In the end of course, there’s no choice. Despite the sliver of humanity I’ve seen on this isolated ridge, these men are my enemies. They too have their task to fulfil and their departure will mean slaughter at Ráth Bládhma. The bandraoi dear to Fiacail’s heart will die. The sombre warrior woman will die. The boys whose laughter roused this valley, will die.
But I’ll not see another settlement massacred.
I reach up to the axe strapped across my back and run my fingers the length of its haft. The solid touch of the weapon steadies me, reminds me of the promise I made to Fiacail.
All the same, I take my time, studying the old man and taking a measure of the ground about the hollow. Now’s not the time to hurry and make mistakes. Now’s the time to set the best route, the line of attack I’ll use to take my opponents down.
Sometimes it’s best to kill a man fast. Other times it makes sense to take it slow, to work the movements and the killing strokes in advance.
This is such a time.
Taking a deep breath, I crawl once more, working my way towards the little hollow, slinking silently around to the left so that I can use the tree my opponent rests against, to reach him unseen. The grass is dense in this section of the wood and by the time I’ve edged closer, my clothing is wet and slick from the dew. With the bulk of the oak to screen me from sight, I rise to my feet, slowly draw my axe free.
The tree is less than five paces away but it takes several careful steps to reach it, avoiding the trap of littered deadwood that could snap beneath my feet. I make it to the oak’s wide base. Chest tight with tension, I press against its gnarled bark, the leather-bound haft of the killing axe damp in my sweating palm.
My heart is thumping, there’s a metal tang to my breath, a smear of sweat across my brow. On the other side of the tree, the old scout’s laboured breath is loud. A sympathetic twinge ripples through my own lungs. For a moment, I fear a coughing fit but the urge passes and I breathe easy again.
Keeping close to the gnarled trunk, I edge warily around, spot the shoulder of a leather tunic, then a tangled head of grey hair.
The black flux may have eroded the old scout’s body but there’s nothing eroded about his instincts. I’ve made no sound, not the slightest rustle, and yet somehow he senses me. Twisting around on his rump, his wide brown eyes gawp up at me, one hand reaching for his sword.
Sometimes it’s best to kill a man slow. Other times it makes sense to give in to the beast.
This is such a time.
The scout’s sword comes up swift as my axe comes down. It’s a decent effort to stay the blow, but decent efforts don’t keep you breathing. The axe-strike comes with my full strength behind it, a killing blow, it smacks the scout’s ill-angled weapon aside and cleaves through to shatter his skull. The impact’s so powerful it knocks him forward, as though he’s bowing or folding at the waist. He topples and slumps to the left, collapsing on his side.
I stare at the buckled corpse far longer than I should. I’ve seen my share of death and yet that shattered carcass, stirs guilt in my gut – a sentiment I’d forego for there’s no merit in connection to the man you’ve butchered.
A leather food bag and a waterskin lie on the ground beside the corpse. I grab them both as I retreat to the shadows. In the safety of the forest shade, I still my heart and struggle to fight the urge to cough for I know it’ll never stop.
I’ve time now to gather myself but there’s another scout that needs dealing to or this effort will have been in vain. Ignorant of the young buck’s route, I’m faced with two options. I can follow his trail into the trees or I can wait here at my ease and ambush him on his return.
Two different options.
Two bloody options.
