Bastard. He could be distracting the Gaul. Of the rest, Quintus saw no sign. He turned and sprinted left, heading in a diagonal direction to the watercourse. Twenty steps, then a jink to the right. Five steps and an about-turn. The lapse since the last arrow was longer than before, and Quintus’ guts churned. He risked a look at the warrior, and wished he hadn’t. The man was tracking his every move, and had an arrow aimed straight at him.
For the first time, panic ripped at Quintus. He couldn’t stop or slow down. His only choice was to keep going, to continue changing direction and hope that the Gaul didn’t second-guess his move. Given the number of times he’d evaded being struck, however, his luck had to be wearing thin. The bank was less than twenty paces away now. Eighteen. Sixteen. On impulse, Quintus decided to make a break for it. At full speed, he’d reach it in four heartbeats, maybe five. He would dive into the water and swim across. See if the whoreson could hit him then.
He ducked his head and sprinted forward.
Quintus had only gone a few steps when he felt a tremendous blow hit his upper left arm. The tiniest delay, and then pain such as he’d never felt before. Looking down, he saw a bloody arrow tip protruding from his left bicep. Moving, I have to keep moving, he thought. Otherwise the bastard will get me in the back with the next one. To his relief, the bank was now very close. He lunged into the water, gasping at the biting chill. Swimming wasn’t an option, so Quintus began wading across, praying that the Gaul had not been emboldened enough to come out of the safety of the trees to take another shot. On the other side, he’d be at the very limit of most bows’ range. A splash off to his right – another arrow – provided a little relief, but it wasn’t long before the extreme cold of the water began to sap his strength. His legs seemed to have lead weights attached; waves of agony from his arm were washing over him. Desperate for a rest, Quintus ground to a halt. He could taste acid in his mouth. The Gaul would keep releasing as long as he could. A glance over his shoulder confirmed his fears. The warrior was aiming high in the air to give his arrow more distance. Quintus had no desire to drown in the stream, choking on his own blood, so he ducked down until the water met his chin. Walking like a crab, he battled on.
The sight of Calatinus, on foot but with a bow, and one of the others, armed similarly, on the far bank was as welcome as any he could remember. In unison, they released arrows in a massive arc that took them high overhead. Quintus couldn’t stop himself from looking again. The shafts landed within twenty steps of the Gaul, who turned and fled back into the safety of the trees. The slope opposite was empty now. Drained, relieved, Quintus waded ashore. He staggered as he clambered up the bank, but strong arms stopped him from falling.
Quintus shoved them away. ‘I’m all right.’
‘No, you’re not! How bad is it?’ Calatinus’ voice was concerned.
‘I’m not sure. I didn’t exactly have time to examine it,’ he replied with a flash of humour.
‘Come on. Get under cover. We can look at it there.’
With the other rider covering them, they entered the shelter of the trees. A few steps in, Quintus saw three more of his companions. They greeted him with real relief.
‘Seen any Gauls on this bank?’ he asked.
‘Not a sign, thank the gods,’ came the answer. ‘They’re probably still running.’
Quintus yelped as Calatinus’ fingers probed at the point where the arrow entered his arm.
‘Sorry.’
‘What can you see?’
‘You’re lucky. It looks to have missed the bone. Once it’s been removed and cleaned up, the wound should heal all right.’
‘Take it out now!’ demanded Quintus. ‘Get it over with.’
Calatinus’ forehead creased. ‘That’s not a good idea. It’s not bleeding that much now, and I have no saw to cut the shaft. If I try
For the first time, panic ripped at Quintus. He couldn’t stop or slow down. His only choice was to keep going, to continue changing direction and hope that the Gaul didn’t second-guess his move. Given the number of times he’d evaded being struck, however, his luck had to be wearing thin. The bank was less than twenty paces away now. Eighteen. Sixteen. On impulse, Quintus decided to make a break for it. At full speed, he’d reach it in four heartbeats, maybe five. He would dive into the water and swim across. See if the whoreson could hit him then.
He ducked his head and sprinted forward.
Quintus had only gone a few steps when he felt a tremendous blow hit his upper left arm. The tiniest delay, and then pain such as he’d never felt before. Looking down, he saw a bloody arrow tip protruding from his left bicep. Moving, I have to keep moving, he thought. Otherwise the bastard will get me in the back with the next one. To his relief, the bank was now very close. He lunged into the water, gasping at the biting chill. Swimming wasn’t an option, so Quintus began wading across, praying that the Gaul had not been emboldened enough to come out of the safety of the trees to take another shot. On the other side, he’d be at the very limit of most bows’ range. A splash off to his right – another arrow – provided a little relief, but it wasn’t long before the extreme cold of the water began to sap his strength. His legs seemed to have lead weights attached; waves of agony from his arm were washing over him. Desperate for a rest, Quintus ground to a halt. He could taste acid in his mouth. The Gaul would keep releasing as long as he could. A glance over his shoulder confirmed his fears. The warrior was aiming high in the air to give his arrow more distance. Quintus had no desire to drown in the stream, choking on his own blood, so he ducked down until the water met his chin. Walking like a crab, he battled on.
The sight of Calatinus, on foot but with a bow, and one of the others, armed similarly, on the far bank was as welcome as any he could remember. In unison, they released arrows in a massive arc that took them high overhead. Quintus couldn’t stop himself from looking again. The shafts landed within twenty steps of the Gaul, who turned and fled back into the safety of the trees. The slope opposite was empty now. Drained, relieved, Quintus waded ashore. He staggered as he clambered up the bank, but strong arms stopped him from falling.
Quintus shoved them away. ‘I’m all right.’
‘No, you’re not! How bad is it?’ Calatinus’ voice was concerned.
‘I’m not sure. I didn’t exactly have time to examine it,’ he replied with a flash of humour.
‘Come on. Get under cover. We can look at it there.’
With the other rider covering them, they entered the shelter of the trees. A few steps in, Quintus saw three more of his companions. They greeted him with real relief.
‘Seen any Gauls on this bank?’ he asked.
‘Not a sign, thank the gods,’ came the answer. ‘They’re probably still running.’
Quintus yelped as Calatinus’ fingers probed at the point where the arrow entered his arm.
‘Sorry.’
‘What can you see?’
‘You’re lucky. It looks to have missed the bone. Once it’s been removed and cleaned up, the wound should heal all right.’
‘Take it out now!’ demanded Quintus. ‘Get it over with.’
Calatinus’ forehead creased. ‘That’s not a good idea. It’s not bleeding that much now, and I have no saw to cut the shaft. If I try
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