they used for climbing to the end of it, then Lara dragged it up, securing it to the bridge.
Another whistle.
“I’ll go first,” Lia said, but Aren ignored her, jumping up to catch the rope and then climbing, his shoulders burning by the time he reached the top.
Lara stood among the dead, her face and clothing splattered with blood, the only sign of injury a split lip.
“Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine.” She swayed slightly, and fear crawled up Aren’s spine. Dropping to his knees, he jerked up the leg of her loose trousers. There was a livid red mark from the force of the snake hitting her calf, but miraculously, the creature’s fangs hadn’t broken the skin.
“Aren, I’m fine.” She tried to pull away, but he pushed his fingers through the twin holes in the fabric and met her gaze, noticing how she blanched. “What you are is lucky,” he growled, anger chasing away his fear.
Not anger at her. But at himself.
Why had he brought her here? Why hadn’t he left her on that beach?
Twisting away, he began pushing the bodies off the bridge in case another patrol came along. By the time he was finished, the rest of his team were on the bridge top. All of them eyed Lara with a new level of respect, even Aster.
“Let’s go,” Aren ordered. “We’ve only got three hours to bring down Gamire’s defenses.”
They encountered only one more Maridrinian patrol on their run to Gamire, the soldiers talking loudly enough that Aren heard them half a mile away. It was the way of it in the fog—those who weren’t used to it didn’t understand how it dampened sound, the way it distorted the direction any noise seemed to come from. But it was a weapon that Aren had used often. And a weapon he used well.
The men were dead before they could even reach for their weapons.
Still holding his blade, Aren silently released the trigger on the hatch the Maridrinians had been guarding, the springs pushing the slab of stone upward far enough for him and Jor to get their fingers under it. Aren listened for a heartbeat, then nodded once, and they pulled it open.
Slipping down into the bridge with Jor and Lia following, Aren breathed in the scent of mildew. He pressed his hand against the wall, the familiar texture of the bridge’s interior easing the rapid patter of his heart as the others closed the hatch to drown out the sound of the sea.
Unlike the fog, the interior of the bridge amplified sound, making it seem like the chattering Maridrinians were only a dozen paces away rather than close to a mile.
Aren walked through the darkness for several minutes, then took the sack that Jor handed him. Inside, he retrieved a tin bowl, along with three canisters, the contents labeled by etched markings on the sides. He poured two of them into the bowl, then under his breath, he said, “Go. I’ll be right behind you.”
Lia and Jor retreated to the hatch, and once they were out, he carefully unstoppered the third canister. Sucking in a deep breath and holding it, he poured the contents into the bowl, hearing it fizz violently. Dropping the canister, he sprinted back toward the opening and jumped, not inhaling until Jor and Lia hauled him onto the bridge top.
“What did you do?” Lara asked quietly.
“Poisonous smoke,” he replied. “The draft will push it toward the patrol.”
She frowned. “They’ll escape into the pier. Warn the rest of the garrison.”
“Not if we get there first.”
He moved at a near sprint down the bridge top until the island came into sight, then slowed so that his movements were silent. Crouching low, he peered down into the mist swirling around the bridge pier, listening. Jor was fastening a rope around Lia when Aren lifted his head. He held up two fingers, and she nodded. Then, weapons in hand, she dropped over the side.
Seconds later, there was a gurgle and a muffled thump.
It took a matter of minutes for Aren and the rest of them to descend, and he’d only just shoved a knife beneath the entrance to the pier to keep it from opening when muffled shouts filled his ears. Followed by the thunder of boots racing down the stairs and a thud as hands hit the door, desperately trying to open it.
The screaming lasted a few minutes, and then there was only silence.
Motioning the others back, Aren pulled his knife out from beneath the door, which popped open, spilling out smoke and corpses, the interior marked with scratches and blood. He glanced at Lara’s face as he retreated a safe distance, but if the grisly death of her countrymen troubled her, she didn’t show it.
They moved silently toward the edge of the island, pausing just before they reached it.
“How’s the timing?” he murmured to Jor.
Licking his fingers, Jor held them to the air, then shrugged. “Twenty minutes, perhaps a bit less.”
There was no way to know if the rest of his people were in position on the water. No way to signal without the Maridrinians suspecting an attack was imminent. All he could do was hope that they still trusted him enough to follow his plans. “Let’s take out the breakers.”
They broke into groups, Lara and Jor remaining with Aren as he led them through the tangle of trees and ferns and vines, the underbrush thick from eight weeks' respite from the storms. Lara moved as silently as any of his people, but Aren found himself glancing in her direction.
Scowling, he caught hold of her ankle, and when she turned, he gestured at the mask on his own face, knowing she had one tucked in her belt.
She mouthed the word no, giving a shake of her head.
But he didn’t let go of her ankle. If any of the soldiers manning the breakers caught sight of her and shouted the alarm, all would be for naught.