Chapter Twenty-Nine
The crossbow bolt caught Kyle by surprise, and he instinctively leaped backward when it struck Sir Simon, nearly losing his footing in the mud of the yard. He looked into the broken knight’s eyes for just a moment before his head rolled back toward the sky, and then he collapsed, dead as dead could be.
Kyle’s head snapped to the left, where he saw Lord Hamilton, fumbling to reload the crossbow as fast as he could. Kyle had no time to think about the dead knight at his feet or the status of Laila and her brothers. He was blinded by rage and his passion for Laila. Nothing else existed, and there before him stood the culprit of all his ills.
He began advancing slowly, his sword still gripped tight, the sun now piercing through the clouds, shining down and illuminating his brow in an almost godlike aura. One step. Another step. A third. A fourth. Lord Hamilton finished reloading and let the bolt fly.
It took Kyle in the upper shoulder on his right side as he walked directly into the shot. He did not flinch nor wince nor groan. The bolt simply existed there, embedded in his flesh, not important to his current death march, just an accessory to his battle-recent body.
Lord Hamilton rushed once more to reload the crossbow, and Kyle continued to step his way. Each fall of his feet was determined, heavy, and bold. They sent ripples out into the mud, splashing droplets up onto his legs and leaving deep imprints in the muck.
“You are the source of everything,” Kyle said slowly, taking yet another step. “You!”
Lord Hamilton drew back the crossbow’s crank to its final click and set his last bolt in the firing groove, his eyes darting between Kyle and his weapon, terribly fearful of what was going to happen next, and yet even though he was afraid of it, he was not accepting of it, for he continued to fuss about with his crossbow, and continued to mutter things to himself about how grand life would be when he escaped back to London, how many respectable bride he would find, no debt attached. No more personal matters. That had clearly run its course.
“Answer me!” Kyle boomed, coming only a few paces away now as Lord Hamilton began to raise his weapon to a firing position. “Answer me!”
Lord Hamilton pulled the trigger once more, and the bolt flew, but Kyle, fast as a highland fox, simply moved closer and let the bolt that had been aimed for his forehead fly far into the shadowy distance, entirely removed from the equation.
“What gave you the right?” Kyle asked, closing to only a pace away, the bolt sticking out of his shoulder only turning him into a more menacing sight. “Tell me! What gave you the right to play with our lives?”
Lord Hamilton looked up at Kyle, now standing entirely over his personage, his sword held in his unblemished hand, the anger of a madman in his eyes, and the strength of a bull in his arm, and the smell of fresh mud and blood pouring off of him, and still, Lord Hamilton could not accept reality. He had come too far, overcome too many odds, to allow this cretin to disrupt his life. He would not allow it. He was going home, to London, or Lundinium as the Romans had called it, where he would find a nice quiet bride. First, he had to fire off this crossbow one more time. Then he could go home., and this horrible Scottish venture would be over.
He began moving his hands across the crank that he used to wind the cords of the weapon backward, ignoring everything else in the world as he tried to fit the crank’s notches into place on the workings of the crossbow. He was going home. He was going to find a nice quiet bride. He was never coming back to Scotland.
Kyle's sword came down among it all and severed Lord Hamilton’s left hand from its host as the weapon smashed the crossbow down into the dirt, cutting through several cords and gears in the process.
Lord Hamilton did not break from his illusion. In fact, the shock from the sudden loss of his hand enforced it. Everything was going to be fine. He was going home. None of this had any real meaning. This was all a dream. He was going to eat out free forever on such sordid tales of Scotland. London would love him.
“Speak!” Kyle roared once more, raising up his sword for another, and likely the last, strike. “What gives ye the right? Ye pig! Ye tried to take Laila away!”
At Laila’s name, something registered in Lord Hamilton’s mind. It was the shadow of a thought, an edge of a dream, a flicker of reality, but it was enough. It sparked Lord Hamilton’s mind, and he began to think of Laila. She was not such a simple bride. In fact, she had caused him a terrible amount of trouble. Was he truly in Scotland? His mind was a void that his simple shock-guided thought was attempting desperately to fill.
Kyle looked down at the man who people in England called a Lord. He was a pathetic shrivel of a being, hunched over in the mud, gripping at the stump that was once his hand, his eyes darting around as if he were processing images that were not there. He was muttering too, something low that Kyle could not understand, over and over to himself.
Kyle held his blade aloft, ready to end the wretch with a mighty strike, but something stayed his hand. He had killed several people that day already, but all of that had been in the heat of the moment, driven by the will to survive and the adrenaline that dominated his entire being. Now, standing over the crippled lord, Kyle saw only poor Roger MacLean, squirming in the grass, crying out for mercy.Mercy.
“Laila,” Lord Hamilton grunted, his head jerking up, his eyes darting around. “Laila!” He was going home. She had to come with him. She was his bride after all, and what sort of husband would he be if he left her there, all alone in the barren north? No. He was going to take her home to London, where she would be the perfect bride, where she would be the talk of the town, and the both of them would be guests of honor at the King’s ceremonies. The tower of London would be their stomping ground, and all the nobles in the land would bow down to them. Even the King would come down from his high horse and kiss Lord Hamilton’s hand.
But he needed his wife! Where was she? She was not his wife yet. No, how silly. Of course, she was his bride-to-be. No need to get ahead of himself. One thing at a time. That was how good business was conducted. But where the devil was she?
“Laila!” he cried out, writhing around in the muck, blood still leaking the stump of his hand. “Laila!”
On the third mention of her name, Kyle struck. It was an instinctive move, not guided by reason but by passion, and it was a decisive one. He simply could not suffer her name from his mouth any longer, and all thoughts of mercy were erased by heated love. The strike was true and clean, and Lord Hamilton’s head rolled off into the muddy yard, his body lingering just a moment before he collapsed entirely.
Kyle looked down at the body. At first glance, it would all appear to be over. The enemy was vanquished. But as the white heat that blinded him began to fade, the pain of the crossbow bolt embedded in his skin began to reach his brain.
“Shite,” Kyle mumbled and thrust out his sword like a walking stick to keep from collapsing entirely as he went down to one knee. The pain was spreading like a spider web throughout his entire upper torso, and he lamented, not thinking about eating the crossbow bolt just for a moment longer.
“Nobody else inside!” one of the former rebellious Scots called Kyle, coming out into the yard. “Christ!” he followed up with when he saw Kyle’s state. “Get me a bleedin’ stretcher er’ somethin’!” he shouted into the tavern. “The man’s deein’!”
“That is an exaggeration,” Kyle mumbled, trying to steady his vision against the pain, but the only thing his eyes moved toward was Lord Hamilton’s severed head, which faced down into the mud.
“Hail there!” a voice carried over the stale breeze, but Kyle did not recognize it. It was an older voice, to be sure. It sounded like someone who had seen their share of dinner tables and mulled wine, but not too many so that they were still a friendly and charitable soul. With immense effort, Kyle craned his neck upwards, looking out at the inn’s yard.
He was hallucinating, he was sure of it, for in no other world would he see so many armed soldiers approaching, least of all being led by an elderly man with Laila’s brother Jacob. There was no way any of that was real. Kyle laughed, drawing his pale lips into a smile, and all he could muster was the same as the late Lord Hamilton.
“Laila.”
