Torghan stood motionless over the dying mercenary, his chest rising and falling in ragged gasps. The man beneath him twitched like a speared boar, fingers scrabbling at the ruin of his throat where Torghan's axe had bitten deep.
Blood pulsed between the mercenary's fingers in thick, dark rivulets, each weakening spurt marking the ebbing of his life. His boots kicked feebly against the churned earth, carving shallow grooves in the mud as he tried in vain to push himself away from death's embrace.
The killing blow hadn't been clean.
The mercenary's last desperate parry with his shield had turned what should have been a decapitating strike into a messy wound that would take minutes, not seconds, to claim his life.
Torghan watched, fascinated, as the man's lips moved soundlessly, forming words that would never be spoken. His eyes - wide and white-rimmed with terror - locked onto Torghan's face, pleading silently for mercy that would never come.
