grabbed the arrow's shaft between his teeth, and
just managed to thrust the arrowhead into the padlock securing his
chains.
"Slay the Ardish scum!"
rose an inhuman shriek outside, a sound like shattering glass—Lord
Gehena. The air howled—mages forming their projectiles.
Torin grunted. The arrow kept
slipping, and he had to bend his wrists so far they almost snapped.
Gripping the arrow's shaft between his teeth, he worked the head in
the lock. His heart pounded. Sweat dripped into his eyes.
"Drag out the prisoner!"
shrieked Gehena; it was a demonic voice that pounded through the cart
walls, shrill as rusty nails on stone. "Drag out their favorite
traitor so they can see him broken."
A gruff voice answered. "Yes,
my lord."
Heavy footfalls moved toward the
cart.
Dizzy and bleeding, Torin cursed
and worked with more fervor.
Keys jangled in the cart door's
lock. A heavy hand tugged the door open, revealing Hesh, one of the
convoy's guards—a squat man in boiled leather studded with iron
bolts. He had a gruff, unshaven face, a wide nose, and dry
bloodstains on his gloves—Torin's blood. Behind him a battle raged;
Torin could glimpse flying arrows and two men locking swords.
"Out you go, maggot."
Hesh barked a laugh, spraying spittle. "Going to hurt you a
little in front of your friends. Out!"
Torin
curled up on the floor, moaning. He twisted the arrow in the lock one
more time and heard a clank .
The stocky guard cursed. "Idar's
hairy bottom! Come on, you roach." He stomped into the cart.
"I'll drag you out by the ears if I have to." He leaned
down to grab Torin. "Up or I—"
Torin thrust the arrow.
The iron head drove through
Hesh's eye and deep into the skull.
Torin tugged the arrow back; it
came free with a gush of blood and bits of eyeball.
Heart thudding, he kicked off
the last chains binding him, drew Hesh's sword, and peeked outside.
The battle was raging in the fields. Blood stained the rye stalks.
Several Ardish horsemen were galloping around the Magerian convoy,
firing arrows and thrusting lances. Other troops fought on the dirt
road, swinging swords. Gehena stood with his back to Torin,
brandishing four swords, one in each hand. His blades crashed into
Ardish soldiers and sent them flying.
Cam's
troops, Torin thought, and hope welled inside him. Last he had heard of his
friend, Cam had been leading a host to Hornsford Bridge. Torin had
assumed that force fallen. Were these the remnants of the king's
army?
All his captors were busy
fighting. While their backs were turned, Torin stumbled out of the
cart. His bare feet hit the road, and for a moment he swayed, the
sunlight blinding him. He took two steps and collapsed, nearly
falling on the sword he held. With a bolt of pain, his face hit the
dirt. Soil entered his mouth and stones jabbed his chest.
Breathe.
Move.
He ground his teeth, struggling
not to pass out. Clutching his sword in one hand, he crawled off the
road and into the rye field. The golden stalks rose tall around him,
swaying in the wind. The smell was intoxicating. The soft brown soil
crumbled under him; several ants walked across it, holding seeds. The
sky was blue and a cool breeze rustled.
It's
beautiful, Torin thought, eyes dampening. It's
so beautiful. He had forgotten the scent, the freshness, the beauty of the world
outside the cart.
"Damn your hide to the
Abyss!"
The voice shouted beside him.
The stalks swayed. A boot slammed down near Torin and blood sprayed.
With a thump, a corpse thudded down, cracking stalks. The head hit
the ground beside Torin, staring at him with lifeless eyes. The man
wore a black and gold cloak—a man of Arden. When Torin glanced
upward, he saw a Magerian soldier tug his blade free. The man did not
see him; he cursed and stepped away, already attacking another
Ardishman.
Torin kept crawling.
Boots stomped around him, blood
sprayed, and more bodies fell, but none of the living saw him. Torin
kept moving. A horse galloped by, its hooves missing him
just managed to thrust the arrowhead into the padlock securing his
chains.
