Twisting in the bed, he let his hand fall across the haft of his knife.
The shadows overhead flexed a fraction.
Ever so slowly, ever so carefully, he turned his head, looking sidewise down at the floor.
A heel was drawing out of sight beneath the bunk.
Jarl gripped the knife. Silently, he twisted still further, till he was in position to strike.
Only then did he speak—coldly, with all the menace he could muster: "Come out—or I'll kill you!"
The whisper of a quick-drawn breath broke through the stillness, then died again in utter silence.
Jarl poised; drew back his knife. "All right, then, curse you—!"
Clothing rustled. A voice choked, "Wait, Jarl Corvett—! I'm coming...."
A strangely familiar voice....