The arrow sang, a thin, whistling shriek that vanished into flesh.
Its iron broadhead punched through the warrior's throat and pinned him to the tree behind.
His eyes went wide, his bow slipped from his hands, and he clawed at the shaft jutting from his neck as if he could pull the life back in.
For a moment his body trembled, caught between breath and death, then sagged. The arrow held him upright like a cruel hook.
He did not die alone. Across the clearing, more arrows hissed through the wind, finding throats, ribs, and hearts.
Men stumbled, coughed blood, or collapsed with faces half-buried in the leaves. Those still standing shouted in confusion, looking wildly through the trees for the unseen killers.
One of them pointed with his bow, crying out in his own tongue, but a shield slammed into him from the side.
The blow hurled him to the ground, and before he could gasp, an axe struck him full in the chest.
The world spun once; then his head left his shoulders.
