First Kill

Etheomere continued working; he plucked stones from the earth, tossed them into the gutter. Fat rain drops started falling: they blackened gray stone, made boulders shine, sparkle like gems in certain places. They burst upon Etheomere, dampened his hair, splashed in his beard; he brushed water from his brow, shook his head; the rain started in ernest, a real downpour. Nearby, away to Etheomere's right, the Wending road suddenly curved northward, snaked toward the last ford, where guardsmen kept vigil from a timber watch house overlooking the last stretch of road. Through sheets of rain, Etheomere percieved the guardhouse, and beyond, the silvery river-thread rushing through the soppy water-woods. Thunder rumbled, shook the land; lightning flashed, rain drops fell like sparkling gems. Etheomere lifted another stone, held it for a moment, then tossed it into the shifting pile. Etheomere kept working. He tossed rain-slicked stones, heaved rocks onto the heap; there was a shifting sound, a dirty grinding as stones slipped down the pile, tumbled to rest at the base. Then, the sound of thudding feet, sloshing puddles, sucking mud; three figures came running down the Wending road. They wore dark clothes; dark cloaks trailed behind them. Their countenances were shadow-wrapped, impossible to perceive. Etheomere paused, a stone in his hand. He watched them approach the road's bend. They were running, really flying along the sloppy road; they spotted him, changed directions just slightly; they pulled knives from their sheathes, shining little blades that caught the lightning, flickered, while water slopped up around their muddy boots and rain fell in sheets from the sky. Etheomere's heart thundered, his life-rhythm pounded in his ears. He stepped backwards, death-fear compelled him to turn and flee. Then, behind those runners, river-guardsmen appeared, shouting; one tossed a jug aside. It spun; a thread of red wine spilled into the downfall. He pulled an arrow from a battered old quiver, fit it to his long bow. His companions nocked arrows too; they drew bow strings taut, let loose; the strings hummed, the arrows hissed, some flew wide, whistled past Etheomere. One struck a runner, pierced his back below the shoulder blade; the man twisted, spun, fell to the ground. Another arrow ended him, The others ran on, blades drawn; Etheomere heaved the stone; it bludgeoned rain drops in mid air, knocked them all about. It struck one man in the forehead, caved in that life-holder; he pitched backwards, fell to the earth. The other slipped, skidded, turned and grasped at his companion's arm; arrows pierced him then; twice, thudding sounds resounded from his chest; his breath whistled, his body shuddered suddenly; the death-shakes announced the end of him. The river-guardsmen cheered, clapped hands; they approached Etheomere. 'Ha, ha' shouted one, ' that's how you do it!' The other ' well done, good throw! What a toss! Hell! ' They shook Etheomere's hand, pumped it up and down, clapped his back. Nearby, Etheomere's foe lay; small bubbles, blood red, fragile, expanded from his nose and burst; narrow crimson rills, life-streams trickled from his death-wound. Rain washed the blood-puddle away; a fecal reek wafted up from the body, befouled the air there. Suddenly, an illness touched Etheomere, the war-thrill left him suddenly; the ugly death-stench filled his nostrils, trickled into his lungs; his stomach heaved, his jaw worked; he vomited onto the stones beside the road. His knees slackened, he knelt in the mud, drooling bile. He spat. The guardsmen guffawed. One spoke up, 'is this your first, buddy?' Another responded, chuckling, 'He's drawing breath yet, see there?' 'You should finish the job, it's the correct thing to do in this case,' said another, gravely. The tallest guardsman, a fierce-looking chap with a tangled mustache and a fine leather boar helm, drew a dagger; he proffered it to Etheomere, handle-first, spoke sternly. ''You would want the same mercy, pup!' Etheomere stood, wiped his mouth, spat again; he looked about; the guardsmen all looked at him; their eyes were intense; the dying man's life-breath bubbled and sputtered softly; thunder rumbled, lightning flashed, rain fell. In the distance, a deer sprung away, bounded through the grass; a field-mouse scurried across the road; an owl hooted along the riverside. Etheomere took the antler-handle blade—it was a fine knife. The blade was clean, not nicked or dinted at all; raindrops slid from the well-forged metal. He examined the blade awhile. One guardsman knelt beside the dying man, turned his head, touched his neck, slid a finger along a thick blood-road that protruded from the tightened skin. He looked up, spoke to Etheomere. 'The brain needs oxygen; oxygen is carried by the blood. The heart pumps blood through this artery to the head, neck and brain—it's high pressure! Have you ever cut a carotid? Death in an instant! A nick here, friend, and mercy is done. Just stand aside when you do the cutting' The guardsman stood, another squatted near the body. He moved the head, pointed to the spider web skull-fracture, the weak-point in that brain-house. 'the brain is very delicate; it's soft stuff! it is the real life-house, the focal point of everything the body does. A solid blow causes swelling, extra pressure; in fact, a solid blow in one place can cause vibrations that damage the various life centers deeper inside the skull-case. Look how your stone-blow has nearly ended this fellow, right in the frontal lobe, where he really resides! Finish it with a knife! One stroke or two should end it quick enough' The guardsman stood, stepped away. The tallest man, knife-lender, stepped in; he crouched beside the fellow, touched his left breast. 'look, this man has no battle-rings, no mail girt around him; put the knife-blade in his heart! The heart is the blood-pump, the life-sustainer. It sends oxygen to the brain, limbs, and other places; it takes old blood in and sends it back to the lungs to reap oxygen. Nothing can live without oxygen. A knife in the heart will end the cycle, stop the beat; the blood will stop flowing, oxygen will stop circulating; one by one, cells will asphyxiate and perish; the brain will die, life will end; it's the easiest way, really, as long as you miss the ribs.' The tall man stepped aside, lifted his helmet; underneath, thin brown hair clung to his pale flesh. The guardsmen looked at Etheomere. Etheomere clutched the knife, squatted beside the man, turned his head, exposed the thick neck artery. He stared, his eyes fixed on the man's neck; for some moments he did not act, the knife trembled in his hand; his face drained, blanched. Finally, he looked up. 'He's dead, completely gone; the head-wound ended him, after all.' Etheomere stood; the guardsmen knelt, checked the man; they touched his neck, listened to his chest, pulled the lids, peered into his eyes. The tall man stood and took his knife back; he smiled, laughed ' ha ha, there it is, pup!' The others chuckled, clapped Etheomere on the back. 'That's a good one, a fair kill indeed! With a stone, no less!'