A thick wave of revulsion roiled through Vilon's gut at the sight.
He was no maiden freshly picked from a village; he had grown grimly familiar with blood and the art of killing. But it was one thing to face a man with a drawn sword in his hand, and another entirely to stare at the mangled, helpless flesh of a captive stripped of any chance to fight back.
Then, like a splash of lye to an open wound, the memories came rushing back. He remembered the boy weeping in the grass with a shattered collarbone. He remembered the cold steel driving into his own chest, the knee on his ribs, the maniacal laughter, and the yellowed teeth bared in triumph as he drowned.
The brief flicker of pity melted away in an instant.It fish-hooked it right out of his chest.
He wouldn't have batted an eye were I the one hanging from that beam.Mayhaps he would have laughed and pissed on me.
