Tammeran opened his eyes and gazed out towards the rabble of refugees who were gathering their belongings and preparing to march forward. All they waited for was a signal from their Captains.
The sky above was once again cloudy and foreboding, making the threat of rain. Tammeran looked to them with a solemn expression, hoping they would not be forced to make the rest of their journey with sopping wet and cold clothing.
When he turned his gaze downward, his eyes caught a glimpse of something- a small break in the clouds had allowed just enough of the morning sunlight to shine through. Its rays glinted off steel, sending a blinding flash to his eyes. Tammeran focused his gaze upon the hill where the light had landed and saw there a figure, standing at the tallest point of the valley looking down upon them.
For a moment, Tammeran thought that Captain Jamus had returned to them and his heart leapt with joy. But all hope and happiness fled when he heard the blow of the horn and the pounding of horses’ hooves into the ground.
They emerged over the hill behind the figure, racing down towards the refugees with a thundering cry. Thousands of horsemen with swords raised high came barreling towards them and Captain Tammeran could only stare, frozen in a fit of terror.
It was Captain Moresy that broke him from his trance. Moresy began shouting from behind, calling to the other Captains to form lines and protect the innocents but they were too late.
The refugees began screaming and scrambling to get away. They pulled their children and loved ones to their feet and clumsily tried to make an escape but the army of Axendra was on them before they could even make it ten paces. Some of the more brave refugees began fighting back with whatever they could find as a weapon.
Captain Tammeran stood in the midst of the slaughter and watched with a horrified stare as swords cut through bodies and horses ran down the people who were trying to flee. Their wails of pain and death filled the air within the valley like a thick fog and Tammeran found it difficult to breathe. He choked in a breath of air and forced himself to move. He pulled his sword from its scabbard and brought it upward to meet a horse that was rushing towards him. He felt the point of the blade slide into the beast’s chest and pulled it out with one swift movement to pummel the rider along the side of his head.
Blood spurted from the enemy’s wound in all directions, painting the grass and Tammeran’s feet red. He rushed forward, sliding on the wet grass and found another rider to meet the tip of his blade. The man fell from his saddle with a cry of anguish and Tammeran grabbed hold of the reins, pulling himself onto the back of the beast.
He caught a glimpse of Moresy and Barlos as he sat up tall in the saddle. Moresy somehow had acquired two swords and was swinging them wildly in all directions. Barlos was kneeling upon the ground with his sword-hand dangling lifelessly at his side. His other arm was stretched across his belly where a steady flow of blood was escaping.
Tammeran turned the horse around and with a cry of anger, rushed into the fray. He met the oncoming horsemen head-on, swinging his sword with all his strength. He swung viciously at each rider he passed, not taking the time to see if they fell from their saddles.
The horse that Tammeran had taken was a strong beast, bred for battle. Its legs carried it forward with determination. The men from Axendra recognized one of their own and hesitated in confusion as Tammeran rushed towards them. It was this few seconds of extra time that gave him the advantage. He pulled his blade sideways and sliced at the neck of one man then pulled it back and thrust it to the other side, jabbing the tip into another man’s side between the ribs.
Then his horse cried in pain and reared onto its hind legs, throwing Captain Tammeran from the saddle. He landed on his back with a hard thud- the wind escaping from his lungs. He tried to suck in more air but could not catch his breath.
His horse had fallen as well, lying on its side, kicking wildly into the air around it. He raised his head high enough to see the swarm of enemy soldiers, now dismounted and on foot, surrounding him on all sides. They reached down and grasped him tightly by the arms and pulled him to his feet. He looked around desperately for his sword but saw that it had been lost in the crowd.
“You are a brave man.” The sound of a woman’s voice echoed to his ears, sending a shudder through his body. The men that held him spun him around so that he was face-to-face with her. It was in that moment he knew he was going to die.
