Well of Sorrows by Benjamin Tate

hesitation.
    Walter’s gaze flicked down toward Colin’s satchel, then toward the hand Colin held behind his back. “What do you have in your hand?”
    Colin brought his hand forward. A strange prickling sensation coursed through his skin. Fear and excitement and anticipation all mixed together smothered him like a wool blanket, so thick it felt hard to breathe.
    “It’s something my father gave me,” he said.
    He let the pouch go, but held onto the knot, felt the cords unravel, felt the sling jerk when it reached the end of the straps, then swing there, a stone already in place.
    Gregor sucked in a sharp breath, but Walter and the rest frowned in confusion.
    “What is it?” Rick asked.
    “It’s a sling.” Gregor had already taken a step backward, had begun to turn.
    Walter’s eyes narrowed as he glared at Colin. “He doesn’t know how to use it.”
    Colin smiled. A moment before Gregor broke and ran, he saw a flicker of doubt in Walter’s eyes.
    Colin wound up and threw without any conscious thought, the tingling sensation surging through his arms, into his fingers.
    Gregor was the tallest of the four, the easiest to target, the easiest to hit. The stone struck him in the back of the head before he’d taken three steps and he fell to the ground like a sack of grain, landing with a dull thud, arms and legs loose and gangly, dust rising in a puff.
    “Diermani’s balls!” Brunt shouted. Rick took a step away from Gregor’s body, eyes wide.
    Walter didn’t even turn to look. His entire face had gone taut with rage.
    Colin slipped another stone into the sling, began twirling it by his side.
    “Is he dead?” Walter asked.
    Rick hesitated, then sidled close enough he could look and still keep Colin in sight. Colin had used an underhanded swing to hit Gregor, not an overhead one, and he hadn’t used enough force to kill, but he’d learned that you could never be certain of the outcome when dealing with a sling.
    “He’s still breathing,” Rick said, his voice cracking with relief.
    “Good.” Walter’s eye darkened. “Brunt, take care of the little pissant.”
    Colin turned his attention to Brunt. Walter’s heavy hesitated, shifted from one foot to another, but then Walter shot him a black glare, and with a roar of anger Brunt charged forward.
    Warm terror flooded through Colin as Brunt bore down on him, his arm tightening, the swing increasing. He waited a single breath, two, Brunt closing in with surprising speed, and then let the knot go.
    A dark splotch of red bloomed on Brunt’s forehead, but Brunt didn’t slow. Colin took a startled step backward, reached to place another stone with his opposite hand, knew he wouldn’t have enough time to load it, swing, and throw before Brunt hit him—
    But then Brunt’s legs gave out beneath him. He toppled forward, knees hitting the street first with a sickening crunch, body following gracelessly, a surprised expression cutting through the rage in his eyes. His face slammed into the dirt, then ground forward an inch before coming to a halt.
    He didn’t move, his arms stretched out by his sides.
    Colin gasped and swallowed, wiped the sudden sweat from his face, then grinned at Walter as he placed another stone in the sling. “Now what, Walter? You’ve lost your heavy, and you’ve lost your thinker. Who’s next?”
    Rick bolted for the end of the street, but Colin didn’t care. His gaze remained fixed on Walter, on the livid expression on his face, on the cold, hard desperate sensation of satisfaction that coursed through his own body, making him tremble. Stepping around Brunt’s limp form, he let the stone fly before Walter had time to move, before the dust from Brunt’s landing had even settled to the ground.
    And he didn’t aim for Walter’s head.
    Walter screamed, the rage on his face transformed into pure pain as he clutched at his groin and toppled to the ground. The scream bled down into harsh sobbing as Colin advanced, another stone in