Shield of Lies

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The Frankish warrior dashed for the tree line, legs pumping over the knee-high grass, eyes white with terror and a scarlet stripe of blood peeling from beneath his conical helmet. Bloodless fingers gripped his sword as its red blade waved like a branch in the wind. Four gray-fletched arrows sprouted from the teardrop-shaped shield strapped to his other arm, and one shook loose as he fled. Flushed cheeks bulged with his panting, and he dared a glance over his shoulder.

Throst had anticipated the moment of inattention and sprang from behind one of the thin poplar trees speckled before the waiting forest. His round shield collided with the fleeing warrior's face. He screamed and slammed backward into the grass. Without hesitation, Throst's blade hewed down and opened the Frank's belly in a spray of gore. A drop of hot, salty blood flecked into Throst's smiling mouth as he admired his work. This had been his fourth kill of the battle, a total to rival any veteran.

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