The last time he had seen the High Protector was the day South Fort burned and turned to ash. He had looked into her eyes and saw the reflection of the flames dancing in them. When he looked into her eyes now, however, he saw the dreary gray skies shrouded by her black hair. Her pale face looked like that of a ghost, staring deep into his soul. The black leathers that she wore contrasted harshly with her pale complexion, giving her face the illusion of an eerie glow. Bloodbinder had been drawn and was held down at her right side but no blood dripped from the tip of the blade. There had been no need for her to join in the fight- the refugees had been greatly outnumbered. In her left hand, Tammeran spotted his own sword, dripping wet with the blood of her men.
The High Protector stepped forward, her men shuffling out of the way so she could stand directly in front of him. The men that held tightly to his arms gave him a slight push forward.
“You fight even when your people have surrendered.” She said, the corners of her mouth twisting into a victorious grin.
Captain Tammeran turned his head and looked out to the refugees. The High Protector was right, they had all surrendered. They knelt in the blood-stained grass with their hands above their heads, crying or shaking in fright while the High Protector’s soldiers worked their way through them, taking away whatever they were using as a weapon and throwing them into a pile. Among the surrendered, Tammeran spotted Captain Moresy, kneeling like all the rest with his quivering hands resting on the top of his head. His eyes, wide with fright, were fixed upon Captain Tammeran, begging, as though he could save them.
The High Protector turned and threw his sword into the pile of abandoned weapons. It clattered amongst the broken wood and discarded steel as it fell down the pile and finally came to a rest on the ground.
“Madam Protector.” A young man with dark hair and beard down to his chest came rushing forward. He was a tall man, with broad shoulders and thick arms. His long sword was strapped tightly to his back while two daggers dangled at his waist.
“Yes, Captain?” The High Protector said. Though Tammeran had never met him, he knew this young man had to be Captain Mayvard Stoneward, son of Captain Natharian Stoneward. Tammeran could see the resemblance.
“All rebels are accounted for.” He said. His countenance was beaming with a job well done.
“How many dead?” The High Protector asked.
“Two-hundred and thirty-seven, madam.”
“And how many alive?”
“Eight-hundred and seventy-five.” Captain Mayvard turned to Tammeran, noticing him for the first time and added; “seventy-six”.
“Should we round them into carriages, madam Protector?”
The High Protector sighed and turned her gaze out towards the horde of prisoners she had just acquired.
“No.” She said quietly after a few moments.
“What are we to do with them then?” Captain Mayvard asked in confusion.
“The King’s orders were clear- we are to leave no survivors.”
Tammeran could see Captain Mayvard tense at her words. His shoulders stiffened and all appearances of pride vanished from his face. He turned his gaze out towards the prisoners who looked to him with frightened faces. When he turned back to the High Protector, something in his face had changed. Though his stance remained stoical, his eyes betrayed him. They reflected the sorrow that was apparently in his heart. Tammeran looked to the Captain with a glimmer of hope. Perhaps this man will convince the High Protector to let our people go.
Captain Mayvard stepped closer to the High Protector and spoke in an undertone that onl
y those around them could hear.
“But, Madam Protector, there are children, and women. These people are innocent.”
The High Protector’s face turned grim. Tammeran was reminded of what an angry dog looked like when it snarled. She looked her defiant Captain directly in the eyes and sneered.
“We have our orders, Captain. Neither you nor I can oppose the King’s demands. Now do it!” She hissed.
Tammeran broke his silence, not realizing that he was speaking until the words had escaped his lips. “Take us back to Axendra, the Captains that is, and we will submit to the King’s punishment. But let these people go. They have done nothing wrong. They have suffered enough.” Tammeran felt tears begin to sting his eyes. He knew he was doomed, and he was certain the other Captains would gladly sacrifice their lives if it meant saving everyone else, so he spoke for them.
The High Protector studied him for a moment and Tammeran was hopeful that she was considering his proposal. She took a few light steps to be in front of him and spoke so softly, only he could hear her words.
