The hill that the tunnel was carved into had a steep face. Steep, but not sheer, and this made a huge difference. He had rappelled from rooftops into windows many times in the past without incident. The slight grade made his lack of a rope less of an issue than if the wall were sheer. He slowly circled around to the side and examined the ground between him and the entrance. He would be completely exposed while he crossed the space, and a loss of footing could be deadly. There were patches of gravel here and there, but it was mostly solid rock, worn by the movement of ancient rivers, with slight grooves where the rock had been weaker and more easily etched. He smiled at the extra traction it would provide.
Before he left the cover of the shrubs, he let his eyes drift over the area between him and the tunnel. He had always found it interesting that dark vision was better at the periphery of his sight than directly in the middle—his science teacher, Mrs. Morris, had said it had something to do with rods and cones or something. Anyway, he couldn’t count the number of times he had spotted something just off center that he had missed when staring straight at it. His extra diligence paid off, because he spotted the outline of a third sentry at the top of the hill, looking out for anyone who planned to do exactly what he planned on doing. He smiled again.
Very carefully, Chuck reached into his satchel and removed a hard wooden case about the size of his hand. Inside were several small black darts with black fletching. He chose one and inspected it closely, then gently closed the case, making sure the latch was secure. He reached into his satchel again and peeled back a hidden flap, exposing a small stiff pocket. From it, he removed a small vial, smaller than his pinky finger. His eyes lit up and a grin stretched across his face. Out of habit he looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching. Even among the other thieves in the guild, this sort of thing was frowned upon, since it tended to bring unnecessary attention. His friends had no idea he’d worked as a guild assassin, and he had no intention of telling them. He still felt guilty about what he had done in the guild’s employ—that was the true reason he’d fled Westmarch.
Chuck gave the vial a slight shake and then unstopped it. He raised it to his nose and briefly sniffed. The scent made him swoon for a moment. “Yeah,” he said to himself. “That’s what I’m talking about.” And while he carried lingering guilt about some of the contracts he’d taken as an assassin, he wasn’t going to let that stop him now from using the skills he’d spent years perfecting. He dipped the dart into the vial and swirled it around briefly before pulling it out and blowing on it to dry the venom. Very carefully, he restoppered the vial, returned it to the hidden pocket, and then removed one more item, a short tube. With a flick of the wrist, the tube telescoped as four sections slid out from the inside. In total, it was perhaps two feet long. He placed the dart in one end, careful to keep the poisoned point from touching the tube as it slid in. He’d once made the mistake of accidentally licking venom from the end of the blowgun. It was nearly his last mistake.
The weapon primed, he slung the satchel back over his shoulder and scanned the area for other places of concealment. Whoever had designed the defenses was careful to create wide fields of vision for the sentries—virtually all the scrub brush had been hacked away between him and the tunnel’s entrance. A low bush sprouted roughly half the distance between him and the sentry, but the space between it and him was too exposed. If the night were cloudy, or there were no moon, he knew he would have no trouble crossing the distance. As things stood, however, he was going to have to take the longer shot. Luckily, there was no wind that could send the dart off target.
He got down on his belly and gauged the distance to the sentry. He lifted himself up on his elbows and placed the blowgun in the crook of a branch to stabilize it. Looking down the barrel, he noted his view was blocked by a few leaves that poked out of the bush’s branches, so he reached out to pluck them. The distance was longer than he would have preferred, so before putting his mouth to the rod he took several deep breaths to spread out his lungs. Saying a silent prayer to Mairead, goddess of tricks, he took one last breath and blew through the weapon, sending the black barb of death streaking toward his target.
He knew that he had hit his mark when the kobold flailed an arm and reached toward its neck. The poison he had chosen was a fast-acting one that paralyzed the respiratory system, then the rest of the muscles. Hardly a pleasurable way to die, he reflected, and not a method he had used often. When he would take contract jobs, he tried to use poisons that were slow-acting and painless—not to mention exponentially less expensive—ideally killing overnight while the subject was sleeping. That had been years ago, though. Now if he had to resort to poisons, he typically didn’t have a few hours to wait for someone to keel over, nor could he afford to let the target get the alarm out. By the time the sentry realized he had been attacked, his lungs had shut down, making it impossible to call out. By the time he realized he couldn’t call out, his limbs had stopped working, keeping him from even throwing a rock or waving a torch. In moments, the figure toppled backward and out of Chuck’s sight.
He heaved a sigh of relief. If the sentry had fallen in the other direction, he would have landed right at the feet of his comrades, ruining any possibility of rescue. The part of Chuck that had been toying with the idea of a long and healthy life was disappointed, but the part of him trying to rescue his friends told the former to shut up. Before he got up to move, he took the time to wipe off his blowgun and collapse it back into its shorter form, then put it back into his bag. Chuck sat and waited, counting to one hundred once again. It was possible there were other sentries up there out of view, and if there were, he didn’t want them to discover the body while he was exposed on the hillside.
When he finished counting, he carefully stepped out into the open, eyes searching for potential danger, as well as a path to safety should that danger materialize. When he heard no shouts of alarm, he began to scuttle toward the top of the tunnel. The closer he got to the entrance, the steeper the incline became, so he had to turn and face the wall and move sideways. The last ten yards were very steep, so he had to press his body against the wall and slide his feet. This was the part he was most anxious about—all it would take was for either of the sentries to look up. He was a sitting duck.
At last he reached the mouth of the tunnel, where he turned, his back against the face once again. The smoke from the braziers below burned his nose, and he fought the urge to sneeze by biting on the tip of his tongue. Looking down into where the tunnel opened from the hillside, he saw nothing but darkness inside, as the light from the braziers did not extend very far. Assuming its floor was level, the drop was perhaps twelve or fifteen feet—something he had done many times before. His knees would need to be replaced when he got old, or perhaps healed if he never made it back to the real world, but for now they were good at absorbing the shock. He dangled his feet over the edge, drew the magical dagger that Jimmy’s sword had become, and took a deep breath. Scooching slightly forward, he dropped silently down into the tunnel’s mouth.
He began moving as soon as he landed, darting sideways to press his back against the tunnel wall and blend deeper into the shadows. There were no sounds, and no sign of movement, either from deeper within or from the guards standing watch outside. Hugging the wall, he crept into the hill. The flicker of light ahead revealed a sharp bend and what was most likely a torch just beyond it. Cautiously, he peeked around the corner.
The tunnel looked to have been naturally occurring, at least near the entrance. Chuck noticed, however, that the walls and floor became smoother as he progressed. By the time he had made it to the bend, they became like masonry walls, flat to the touch, and the corner was perfectly cut. One thing was for sure—this wasn’t made by some random tribe of humanoids living in caves and raiding for food and riches. Rather, it had been constructed by skilled hands, and designed to last for the long term. Whether or not the kobolds who captured his friends were the builders or just squatters remained to be seen.