The march had grown dull.
A few hundred mercenaries, bored from the road, had begun talking in low voices, some about women, others about coin, and many about the sorry state of the war they found themselves in.
"Fucking lords don't know how to keep their own mouth shut" one spat, kicking up dust as he walked. "You hear that one earlier? All that yelling—who does h-''
Before his could pronounce the last words the sky darkened.
The first javelin took him through the throat with such force it lifted him bodily off the ground before slamming him down like a ragdoll. He landed with a wet crunch, boots kicking spasmodically as arterial blood sprayed in rhythmic pulses across the dusty road. His hands fluttered uselessly at the shaft protruding from his neck, fingers slick with his own lifeblood.
Then the storm broke in earnest.