“I have been ordered to leave no survivors in my wake. To disobey my King would be to commit treason.” For a moment they stood locked in each other’s gazes. Tammeran thought he was mistaken when he saw a fleeting softening of her brow and her eyes- the look of sadness he had come to recognize on so many faces.
“Believe me when I say you will be better off dying here than in the hands of the King.” The High Protector said, as though that was supposed to console his aching heart.
She turned back to her Captain and began spouting orders.
“Line them up, fifty at a time. I need my archers at attention.” She looked back to Tammeran and nodded in his direction. “I want him to be among the first.”
Tammeran felt his stomach twist and churn as though someone had struck him there with a gut-wrenching punch. His knees buckled underneath his weight as the soldiers holding fast to his arms tried to push him forward. They pulled him back to his feet and shoved him hard, giving him no choice but to move.
As he was being pushed through the prisoners who looked up to him with sympathizing eyes, he could faintly hear the sound of Captain Mayvard shouting orders to his archers. Some were gathering the other forty nine victims who were condemned to die with him; random faces in the sea of surrendered refugees, and others were rounding up what he assumed were their best marksmen.
Tammeran caught the gaze of Captain Moresy as he was being shoved forward. Moresy’s face was pale and his chin quivered as Tammeran was forced into line with the others.
There were forty nine other innocent victims already lined up by the time he was pushed into place. The men holding him spun him around to face the archers that were lining up across from them and let go of his arms, knowing that he would not try to flee now. He tried to ignore the furious beating of his heart as he gazed at their emotionless faces.
You knew from the first moment that you picked up a sword as a young boy that you could die in battle. He tried to tell himself that death was not a surprise, but dying in battle was one thing, being executed on the command of a heartless witch was quite another.
Tammeran found he could no longer look upon the face of the archer that was about to end his life, a man that, by the looks of his face, was half his age and just as nervous to murder Tammeran as Tammeran was to die. He turned his gaze to the person standing next to him; a child, no older than the age of ten.
The young boy cried silently to himself, his tears falling down his cheeks and dripping from his chin to the ground. Tammeran could see the heaving of his chest with each nervous breath he took but his sobs were soundless.
“Do not fear death.” Tammeran said to the young lad. He looked up to Tammeran with anguished eyes and studied the stranger that in this moment had become closer to him than anyone he had ever known. “Everyone dies, eventually. It is in our nature.” He tried to give the boy a reassuring smile but knew it was all done in vain- there was no amount of reassurance that could drive the fear from this young boy’s heart.
Tammeran looked up when he saw the blur of black move past him. The High Protector had taken her place next to the archers and with one nod to her Captain he began shouting the murderous orders.
“Nock!” Captain Mayvard’s voice rang throughout the valley. Tammeran heard the gasps and sobs of the spectators who knew they would be next.
“Take aim!” The archers pulled their bowstrings taut and aimed at their prey. Tammeran’s executioner had his arrow aimed directly at his heart.
At least my death will be a quick one.
Then, all of a sudden, the High Protector stepped forward and gave a shout to cease fire. Tammeran was vaguely aware of a blur of flesh that darted from his side and away from the line of victims. He saw the archer that stood next to his executioner raise his arrow and fire into the air. Tammeran followed the arrow with his gaze until it landed at the feet of the boy that had run.
The young lad had let fear drive him away. He had spun around at the word ‘aim’ and ran, making for the edge of the Twin Peaks forest as fast as his feet could carry him. Tammeran could hear his frightened gasps as he ran on, leaping over the wayward arrow that had missed.
Another arrow whizzed past Tammeran and he begged the Gods to let this one miss its aim as well. The arrow landed behind the boy this time, even farther from its mark than the first one.
Tammeran heard the frustrated sigh of the High Protector. He turned back around and watched as she took the bow and arrow from the archer and shoved him aside angrily. She took four small steps forward, raised the arrow and pulled the bowstring taut, taking her time lining up her aim. All the while the boy was getting closer and closer to vanishing into the forest but Tammeran knew the High Protector would not miss. She never misses.
