Chapter 8: Walking Out

Jude stood in the dark cellar with the iron key in his fist and did not use it for a full minute.

Run, she had said.

A man who runs from a pit full of rifles gets shot in the back before the ridge.

He put the key in his pocket instead.

He pulled the door wide, climbed the ramp, and walked out into the middle of the camp.

The night was bitter cold.

Two guards stood by a barrel fire thirty feet away, and they turned at the sound of his boots.

"Hey," said one.

"How did you..."

Jude hit him in the face with the heel of his hand.

The second guard fumbled for his rifle.

Jude took it by the barrel, swung the stock into the man's knee, and laid him out on the gravel.

He left them both breathing.

He crossed the yard in plain view, and men looked out of tents and trailer windows and drew back inside.

Nobody raised an alarm.

They had been told to expect him, and they knew who he was.

The trailer at the center of the yard had a light on.

The scarred man from the bar stood on its steps with his hands in his pockets.

"Going somewhere, war leader?" he said.

"Yes," Jude said.

"I want my sword."

The scarred man studied him for a long moment.

Then he grinned, stepped aside, and swept an arm toward the open door.

"On the rack inside," he said.

"He left it there for you."

"He's been expecting this."

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