Twenty-three – 01

His breath steamed in the cold, the fog illuminated by the moon, the stars above.  He’d almost come to enjoy these night watches, twice a week on the graveyard shift with Paul in the tower and him on foot along the perimeter.  Matt shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and stared off into the darkness along the walls. No shadows moved against the snow.  No one here, just like every other night.

He glanced at the sky, half expecting to see some kind of shadow cross the moon. Nothing.

Nothing, just like every other night out here.

Don’t get used to it, he told himself.  Sometime, someday, it’s going to happen and you’ll have to be ready for it.

His newly-crafted war axe hung from a harness across his shoulders, the flat of its deadly double blade nestled against the small of his back.  Thordin was pleased with his progress with the weapon—pleased enough that he’d declared the newly minted blacksmith capable enough to carry the weapon on these patrols.  He wouldn’t have done that if he hadn’t thought him ready.

Phelan had frowned but said nothing.  Thom had just laughed and Marin shook her head.

It is what it is.  That’s what she said.  The expression on his sister’s face had been somewhere between troubled and sad, a strange expression he’d never seen on her face before.

“I wonder what she knows,” he murmured into the night as his boots crunched on the ice-crusted snow.  Sunny afternoons had caused enough melt to coat the snow in a thin layer of ice that crackled and broke underfoot, not sturdy enough to hold even Angie.  All Matt could hope was that it was the harbinger of spring to come.  Now that February was here, it couldn’t be long.

He’d made the mistake of saying that to Greg, who’d just grimaced and shook his head in a way that told Matt that the professor didn’t think that was the case but didn’t want to dash anyone’s hope by saying so.

Paul’s lantern flashed in his peripheral vision and he glanced up toward the tower and the man minding it.  Paul was pointing out beyond the wall a dozen yards from where Matt stood.

“Have a look!” Paul called, his voice pitched just loud enough to carry to him and no further.

Matt tossed him a salute and headed for the wall, clambering up to the perch near the gate.  He peered across the snowpack  that glowed with moonlight.  “I don’t—”

He stopped as he saw something move, perhaps fifty yards or more from the wall, a shadow amidst snow-laden rubble and brush.  He leaned forward slightly, squinting, trying to get a better look.

Nothing.  He scarcely dared to breathe, focusing on the area where he’d seen the shadow.

“Can’t be my imagination,” he muttered.  “Can it?”

Something slammed into his shoulder and toppled him off the wall into the snow.

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