A small, horrified gasp escaped his breath as she loosed her arrow. It flew past his head with a soft hum, singing as it made its way towards its victim.
Captain Jamus led the procession that Lord Ivran Cassius had insisted follow him. Not only did Lord Ivran send him with a small army to escort him through the wilds of the Ylian outskirts, but Lord Ivran rode amongst them. He had welcomed Captain Jamus with open arms into his city and when Jamus told him of the refugees, he gathered a contingency of men and was heading towards them within the hour.
“They will need all the help they can get for the remainder of their journey.” He said to Jamus. “They need food and protection and we will bring it to them.”
Two-hundred horsemen rode from the gates of Ylia and even after three days of riding they were not tired in the least. They rode on with determination, wanting nothing more than to help the innocent people who wished to flee from the King’s tyranny.
The group of riders moved forward without much worry in their hearts. They japed and laughed and rode on, knowing they would reach the group of refugees soon.
On the fourth day, they came over a ridge and stopped abruptly. Their horses neighed in protest to the sudden pull of the reins and all joking and laughing ceased. Lord Ivran and his men looked down to the valley below in horrified shock, unable to move forward.
It was Captain Jamus that rushed ahead. He had dismounted and ran on foot, down the hill towards the smoking pile of rubble. Lord Ivran would have done the same but he did not share Captain Jamus’s curiosity- he knew the smell of burning flesh.
Captain Jamus rushed to the pyre and stood before its smoldering remains with eyes widened. Amongst the ashes and smoking dust and buzzing flies that were feeding upon the carcasses, he could faintly see the bones of the bodies that had been piled on top of each other and burned. He felt the sting of tears in his eyes and his legs suddenly gave out from underneath him. He fell to his knees and was barely aware of the cry of sorrow that escaped his lips. He cried out to the heavens, wondering how the Gods could allow this to happen.
It was Lord Ivran that pulled him to his feet and gently guided him away. He wrapped Captain Jamus in his arms an
d began leading him back up the hill.
Jamus barely heard through his own sobs Lord Ivran bark orders to his men to bury the bones of the victims then Lord Ivran leaned in close and whispered into Jamus’s ear; “we will get revenge for what has been done on this day. She will pay. They will all pay.”
Chapter 3
The sun had yet to peek over the horizon but already the city of Tyos was bathed in a warm blue light, making it seem as though the waters of the Blood Sea spilled over into the empty streets. The breeze blew the smell of the salt and the dampness of the ocean spray into the city, causing the rooftops to drip with moisture. Years of this had allowed for dark moss to grow upon the rooftops and wooden planked walls of all the shops and houses lining the streets. The dirt of the roads in Tyos was always muddy during the winter months, whether it had rained or snowed or was just overcast. But on this day, one of the last days of the lingering summer months, the streets were dry from the heat, sending little plumes of dust into the air whenever the dirt was disturbed.
It was the footsteps of Tybalt Latimer that sent the dry dust spiraling into the fresh, morning air. All was quiet and serene as he made his way through the empty streets- the way Tyos always was an hour before sunrise. The houses and villas he passed were dark and lifeless as the occupants inside slept. The shops and vendors that were so lively during the day were abandoned and seemed almost dreary as he passed, bathed in only the pre-morning dawn that filled the empty streets. The only sounds that could be heard at this hour were the occasional neighing of a horse off in the distance and the soft crunch of his own footsteps as he walked.
Over his shoulder, he carried a large knapsack filled with tobacco, the finest liquors that only the North produced, and sweets his wife had made for him and his crew. He could smell their sugary aroma as he hoisted the sack higher upon his shoulder and almost felt tempted to have a taste before greedy hands pilfered their way through them. He was not fond of the sugary flavors of candies or cakes, but when his wife was the one cooking them, his mouth would water at the first scent he got. She was known in town for her incredible ability to bake and everyone seemed to flock to their house whenever she was in the kitchen. Gods, I will miss that woman!
Shadows of Men (The Watchers Book 1) Page 3
