The guard crossed the ramp, not pausing, and went on down the corridor out of sight. The shuffle of his steps faded and died.
Jarl slid forward again till he reached the passage, then halted. Taut-nerved, he waited, listening.
Voices came dimly. Jarl lowered himself to the floor. Ever so cautiously, he peered around the corner.
Far down the hall, the guard stood chatting with one of his fellows. A moment later, breaking off, he turned and started back towards the ramp again.
Jarl drew back. Rising, he wiped the sweat from the palm of his knife hand, then crouched waiting.
The sound of the fala's footsteps drifted to him, closer and closer.
Jarl sucked in air.
The scuffing echoed through the silence. The guard stepped out onto the ramp.
Jarl leaped forward—catching the fala's chin from behind, jerking back the ugly head, slashing at the throat.