“I’m alright,” Kyle answered, glancing briefly at his friend before looking down again at the wounded woodsman.
“Bloody outlaws,” Domnal grunted. He dropped his bow and picked up the woodsman’s longsword, marching with determination toward the man he had shot. Kyle watched him for a moment and then realized what he intended to do.
“Domnal! Wait!”
But it was too late, and Kyle watched his old friend and mentor sink the longsword into the woodsman’s chest. Then Domnal turned his gaze upon the woodsman Kyle had stabbed.
“Ye cannae kill him!” Kyle protested. “He is wounded enough already!”
“Mercy,” the woodsman groaned, wriggling ever so slightly as his dark blood pooled in the grass. “Mercy.”
Domnal said nothing, and Kyle watched in horror as the old soldier pierced the woodsman’s chest with his own blade, and the wounded man went still.
“They’ll be back fer the bodies,” Domnal said, breaking the shocked silence. “Leave the stag, me Laird. Let us be on our way.” Kyle still stood in shock, glancing down at the blood upon his hands. “Now!” Domnal yelled, clapping Kyle on the shoulder, and forcibly turning him about. “Let’s get ye haem.”
Kyle trudged through the forest in a daze as they went back to the horses. He could not fathom what had just transpired. All his life, he had trained for such a moment, but now that it had come, he felt filthy and cruel. The woodsman’s blood was drying already upon his skin, itching and caking, and he shuddered as he recalled the man’s last words, “Mercy.”
They found the horses eventually and climbed up, Domnal leading them out of the woods in silence. Kyle watched him as they rode. He had known the man his entire life, and yet he had never seen that cold, almost evil face of war upon him. Was that what he had been seeking all this time? Was glory no more than a façade mounted over the calls for mercy from a dying man?
Kyle’s head swam with discontent and disgust as they rode, and even as he rode within a few feet from his old friend, he felt truly alone.
