Page 62 of An Archer's Reckoning

Then one shadow falls to the ground with a heavy thud.

Before he can react, men cry out from every direction.

His head swivels, searching.

He takes one step before the first arrow slams into his shoulder.

Shock floods his eyes as a second arrow strikes his thigh, then a third his stomach.

He tumbles to his knees.

Rangers race from inside the building to aid their fallen Captain, but bolts rip into them as they darken the doorway.

A whistler arrow streaks from the forest beyond the wall, its shrill shriek jarring the silent night.

Rangers manning the walls fire arrows blindly into the woods toward their unseen foes. Responding missiles have no difficulty finding their well-lit targets as volley after deadly volley flies true, eradicating the defenders in moments.

Civilians pour from their homes, men and women carrying children or belongings, anything their arms could hold, screaming and crying as they race toward the eastern gate, desperate to escape.

When defenders on the walls fall silent, dozens of archers and swordsmen rush from the woods. Thick fur cloaks fly behind them as they run.

A ball of fire sails from the forest, incinerating a section of wall.

The intruding men barely slow as they pass through the smoldering gap.

Enemy archers form a line a few paces inside the wall, while swordsmen continue their charge.

Rangers pour out of the headquarters. They are cut down by flying steel the moment they taste fresh air.

Before long, a pile of dead Rangers bars the door as effectively as wood once had.

Shira is among them.

Shira!

Screaming civilians run or freeze altogether, unable to process the slaughter unfolding before them. Anyone moving is shot by arrow or sliced by sword.

A trickle of blood along the road grows into a stream as more topple and bleed.

Cries erupt from every direction—screams of men and women, of their children—screams of terror, pain, and death.

No one is spared.

My mouth filled with a metallic tang, as though I tasted the bitter fruit of the enemy’s wrath.

Dozens of soldiers burst into homes, a deadly dance choreographed for maximum devastation. Those not killed are dragged, many still in their nightclothes, into the gravel road, where they are silenced forever with blades or bows.

Lachlan, another of my troop, races from his hiding place behind the inn.

A half dozen arrows find their mark.

He falls to the cold, hard ground.

And then the Mages come.

Men in long coats of quilted pelts emerge. They stride slowly, deliberately, ancient words dripping from their lips.

Their eyes blaze.

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