Even as he shouted these words a soldier down the line, guarding the far wagon wheel, collapsed with a quiver jutting from his stomach. The man was his friend, they’d known each other since academy days, when they’d both dreamed of battles as glorious events, and of themselves, one day, as generals and old, dear friends with countless courageous stories over which to reminisce. As he watched helplessly a wanton second arrow, and then a third and fourth, pounded into the man, the first of these finding its mark in his neck with a spurt of blood like a broken spigot, with the remaining missiles making a pattern across his chest. He cried out. He toppled onto his belly, pushing the arrows deeper through his torso. He kicked briefly among the flowers and became still.
A shrieking close at han
