A/N: I tried posting this a couple days ago, but something seems to have gone wrong. Not sure what happened, but maybe reposting as a new story will sort it out.
The prompt for this one was "shock".
Horace fought with practiced efficiency, slipping into the rhythm of parries, blocks, and strikes. Across the clearing, Will was pivoting to face an oncoming foe, a knife in either hand. The close quarters of the fight had forced him to discard his bow in favour of his knives. Nevertheless, he was doing quite well.
Horace's gaze caught on movement and the glimmer of a knife behind Will. He shouted a warning, but it came too late.
Just as Will began to turn, the man behind him lunged. Horace could only watch as his friend's eyes widened in shock. The force of the blow sent Will stumbling forward and he let out a pained grunt.
Then Horace was forced to bring his attention back to his own fight. He brought his sword up just in time to block a wild, overreaching strike. Taking advantage of his opponent's resulting lack of balance, he stepped within the man's guard and brought the pommel of his sword crashing down on the man's head.
Without waiting to watch the man crumple to the ground, Horace spun towards his friend. Will was fending off the man who had stabbed him, the last of their opponents, but it was clear he was struggling. He was on the defensive; sluggish, stilted movements barely enough to block the man's relentless attack.
Horace strode in with a flurry of strikes, forcing the man away from Will. The man was a skilled fighter and it took longer than Horace would have liked to end the fight. As it was, the surroundings worked to his advantage. Stepping back, the man tripped over an exposed root and fell to the ground.
"You're lucky we were told to bring you in alive," Horace said, feeling no qualms about hitting this man while he was down. He struck with the pommel of his sword and the man slumped, unconscious.
Will stood in the centre of the clearing, swaying. Even as Horace hastened over, Will's legs buckled and he collapsed to his knees. His eyes were wide and glazed with pain and he was breathing in quick sharp gasps.
The concern and fear that Horace had been fighting flared.
"Let me see," he demanded.
Will huffed. " 'm not trying to stop you." Even though it came through gritted teeth, the reply reassured Horace.
Will's blood-soaked shoulder, however, had Horace biting back a string of curses and scrambling for the bandages in his bag. By the time he returned, Will had slumped even further. The wound was on his upper shoulder—painful no doubt, but not immediately life-threatening. At least Horace's warning had done some good.
"What's with you Ranger-types not wearing armour?" he grumbled. He hesitated for a moment—bandaging a wound was never pleasant and he did not wish to inflict further pain—then he pressed a wad of bandages against the wound to stem the bleeding.
Will hissed and flinched away instinctively, then he forced himself still. "You can't sneak when you're clanking around in armour. It's counterproductive."
"Getting stabbed is counterproductive!" Horace retorted, winding the remaining bandages around Will's shoulder to secure the initial wad. Will's breathing grew harsher. The hand of his good arm was pressed against the grass to support him, clenched in a white-knuckled fist.
"Almost done," Horace muttered. Satisfied that the bandage would remain as it was while they travelled, he rose to his feet and offered Will a hand. "Let's get you back to the castle infirmary."