Jubal cast about looking for new cover. Not two paces away was a patch of knee
high weeds. Not much, but enough.
The ex-gladiator allowed himself to fall sideways, catching himself on one hand
and easing his body the rest of the way to the ground. Then it was reach, pull;
reach, pull, slowly making his way towards and finally into the weed patch.
Though he used his free hand to maintain his balance, once one of the broken
arrowshafts protruding from his knees scraped along the ground, sending a sheet
of red agony through his mind. Still, he kept his silence, though he could feel
sweat running off his body.
Reach, pull. Reach.
Safely in the weeds now, he allowed himself to rest. His head sank completely to
the ground. The dagger slid from its scabbard and he held it point down, hiding
the shine of its blade with his forearm. Trembling from the efforts of his
movement, he breathed through his nose to slow and silence his recovery. Inhale.
Exhale. Wait.
Two figures appeared, patches of black against deeper black, bracketing the tree
against which he had recently lain.
“Well?” came a voice, loud in the darkness. “Where is my patient? I can’t treat
a ghost.”
“He was here, I swear it!”
Jubal smiled, relaxing his grip on the dagger. The second voice was easy to
recognize. He had heard it daily for years now.
“You’re still no warrior, Saliman,” he called, propping himself up on one elbow.
“I’ve said before, you wouldn’t recognize an ambush unless you stumbled into
it.”
His voice was weak and strained to a point where he scarcely recognized it