Fearless (Nameless #3)(56)
Training took over thought. They landed hard. Hands clasped the sides of Gryphon’s head, ready to break his neck with a single movement. But Gryphon anticipated the attack and in quick succession, thrust his palm upward into the Ram’s nose, threw his arms out wide, braced the man’s shoulders, and drove his knee up into his groin.
Only a cheap shot when life isn’t on the line.
He grabbed a fistful of the Ram’s hair, unsheathed the dagger Ram liked to carry at their calf, and pressed the blade to the Ram’s neck.
“How many are you?”
The blade moved over the man’s bobbing Adam’s apple, but he didn’t say a word.
A sharp whistle called out from the slot canyon. A distinct sound that brought back memories of Gryphon’s training.
A whistle to check for status.
One whistle response: use caution. Two whistles: All clear.
Gryphon pressed his eyes together and whispered, “Forgive me,” before dragging his knife across the man’s throat, severing the windpipe.
He lifted the man’s round shield from off the ground, and replied with two quick whistles.
Movement caught Gryphon’s attention from the direction he had just traveled. Had an Allied soldier followed him from camp? Was it possible that the weak alert of the lookout had actually awoken someone?
Torn between warning the Allied soldier coming up the hill and giving away his identity to the Ram behind him, Gryphon stood frozen for a moment, surprised that there really wasn’t a question that his primary goal was to protect the sorry fool who followed him from camp.
He’d have to play this out.
It was impossible to tell just how many men waited at the mouth of the slot canyon. Ram scouts usually traveled in pairs. But what if this wasn’t a traditional scouting party? What if Barnabas had dispatched a full mess unit?
It might explain why Laden’s scouts had yet to report movement at the Gate. Multiple scenarios raced through Gryphon’s mind, his training so ingrained in him he barely hesitated before deciding on a course of action.
The round shield blocked his bare chest, and he made sure to pretend like he watched his back as he made his way back to the slot canyon. Whoever waited for him at the top would never question that their man had survived the attack. Gryphon’s only chance depended now on Ram pride and the cover of night.
Blood dripped down onto the handle of the knife. Gryphon wiped his hand along his bare stomach and gripped the knife again, rolling it over and over in his hand. This little blade and round shield seemed too insignificant to face an unknown threat. But for the sake of the stranger at his back, he had to convince the Ram he was their brother.
As Gryphon moved closer to the slick-rock canyon entrance, a voice from within carried barely to his ears. “Two teams. Reconnaissance only. Stick to the perimeter of the valley and report in thirty, before the next watch.”
The owner of the voice wasn’t visible, still protected by the walls of the slot canyon.
Gryphon stood frozen, his shield and the cloak of night still hiding his identity. This was no scouting team. Those were the orders of a mess leader, which meant around twenty of the most lethal men in the region. And Gryphon was the only thing standing between them and Barnabas learning not only the location of the Allied Camp but their numbers.
For Zo, Joshua, and Tess’s sake, he couldn’t let that happen.
Two groups of men spilled from the slot canyon, each keeping to the outer rock wall. Gryphon ducked his head, holding up his shield-bearing arm to block his face as he darted into the canyon and took up position at the back of the smaller group.
His hands shook, his breathing spastic and too loud as he peered over his shield to make certain his ruse had actually worked.
No shouts of alarm. The Ram focused, as they were trained to do, on the potential threats ahead.
Gryphon left a good ten feet between himself and the last man, and after only following for a few feet, carefully retreated backward into the narrow slot canyon. He sprinted into the depths of the suffocating, five-foot wide slot canyon, jumping over the body of what appeared to be a Wolf soldier before reaching a thin gap that required him to turn sideways to squeeze through the towering, pinched walls of slick rock. These narrow walls that had once triggered his fear of tight spaces now might be his salvation.
He took a giant breath, and praying for some kind of miracle, yelled at the top of his lungs. “Ram!” He shouted the warning over and over again, hoping the fool walking up the hill after him might hear and sprint back to warn the Allies.
He prayed he could hold the mess unit off long enough for others to come.
The pounding of boots over stone echoed along the walls of the slot canyon. Gryphon peered over the shield through the two-foot-wide gap, crouched into a battle stance and gripping the small knife now tacky with Ram blood.
The tight canyon was so dark, Gryphon barely saw the first Ram rush toward the gap with spear held high above his head.
Gryphon hefted his shield upward to block the Ram’s spear as it shot through the narrow gap. Thrusting his knife up and under the shield, Gryphon’s blade sliced through flesh all the way to the hilt. The Ram cried out in pain. His spear clattered to the ground near Gryphon’s feet.
Blindly reaching for the spear on the ground, Gryphon heard the gravelly sound of the Ram he’d stuck sliding down the rock, trapped by his brothers at his back, stone on each side, and Gryphon’s shield in front.