The Shadow Behind the Throne
Gary's eyes went hard, his mouth twisting into something less than a smile and less than a scowl. His voice sliced through the strained silence like a knife, each word slow and drawn out.
"That individual," he said, pausing just long enough to cause every man in the tent to lean forward with discomfort, "is none other than my—
He clenched his hand, fingers tightening as if grasping the very air, and then thrust his hand toward the middle of the tent.
"—my personal bodyguard… Jim."
The entrance of the tent was rustled as the heavy flap was pushed aside. Cold air filtered in, bearing with it the faint smell of iron and pine from the mountains outside. Then he was there.
A man all in black, his whole form engulfed by heavy robe and hood, stepping inside with an unnatural quiet. The lanterns were dim, shadows curving abnormally across the cloth walls, as if even the flame was afraid of him.
