I couldn't very well rush four prepared archers. They'd skewer me. I only had one throwing knife.
The answer was obvious enough. I altered my crouch, checked their officer, and sent my knife into his armpit as he raised his hand to call another volley.
Silks were lousy armor.
He shrieked and fell from his tree, grabbing at himself until he slammed into the ground with an unpleasant crunch barely more than an arm's length ahead of me. Some fruit is never out of season.
|Originally published at jlake.com.|