Chapter Thirty Eight
Tom said nothing. He didn't need to. The arrogance that had fueled his outbursts only hours ago had been ground into the dirt alongside the pulverized remains of the boulders. The zeal in his eyes hadn't died; it had simply changed shape, hardening from the flickering flame of a boy into the cold, steady glow of a weapon. Pride was a luxury for those who hadn't felt the shadow of a mountain looming over them.
He stood up, wiping the grime and dried blood from his face with the back of his hand. He didn't ask for a break. He didn't complain about the ache in his joints. He simply looked at John and nodded.
"Again," Tom said.
John didn't offer a smile of approval. He merely reached into his pouch and pulled out a handful of smooth, grey pebbles. He began to throw.
