Chapter eighteen
The artistry of a Sword MistressHunkering in the shadows next to a shed that contained something unmentionable — something best left undisturbed judging by the smell — Delia glared out into the ward. Torchlights cast ominous flashes and gleams of fire. Silhouetted and animate, the guards gathered themselves. Evidently a new coffle of slaves had just come in and someone retained spirit enough to resist. More than one slave was being loaded with extra chains and bashed over the head in the next ward. Delia had to cross that space and then get past the kitchens to the stables. Setting themselves, the slave handlers rushed back through the archway and the noise increased.
Delia glared. She glared in a veritable passion of frustration and sheer bad temper.
By Vox! By Krun! B
