Vilon's whole body went rigid, his mind completely stalling out. There was no way he could have anticipated that.
It was also, to his horror, his very first kiss.
Instinct finally took the reins. Vilon brought both hands up, planted them firmly against the commander's iron-clad shoulders, and shoved the man back with everything he had left.
Because he had used both hands, he let go of the walker. The clumsy wooden frame clattered into the grass, and Vilon stumbled. Owen darted forward, catching his master beneath the arms just before he hit the mud.
The damage, however, was already done. Pain exploded across Vilon's bruised ribs, a sharp gasp tearing from his throat as a line of sticky spit ran down his chin. He spat into the grass and quickly wiped his mouth with his linen sleeve, his face burning hot. As he did he breathed through his nose, and sniffed at his odour.
He almost puked.
