It took an instant to realize the scream of rage belonged to him.
He rushed at the bowman, who spun toward his cry, startled. The Kanosee archer nocked his arrow quickly and released without benefit of aim, acting purely out of self-preservation.
Pain seared Khirro’s thigh and he pitched forward. His shoulder struck the ground, jolting more agony through his body. He lay on the grass, teeth clenched, hand going unconsciously to the wound in his leg. The arrow had pierced the fleshy outside of his right thigh, just missing bone; the head protruded through the back with the shaft buried to the flights at the front. He cringed, stomach roiling.
This must be how father felt when he lost his arm.
Pain filled his body, pounding and pulsing through his veins, the sound of it clouding his mind. He might have cried out, but couldn’t be sure. For a moment, his world was only the wound in his leg and the misery it inflicted. Slowly, the blood-colored cloud receded from his eyes, from his ears-like a blanket pulled back from a child to wake him-and the world returned.
Khirro heard his name shouted and remembered where he was, what was happening. He struggled to his knees and searched for his one remaining ally, saw the fallen Shaman, the dead soldiers. Sweat streamed from under Rudric’s helm as he fought a Kanosee soldier clad in the black-and-red mail of the undead; the general’s left arm dangled uselessly as he wielded his huge broad sword with the other hand. To Khirro’s right, the archer nocked an arrow and sited Rudric, awaiting his opportunity to let fly and end the fray. Khirro struggled toward him on hands and knees. Everything happened at once.
The undead monster swung his sword.
Rudric dodged and returned a blow, catching the Kanosee across the neck, sending his head tumbling from his shoulders.
The bowman drew back as Khirro lunged forward, swinging his short sword in a frantic arc. He missed by a foot and tumbled to the grass at the archer’s feet, breath knocked from his chest.
The Kanosee archer loosed his arrow as Rudric took a step toward him.
The arrow pierced Rudric's throat, stopping him mid-stride. He wobbled like a man spun around and made dizzy, then his knees buckled and he folded to the ground, dead.
Struggling to draw air, Khirro scrambled to his knees, eyes wide, heart racing. The enemy kicked him in the chest and sent him reeling onto his back. His head hit the ground knocking his helm free. The sky loomed above him, bluer than he remembered it ever being. No clouds marred its smoothness as it stretched on forever, leading to the fields of the dead where he would soon go.
The sky disappeared as the shadow of the Kanosee soldier fell across him. Khirro squinted but couldn’t see the face of the silhouette standing against that beautiful sky, an inky shape with nocked arrow and drawn bow.
“Death be yours, Erechanian pig,” the bowman growled as he straddled Khirro. He drew the bowstring to its fullest. Khirro raised his arms knowing the attempt to defend himself would prove futile.
A second passed. In that small space-more time than Khirro thought left in his life-he heard a sound like a stone thrown against leather followed by a splash of dirt against his cheek, then a gurgling from the archer’s lips.
Khirro lowered his arms.
The bow hung limply at the side of the black silhouette and a new appendage had grown from the man’s chest. The archer lurched to one side and Khirro could see again. It wasn’t a new arm sprouting from his chest, but a sword penetrating from behind. The bow fell from his hand, his body thrown roughly aside as the sword pulled free. Khirro expected Rudric or Gendred, even King Braymon, miraculously coming to his rescue, but the man standing over him was none of them.
Khirro gasped in as much air as his lungs could take as breath finally returned. He stared up at the man standing over him. His clean shaven face looked back impassively, blood dripped from his sword.
Khirro scrambled away, the arrow protruding from his thigh catching the ground and sending a fresh wave of pain coursing along his leg. He fell back, face pinched with agony. The man-his rescuer? his killer? — took a step toward him.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “I’m on your side.”
Khirro looked at the man through a haze of pain. Did he speak the truth? Should he thank him or defend himself? He touched the hilt of the dagger hanging from his belt but didn’t draw it.
“Who are you?” Khirro rasped, his lungs thankful for air and not wanting to waste it on words. The man’s armor bore Erechanian markings.
“Are there any others?” The soldier looked around, then back at Khirro who shook his head. He switched his sword from his left hand to his right and offered to help Khirro up. “All right. Let’s see if anyone lives.”
Khirro stared at the man’s hand without accepting it, not knowing if he truly meant to help him.
What choice do I have?
Fresh blood ran down his thigh as the man pulled him to his feet. The muscles of his jaw bunched as he bit down against the pain.
“You’re wounded.”
He set his sword aside and pulled a long knife from his belt. With two strokes, he removed the fletching from the shaft.
“What are you-?”
“Brace yourself.”
Before Khirro could, he pulled the arrow through his thigh with one swift movement. Khirro cried out, swaying on rubbery legs, and the man caught him by the arm, steadying him. When he regained his balance, the man removed a pack from his back and drew a strip of cloth from it to wrap Khirro’s wound and stem the flow of blood.
“What’s your name? Why do you help me?”
“I’m called Ghaul.” The man pulled his pack back on. “I serve the king as you do, but there will be time for talk later. We should check your friends quickly, there may be more Kanosee about. I’ll check the robed man.”
“No,” Khirro responded without knowing why he objected.
Something inside him-perhaps something as simple as a sense of responsibility-told him to protect the Shaman and the item he carried. Ghaul shrugged and went to where Gendred lay amongst the tall grass burnt red with the Shadowman’s blood. Khirro’s leg pulsed with pain as he hobbled to the Shaman’s side.
Blood soaked the magic man’s cloak. Khirro stood over him, an unexpected sense of loss churning his gut, tightening his throat. The three men performed their heroics to save the king, he knew, but they also saved his life and for that he owed them.
If only I’d joined the fight sooner, maybe they’d still be alive. If only I’d been brave.
“Khirro.”
Little more than the sound of breath passing lips, the word startled Khirro and sent goose flesh crawling down his arms.
“Khirro. What’s happened?”
The Shaman coughed bloody spittle from the dark depths of his cowl. His hands shaking, Khirro reached out and pushed the hood back. The Shaman’s sallow skin stretched thin on his hairless skull, blue veins drawing a grim map of some unknown country. His open eyes stared skyward-one black with no pupil or iris, the other red. His purple lips quivered with each pained breath.
“Rudric and Gendred have fallen.”
The Shaman closed his eyes. He coughed again spattering bright blood across his pallid cheek. His head rocked back and forth slightly in protest or denial or both.
“Can you heal yourself?”
“No.”
Khirro looked up and down the healer’s prone form. “What can I do? How can I help?”
“You cannot help me.” As the Shaman spoke his face contorted and his body tensed then went limp.
“Where did they come from?”
“They found the tunnels, came out at the drainage ditch.”
Khirro glanced at the ditch and the small opening in the fortress wall feeding it. The iron gate that should have covered it hung from one hinge, canted at an awkward angle. Khirro’s breath shortened in realization there was nothing to stop more Kanosee coming through to kill them all.