In The Lair of the Draca (Book 2)

In the Lair of the Draca (Book 2) Chapter 69: Waru's Finality

Malaraq was leaning against the community well with a grass stick between two fingers, taking his turn at the next vulgar joke and laughing lustfully when the first shot came, pinning his left thigh against the well as the pointed shaft buried its nose into the plaster that held the cobblestones of the well together.

"Aiiie! Your leg! Someone is after you!" cried one man, dropping his stash of grass smoke-weed and tearing off into the direction of the dwellings.

"Malaraq is under attack!" shouted another, joining the first in his mad dash toward the lodges in an attempt to get home and hide along with the others.

The old, raucous laughter died on Malaraq's lips as he grunted in sudden agony and knelt to grasp the wound; the shaft had driven home deeply, piercing the skin of his bulging thigh and tearing the skin until it hung loose, like a ragged piece of flesh torn from a carcass by a carrion bird. Dark, purple blood splurted; when Malaraq tried to use both hands to squelch the blood-flow, he only succeeded in squeezing more of his life's blood from the wound. The pain was torturous-- he'd never experienced anything so agonizing.

For a split second, he stared down at the weapon. A cross-bow-- and with Dijaq's signature feathers! But why--

Frightened women flung open their lodge doors to admit their men and screaming children.

"There is evil afoot!" one of them shrieked, pressing her hands to her mouth when she saw the severity of Malaraq's wound.

"It is the Star-Witch, back to bring Malaraq to the land of the Dead!" called another. Still another woman called in frightened terror for her twin boys, who had gotten lost in the melee and were now running around in circles just out of eyesight, bawling in hysterics.

Who was this unseen intruder? Who dared to attack another Evening folk brother with the cross-bow of the Matron's own soon to be son-in-law? The People were quite literally clueless when it came to attacks from within their own palisade walls; while they were decent warriors and practiced at keeping their women and children safe from marauding dragons, none had had any experience with dealing with an enemy from behind their own walls.

Another shot, this one more anguishing than the last, tore through the knee-cap of his other leg, shredding it piteously. Snow-white gristle and bone screamed from a wound that had been torn to red ribbons.

"Great Merciful Moons, help me!" Malaraq shrieked, trying futilely to tear the bolts from their ghastly targets, but they held fast. Sweat had pooled along his hairline, and his lips and mucous membranes had turned blue from lack of oxygen. And then, a third shot: this one lodging deep into his groin. A huge wave of nausea suddenly overcame him, but before he could vomit, Malaraq collapsed as far as the formidable bolts would allow him, and everything became awash in a sea of cobalt black.

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Pomoq, having heard the commotion, had used his walking staff to slouch out of his lodge for the first time and stand, feet apart, both bony hands resting on the head of his staff. Per Pomoq's orders, a small assemblage of men had appeared from nowhere, stooped to jerk the bolts out of Malaraq's leg, and then turned their attention to his groin.

He'll never poke another woman with that limp thing again. Ha!

From where she hid between Gormaq's lodge (it was closer to the edge of the village) and a tall stack of slips that had already been folded by the Twins in preparation for Michek's wedding, Waru watched the proceedings with a mixture of giddy triumph and twisted mirth. She wondered what he looked like now beneath his loincloth and his leggings: Did the thing still have a form, or did it flop lifelessly, spurting blood instead of male quintessence where the pointed bolt had found its mark?