"We're out of arrows over here!"
The shout rang sharp through the chaos of the ensuing battle.
An archer waved his last shaft in the air, trying to catch the attention of a boy sprinting past with a bundle of quivers strapped to his back.
But the boy didn't stop, he couldn't. There were too many like him, too many stops to make. His path was already mapped , and this man wasn't next.
Which meant, for now, they had nothing.
And as if the gods themselves wanted to mock the moment, the archer who had shouted and was ready to deliver another shaft found his voice, and life, cut short.
He crumpled where he stood, twitching once before going still, the feathered shaft jutting out of his throat like a bloody banner planted on fleshy ground.
Apparently, standing tall and waving one's arms wasn't the wisest strategy under a sky full of enemy archers.
