Jonas forced himself to rise. The skeleton at the window pawed mutely at the broken window — the edge just high enough to prevent it from entering. It continued to batter at the lead and glass, and from behind several more once-men were closing. The squire made himself stop playing the sick game of matching clothing with the names these things had left behind in the grave. His mind spat out another observation, in between breaths. They don’t make a sound —-not a whisper. Just the clack of their feet on the stones.
Another wave of panic punched his vitals. My sword —- where is it?
He felt the need to vomit. What kind of warrior was he? Stupid and young and apt to die soon.
The squire knelt and slid his hands around the floor. The beat of the bone arms at the window grew more staccato as further drummers arrived. The world shrunk down to a pinpoint — the flame of his mind pushed down to the tips of his fingers, scraping across the polished stone floor. Jonas felt his eyes burn. Tears.
Was this what I came here for? Cornered like a rat — torn apart with nothing in my hand but air?