"Slay the Ardish scum!"
rose an inhuman shriek outside, a sound like shattering glass—Lord
Gehena. The air howled—mages forming their projectiles.
Torin grunted. The arrow kept
slipping, and he had to bend his wrists so far they almost snapped.
Gripping the arrow's shaft between his teeth, he worked the head in
the lock. His heart pounded. Sweat dripped into his eyes.
"Drag out the prisoner!"
shrieked Gehena; it was a demonic voice that pounded through the cart
walls, shrill as rusty nails on stone. "Drag out their favorite
traitor so they can see him broken."
A gruff voice answered. "Yes,
my lord."
Heavy footfalls moved toward the
cart.
Dizzy and bleeding, Torin cursed
and worked with more fervor.
Keys jangled in the cart door's
lock. A heavy hand tugged the door open, revealing Hesh, one of the
convoy's guards—a squat man in boiled leather studded with iron
bolts. He had a gruff, unshaven face, a wide nose, and dry
bloodstains on his gloves—Torin's blood. Behind him a battle raged;
Torin could glimpse flying arrows and two men locking swords.
"Out you go, maggot."
Hesh barked a laugh, spraying spittle. "Going to hurt you a
little in front of your friends. Out!"
Torin
curled up on the floor, moaning. He twisted the arrow in the lock one
more time and heard a clank .
The stocky guard cursed. "Idar's
hairy bottom! Come on, you roach." He stomped into the cart.
"I'll drag you out by the ears if I have to." He leaned
down to grab Torin. "Up or I—"
Torin thrust the arrow.
The iron head drove through
Hesh's eye and deep into the skull.
Torin tugged the arrow back; it
came free with a gush of blood and bits of eyeball.
Heart thudding, he kicked off
the last chains binding him, drew Hesh's sword, and peeked outside.
The battle was raging in the fields. Blood stained the rye stalks.
Several Ardish horsemen were galloping around the Magerian convoy,
firing arrows and thrusting lances. Other troops fought on the dirt
road, swinging swords. Gehena stood with his back to Torin,
brandishing four swords, one in each hand. His blades crashed into
Ardish soldiers and sent them flying.
Cam's
troops, Torin thought, and hope welled inside him. Last he had heard of his
friend, Cam had been leading a host to Hornsford Bridge. Torin had
assumed that force fallen. Were these the remnants of the king's
army?
All his captors were busy
fighting. While their backs were turned, Torin stumbled out of the
cart. His bare feet hit the road, and for a moment he swayed, the
sunlight blinding him. He took two steps and collapsed, nearly
falling on the sword he held. With a bolt of pain, his face hit the
dirt. Soil entered his mouth and stones jabbed his chest.
Breathe.
Move.
He ground his teeth, struggling
not to pass out. Clutching his sword in one hand, he crawled off the
road and into the rye field. The golden stalks rose tall around him,
swaying in the wind. The smell was intoxicating. The soft brown soil
crumbled under him; several ants walked across it, holding seeds. The
sky was blue and a cool breeze rustled.
It's
beautiful, Torin thought, eyes dampening. It's
so beautiful. He had forgotten the scent, the freshness, the beauty of the world
outside the cart.
"Damn your hide to the
Abyss!"
The voice shouted beside him.
The stalks swayed. A boot slammed down near Torin and blood sprayed.
With a thump, a corpse thudded down, cracking stalks. The head hit
the ground beside Torin, staring at him with lifeless eyes. The man
wore a black and gold cloak—a man of Arden. When Torin glanced
upward, he saw a Magerian soldier tug his blade free. The man did not
see him; he cursed and stepped away, already attacking another
Ardishman.
Torin kept crawling.
Boots stomped around him, blood
sprayed, and more bodies fell, but none of the living saw him. Torin
kept moving. A horse galloped by, its hooves missing him
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