"That was no sport at all," a man sighed, his tone of voice giving away the boredom of it all.
Twack.
The sound of steel biting through a wool tunic and into a soft chest followed. Dunn, huddled in the beneath the lead wagon, squeezed his eyes shut. He could hear the wet, rattling cough of the man above him, a guard who had joked with him only an hour ago, then silence with a final, gurgling exhale.
Then came the blood.
It flowed with a slow, purposeful inevitability, like the tusk of a mighty tree powerless to stop himself from burning.
It crept across the dry, cracked earth of the road like a crimson tide, reaching toward Dunn's hiding spot. He watched, paralyzed, as it touched his chin, the warmth of it anguishing against the pure cold terror in his veins. He made no move to wipe it away. He feared that even the sound of his sleeve against his skin would be a death sentence.
No it was best to stay put, and not move a muscle, not even one.
