Crusade

Now

     His breath puffed out through parted lips as he labored up the hill, feeling every step of the slope in the aching joints of his knees and hips. Shoulders stooped as much with age as to move low under a branch as each footfall was carefully chosen, landing where they might make the least noise as Eamon edged up the hill. Wind stirred at the gray, thinning hair that hung from his brow, pulling his scent away from his quarry much as it pulled at the hoods of his mantle. The deer, munching noisily on fallen apples of the grove at the base of the hill, would never know he was there.

    His caution was born more of habit than any conscious effort. Indeed, as he eased up to the crest of the hill and held an arrow knocked and drawn his thoughts drifted back to the warmth of the keep's kitchens, and the smell of roasting mutton and baking bread. If he made it back in time, 'ole Rosy might sneak 'em a blackened loaf and a flagon of mulled wine to ease the chill. Wouldn't that be something? And, if he was quick enough to pick some of the flowers he'd seen growing along the way back, she might even give him a go before he had to go home to his wife. Ah, that Rosy. Such a sweet lass.  

     Eamon's right shoulder ached from as held the bow bent, the string taut to his cheek as he looked down the length of the arrow. It had never been quite right after he took a tumble a few years back, and it ached all the more when a storm was about to come. All the more reason to get back to the warm kitchen and Rosy's even warmer--Now!

     The string thrummed as he loosed. The bow's stave vibrated in his hand, leaving his calloused palm tingling as the arrow whispered through the air, its fletching guiding it straight and true. The doe raised her head at the last moment, looking up towards him in absolute panic. Her every muscle went rigid in the perfect image of woodland grace. Her eyes were a soft brown, not unlike Rosy's. For that brief moment as his breath caught in his weary chest there was a pang of regret. The world froze as the arrow struck between the doe's ribs, and the beautiful animal's eyes sprang open even wider.

     Then, all at once, the world crashed into motion. The deer reared back and leapt away, letting out a horrible little noise of distress. Half shriek, half bleated grunt, the sound that escaped the doe was wet and ragged. The arrow had pierced her lung. She bounded away once. Twice. Her next running leap faltered, containing none of the grace of the first two. She landed and her left leg faltered, leaving her chest crashing heavily to the forest floor and snapped the arrow pinned within it.

     "Damn it," he puffed out, still out of breath. That had been a good arrow.

     Good, that. At least it would not suffer. The soft leather of his boots crashed through the brush as he made his way down the hill towards his prey and crunched over fallen apples as he passed through the grove. The doe's back legs thrashed out as she tried to right herself. Once. Twice. The third time he could see the thing's strength wavering.

     "Ssh...," he said. "Easy now."

     He knelt a short distance away as he watched her thrash and struggle. She'd tangled herself in a bramble at the edge of the grove as she tried to escape. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly, with little wheezing sounds escaping with each labored breath, accompanied by little rivets of red that escaped from around the lodged arrow with every exhausting motion. He must have hit an artery. Good. Her suffering would be even more brief.

     "Sssh now, girl. Easy."

     That last word drawn out within a breath. All of them were little more than a whisper as he repeated it now and again, trying to ease the creature as he watched it slip away, waiting for her panicked thrashing to calm so that he could approach.

     "Easy now, girl. Easy."

     The words a whisper as he drew the long knife from his belt and picked his path carefully around the back of dying deer. Two paces away. One. The doe tried to rise with one last, stubborn exertion, lifting her head as she tried to struggle her way to her feet. With practiced motions his hand snaked forward. One grasped beneath her struggling chin, pulling her neck taut. The other lashed out, dragging the sharp edge through hide, muscle and the arteries beneath.

     "Easy now."

     Soon she stopped thrashing. The baron would have a bit of venison, and with a bit of luck, 'ole Eamon might have a bit of Rosy.

     Eamon was in good spirits as he plodded back along the trail, despite the burden of the gutted deer that he had slung across his shoulders. His knees ached, and his back hurt, but he was beating the storm and thoughts of warm bread and Rosy's smile kept him moving at a steady pace. A tuneless little song even escaped his dry lips in a whistle.

     He'd just taken a deep breath and pursed his lips when something slammed into his back, just below the weight of deer across his shoulders. The forthcoming whistle escaped past his lips in a startled wheeze as the shock chased the air from his lungs. When had he fallen to his knees? The question stood out to Eamon as the weight of the deer left him toppling, and falling to his side. His chest rose and fell, struggling as each breath became more and more painful, escaping his wet lips in a wet wheeze.

     Gasping and struggling, he stubbornly got back to one knee, bracing one booted foot beneath him as he tried to stand and get his bearings. A metallic shuffle behind him left Eamon straining to look over his shoulder, and his eyes widened as he saw the strange figure coming closer. Taller than most any man he'd ever seen, with dark hair gathered back and hidden within the confines of a great, open helmet. His body was sheathed in plates of metal, and Eamon could see now that they were muffled with cloth where every joint met. Eamon had never seen its like. Not even when the Lord had come to inspect his lands.

     "Who-" Eamon began.

     It was a gasped, wheeze of a word, interrupted by the upraised hand of the massive, dark haired man who approached. Bright, compassionate eyes looked down, meeting Eamon's questioning stare with a touch of sadness before they hardened.

     "Ssh," spoke the man. "Easy."  

     And then the rasp of metal on leather as a calloused hand firmly gripped his chin from the blind side, and the sharp edge of a blade dragged across the sinew and arteries laid bare.