Alek didn't feel relief when the enemy soldier toppled backwards, a red stain blooming on his chest. All he felt was disgust. What was this doing to him, that he was killing innocents who couldn't help falling from the sky?
Count Volger walked over, apparently unconcerned that they had just become murderers. He knelt down and waved a hand over the boy's mouth, frowning. "Your aim is, if possible, even worse than your fencing, your highness. He's breathing."
Despite the disappointment in Volger's voice, Alek felt as if an enormous weight had been lifted off his shoulders. This war hadn't made him a killer yet.
"Hand me the pistol," Volger said impatiently.
"What? No." Alek held the weapon closer to him protectively. "Why do you want it?"
His fencing instructor sighed, as he did whenever his charge was being incredibly dense. "To finish the job, obviously. Since you aren't capable of hitting the heart of a bound, motionless prisoner."
"Absolutely not," Alek snapped, trying to mimic his father's voice at its most commanding. "We're not killing a helpless prisoner. We can… we can take him hostage. He's unlikely to be alone – if his allies come looking for him, we can give him back on the condition that they pretend they never saw us."
"After we shot one of their own?" Volger looked skeptical, but seemed to have accepted that Alek would not budge. "And if our hostage dies? You may have missed anything vital, but he can still bleed to death."
"Then move over." Alek didn't know much first aid, but he knew Volger was right. He had to stop the bleeding. Using the boy's knife, he cut a strip of cloth off of the baggy flight suit and opened up the shirt, trying to avoid the blood that was getting absolutely everywhere.
What he saw, for a moment, confused him. The boy seemed to be already injured – a strip of cloth was wrapped tightly around his chest. Then he took a better look at his captive, and understood. "Mein Gott, Volger! You made me shoot a girl!"