too. The oft-repeated words of his arena instructor sprang into his mind,crowding out all other thoughts.
"Move! Move, damn you! Retreat. Attack. Retreat. Circle. Move! If you don'tmove, you're dead. If I don't kill you myself, your next opponent will! Move! Astill fighter's a dead fighter. Now move! move?"
A half-heard sound wrenched Jubal's fevered thoughts back to the present. Hishand dropped to his dagger hilt as he strained to penetrate the darkness withhis erratic vision.
Saliman?
Perhaps. But in his current state he couldn't take any chances. As his ally knewhis exact location, the information could have been forced out of him by Jubal'senemies. Sitting propped against a tree with his legs stretched out before him,Jubal cast about looking for new cover. Not two paces away was a patch of kneehigh weeds. Not much, but enough.
The ex-gladiator allowed himself to fall sideways, catching himself on one handand easing his body the rest of the way to the ground. Then it was reach, pull;reach, pull, slowly making his way towards and finally into the weed patch.Though he used his free hand to maintain his balance, once one of the brokenarrowshafts protruding from his knees scraped along the ground, sending a sheetof red agony through his mind. Still, he kept his silence, though he could feelsweat running off his body.
Reach, pull. Reach.
Safely in the weeds now, he allowed himself to rest. His head sank completely tothe ground. The dagger slid from its scabbard and he held it point down, hidingthe shine of its blade with his forearm. Trembling from the efforts of hismovement, he breathed through his nose to slow and silence his recovery. Inhale.