Belly of the Beast by Warren Thomas (story books for 5 year olds txt) 📕

            “Help me,” Tane groaned, lifting an arm so the soldier could slip under and support him.

            Without thought, the man hurried to help. In the last instant Tane angled the sword-point upward and thrust for the heart. The man’s mail was barely an obstacle for Tane’s strength and Bearclaw’s keen edge and temper. He pierced the diaphragm, cutting off all but a strangled groan.

            Seizing him, Tane spun them around, so it appeared his dead foe was himself.

            “He passed out,” Tane called back. “Give me a hand before he dies.”

            The other man jogged over. Tane kept his face averted, struggling to keep the dead soldier afoot. Listening to the other soldier’s approach, Tane smiled at the rasp and snap of a sword being sheathed.

            Tane released the dead sentry the moment his comrade arrived, shocking the newcomer. He was unprepared for Tane’s attack, a swift and powerful fist to the neck. Needing the man’s uniform, Tane didn’t use his sword. His windpipe crushed, the mercenary dropped to his knees. Tane seized his head and jerked it around like Corporal Pendar had taught him, hearing the snap.

            Dragging the last man deeper into the shadows, Tane quickly stripped him. The uniform and armor fit well, if not a bit oversized. In fact, he was glad for the greater size of the uniform, allowing him to wear it over his own clothes. More layers meant greater warmth in the unseasonable cold.

            The helmet was another bonus. It was fur-lined and would help retain more of his body heat, at least that was what Raven claimed. She thought most body heat was lost through the head. Neither the Vikon nor Quinn argued the point, so Tane felt compelled to give her the benefit of the doubt. After all, Tyrians grew up in the bitterest winters known.

            After burying the stripped guard under a mound of snow, deep in the shadows and underbrush, Tane made for the camp. There was no one to contest his passage. He paused only once, to gaze back at the dark forms of the other dead, praying he never had to do that again.

            It’s becoming too easy to kill, he thought.

Chapter 72

            Numbing cold. Burning cold, seeping into her clothes, her very bones. Joelle had never felt such cold, such misery. Then the pain made itself known. The pain of bruises and too cold skin.

            Opening her eyes, Joelle found herself laying face down in wet snow and mud. It was early morning. The eastern horizon was just beginning to lighten from dark blue-gray to a lighter gray. Voices surrounded her, mostly male and angry.

            “She’s awake,” a voice said, male and hoarse.

            Rough hands seized her arms, jerking her upright and setting her on her knees. With a jolt of fear, she realized her arms and feet were bound. Strangely, her fingers were free and her mouth not gagged. She suppressed the grin that threatened, for the fools would pay for their inexperience in handling magic-users.

            Searching for her hoard of life energies, Joelle was struck speechless. There was nothing. Nothing at all, not even the hoarding spell that held the energy until needed. Then she realized that it was another spell hiding her energies, depriving her of her magic.

            She felt something tied around her throat. Concentrating on it, she discovered it to be a medallion of some sort. An amulet.

            “Where are your companions?” the hoarse man asked.

            Startled by the question, she looked at him for the first time. He was tall and slim, wearing the gray robes of a priest. Leltic Tribal Tattoos covered his face, partially obscured by reddish-brown stubble. His bearing and speech indicated a high-born Lelt. The golden torque wrapped around his thin throat backed up that assessment.

            Ignoring him for the moment, she looked around wildly. There was a tent behind the priest, gray and filthy. The burnt out remains of pines jabbed up at the heavens all around her, broken off at varying heights. The places where the snow was churned into mud was also blackened with ash and coals from the fire. Zombies uncounted milled around beyond the mercenaries surrounding her, deathly quiet in a way that always chilled her bones.

            Her husband was nowhere to be seen. She searched the faces of her guards, no Armin. His absence was a hammer blow to her soul. She had expected him to stay with her, use some excuse, any excuse, to stay by her side. If he’d been assigned as her guard, then they could escape when the interrogation was over. But he wasn’t with her anymore.

            Had his disguise been discovered? Had he attacked them for what they did to her? Was he dead? Wounded? Did they have him prisoner elsewhere?

            Then she noticed the look in the eyes of her guards.

            Dark, hate-filled eyes regarded her. Some few looked eager. Eager for her to refuse to answer questions, so they could beat the answers out of her, so they could start breaking things. She knew their type. She understood why Dakar’s service appealed to such men.

            Joelle was alone. All alone. And a prisoner of men who had reason to hurt her. She had never truly been alone before. There had always been someone, some friend or family member. Then Armin, loyal and loving husband, came into her life.

            “I’d advise you to be cooperative, witch,” the priest said. “You and your friends hurt a number of these men’s friends. They are eager to return the favor, though I fear they might be a bit too zealous in doing so. My fear that they will accidentally kill you is all that holds their wrath at bay. If you fail to cooperate, fail to satisfy my curiosity, then...”

            He looked meaningfully at the mercenaries surrounding her. Joelle felt her throat tighten. There was nothing she could tell them that they didn’t already know, even if she wanted to “cooperate.” Dakar