He needed an ally. Someone he could work with. Someone with a bow. His mind wandered to the wild, red headed lass he knew in Bree-land and her skill at hunting. How he missed the fiery Narys, how he wished she could be there with him for both her bow and her passionate embrace.
He sat upright as the healer bent over him, “Ready?” He asked Taraborn who nodded, biting down on the hard leather in his mouth before the arrow was pushed through his shoulder and out the other side. He bit down with all his strength, trying not to scream in pain as he began bleeding profusely. The doctor cut off the tail end of the arrow, and pulled the rest of the shaft from his body as assistants began to pack the wound with bandages.
His mouth fell open as he gasped in air, panting heavily as the leather belt fell to the floor with a clatter. He yelled out a curse, his body tense and shaking from the pain. The healer behind him began working on the hole in his back, pouring a strong alcohol into it and sewing it closed.
Taraborn grimaced throughout the experience, remembering how it happened.
He’d been hunting down his previous employers, the tomb robbers, for a separate contract. He had found their camp, about one day from Dale when he decided to make his assault that night. Unfortunately for him, Allyn had been on watch and spotted him, and managed to fire a few arrows before Taraborn fell upon him with his sword. Even worse, one had made it through into his shoulder. He was glad though, for he had almost been shot through the heart.
Taraborn had cursed and blinded, cutting down the bowman before moving on to the other two. Jack was no match for Taraborn, who had taught him most of what he knew, and Edward was an old man. He tried to club Taraborn, but he was slower, weaker, and died as well. With their heads and their cart of stolen gold, silver, and silks, Taraborn had ridden back to Dale as quickly as he could to get himself healed.
Narys could have shot him down before they even got close, Taraborn decided as the healer sewed up the other side of his wound and packed a cold, wet, herbal compress onto the wound. It was soothing, but only somewhat numbed the pain.
He was still thinking of the huntress later that night when he was sat in his bed at the local inn, drinking away the pain. He missed her, but he wondered if she missed him. The thought of it was as though he had been shot through the heart.
