Connie Hux, sixteen, arrow shot, Haunt, east wall.
Daughter of Samath and Greta. Born Hodd Town, Renar.
The speed of the shafts zipping over the walls didn’t scare Connie. It isn’t until you haul the bowstring back for your first shot, until you feel it bite at your fingers through the leather of the guard flap, and your bicep aches with the tension, that you remember just what rides behind the sharp iron of those arrowheads. The arrows didn’t scare her - she scared herself.
Connie loosed six shots into the men streaming to reinforce the enemy’s ram. She knew each one hit, though she didn’t stop to watch. Commonsense dropped her between shots and she’d no desire to see men die. If it were her say the gates would open and the Prince of Arrow could have her oath. But Camson was on the walls, up in arms to defend the Highlands and King Jorg. And it only stands to reason – the more who held the walls alongside him, the less likely Camson would be to get hit.
As Connie stood for her seventh shot, Camson glanced her way, a wild grin on him. Even the winter sun struck gold from his hair.
The day turned darker.
“God no . . .” A voice that creaked with age.
Old Jorna’s fingers hurt her shoulders as he helped her down. The light came flat as before a storm.
“I’m not hit.” She tried to say it.
Across the wall Camson loosed another arrow out toward the ridge, not seeing her, not looking.
“I’m not hit.” The words wouldn’t come.
“Ah hell . . .” Something more than age cracked Jorna’s voice.
And darkness took her.