Page 62 of Orc's Forbidden Claim

It takes far too long, but in a pile of scrap to the side, I find the mate to the hand claw. This one has its leather strap. Finding a broken shield is easy and I take the leather off of it to replace the missing piece.

Finally, I have the pair of claws strapped on. The sharp points are fastened against my palms. With these, I will be able to climb. Now, all I have to do is get back to where I was when the quake happened.

I move fast. There is no more time for stealth. The streets are still empty, but some sense tells me that won’t last long. No matter though because I make it to the wall. Three dozen armlengths, maybe a bit more or less. That’s the distance I need to climb to make the opening.

I’ll be exposed the entire time. If anyone looks up, even a casual glance.

I cannot focus on what might happen. This is a terrible idea, and I know it, but it’s also the only option, making knowing that a moot point. I stretch my legs, pull my knees to my chest, take two deep breaths as I look around to make sure no one is watching, and then I run.

Moving as fast as I can, I pour all my strength into it. When I’m an arms-length from the wall, I leap. Throwing my hands up, the wall speeds past as I rise. When momentum slows and the first pull of Tajss grips me, I slam my hands against the stone.

The hooks don’t penetrate. I’m sliding, iron hooks scraping, making more than enough noise to attract attention. I pull my right arm back and slam it against the wall again. The hooks catch and I stop hard. The drop jerks on my shoulder with enough force that I feel the socket start to pull apart, but the muscles and tendons hold, albeit painfully.

Hanging from one hand I am twisting back and forth. I swing my legs and am able to get the other hook to catch on the stone. I give myself a moment to catch my breath and let the pain ease. I know I don’t have long though and begin my climb.

I keep my eyes up, not out of fear of the distance to the floor below, but because an eye on the prize is the best way to keep my focus. If anyone spots me there will be nothing I can do about it. My one hope is to reach the opening and be out of sight before that happens.

The opening is coming closer. This might work. I might make it. Muscles burning with exhaustion, I refuse to slow down. One hand, then the next, pulling all my weight up. Closer and closer.

“Guards!”

43

KHIARA

Iglance down and my stomach clenches tight as cold fills my veins. Someone is pointing right at me and a crowd is gathering. A guard runs down the street. There is no more time.

I put in all the strength I have left, digging deep and fighting to climb faster to the opening. Below, the sounds of the gathering onlookers are loud, but not loud enough to drown out the clinking of armor. Too much clinking to be only one guard.

The hooks on my right hand don’t penetrate. I drop down, slamming pressure onto my left shoulder this time. A thrown blade strikes the wall, barely missing. Heart racing, I have to move. Now.

Twisting around, I slam the right hand in, the hooks catch, and I pull myself up. One hand, then another. Another blade strikes close, making atingsound as the stone reflects it.

Focus. Climb.

The edge of the opening is in sight. Two arm’s lengths. A projectile strikes against my back. It hurts, knocking my breathout, but I can’t stop. I get the fingers of my right hand over the edge, tightening my grip, I pull.

Up. Over. My chin clears the edge. Muscles strain, fighting exhaustion.

Pain.

Sharp.

Stabbing.

My fingers go numb, I can’t hold onto the edge, it slides free. I drop, my weight coming down onto the left shoulder. Twisting against the stone wall, I try to flex the fingers of my right hand, but they won’t respond. Wetness dribbles down the back of my arm.

Shouts rise from below. Three guards in a huddle, staring up. One of them rears back, taking aim, a blade in his hand.

I’m sorry Saylor.

His arm moves forward in slow motion. His aim will be true. I am certain of it.

The crowd surges, knocking into him. The blade flies wide, missing. The shouting grows louder, then the guards are surrounded.

“Run!” Muda screeches, his voice cracking.

He’s standing just outside the crowd that are climbing over the guards, stomping on them as they stampede around. I nod my gratitude to Muda who turns and runs, disappearing into the city.

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