Shadows of Men (The Watchers Book 1)

by M. Lee Holmes

  Fendrel stood motionless as he stared at the warm blood dripping from Terryn’s fingers. “We must work on your speed, my friend.” He said in a hushed tone. His green eyes sparkled in the morning sun as they traveled from Terryn’s wounded arm to his expression of pain. Terryn could not help but notice the hint of disappointment in Fendrel’s voice as he spoke. He realized Fendrel had expected him to be better at this by now and suddenly, every good feeling of his progressing skill vanished in a cloud of disgust towards himself. He looked down in shame and felt his shoulders slump. I will never learn to be a great warrior in time. He thought as he began to rub the sticky blood between his fingertips.

  Fendrel held up his blade and beckoned Terryn to try again. Terryn reluctantly held up his sword and rushed forward with a cry so loud, it could have encouraged the beginning of a war. Fendrel, stunned by this sudden outburst, jumped back, allowing Terryn to rush past him and bent on one knee to slice at the back of Terryn’s leg. He did not allow the steel of his blade to cut too deeply, but he knew it was important for Terryn to feel the pain of his error- to remember during battle the same mistake would be far more agonizing.

  Terryn cried out, dropped to his knees and allowed his blade to fall to the ground. He grasped at his bleeding leg and looked up to Fendrel with horrified eyes.

  “Must you actually cut me?” He asked through angered breaths. Fendrel merely nodded.

  “It is vital that you know and get used to the sting of a sword. The more you feel during training, the less you will fear in battle.” Terryn was skeptical as to the truth of Fendrel’s words but gathered his courage nonetheless and rose back to his feet, pulling his sword up with him and wiping the blood from his hands onto his pant leg.

  “The more you bleed the more battle-ready you will become.” Fendrel said with a smile. He said this to relieve some of Terryn’s anger. “Pain is a part of war. You cannot have one without the other. The sooner you realize this, the sooner you will stop fearing the instrument of death you hold in your hands and you will start to understand how to inflict it upon your enemies. The secret to being a true warrior is to forget the pain- do not fear it, embrace it and let it become a part of you. Then, my friend, you will learn the true art of battle; fighting until either death takes you or your enemies lie at your feet.

  ‘Most do not fear death; it being a natural part of living; they fear the conditions of death- the pain of death. Getting over your fear of pain means getting over your fear of death, and in doing so, you become immortal. You hold in your hands the key to being the greatest warrior ever to dance upon the battlefield. And if death so happens to find you there, you will be ready.” Fendrel placed a hand upon Terryn’s shoulder, smiling at his now furrowed brow.

  “It is easy to talk about getting over the fear of pain and death, but doing so is much more difficult.”

  Fendrel chuckled and nodded. “You are correct about that my friend.”

  After several more hours of relentlessly striking at the training dummy, Fendrel finally told Terryn to take a break. They trudged back to the tavern together and sat in a well-lit corner, waiting for the serving wench to come by.

  After they ordered pork and ale, Terryn slouched back into his seat and sighed with frustration. Fendrel raised an eyebrow at him and asked; “is something troubling you?”

  “I do not seem to be catching on as quickly as I had hoped.” He complained.

  Fendrel waited until the serving wench set their food and ale down and walked away before replying. “And exactly how long did you expect it to take?” He lifted his flagon and took a long drink without taking his eyes off Terryn.

  “I do not know.” He admitted after a moment. “I just thought somehow I would be… better.” He frowned and Fendrel smiled.

  “Do not get discouraged, my friend. You are doing quite well.” Terryn scowled at these words.

  “Do not try to make me feel better. I know that I am clumsy and slow and not equipped to fight in battles.” He grabbed his flagon of ale angrily, causing a little to splash out the top and land on his shirt. He took a long, hard swig and slammed the mug back down. Suddenly, he felt the urge to give up. It was clear to him that he would never be as good a warrior as Fendrel and if he tried to fight in the battle that was to come, he knew he was destined to die.

  “Do not be so hard on yourself.” Fendrel continued. “You are trying to learn in a few weeks what it takes most to learn in several years. I myself began my practice with the blade at age eleven. Since the day of my eleventh birthday, I have had a sword in hand. I am never separated from it. You may not have time to learn everything but we can teach you the basics. I’d say we need to work on your speed and your defensive skills and the rest shall come to you.”

  Terryn felt his tense muscles loosening at these words. He did not know why he assumed when Fendrel first picked up a sword, he was instantly a hardened warrior ready for battle. What Fendrel said to him made sense. Even the High Protector had two years of training before she took over Viktor’s position.

  “Forgive me for acting childish.” He begged Fendrel.

  Fendrel waved a hand in the air and smiled. “It is easy to get discouraged. I cannot tell you how many times I thought of abandoning my sword and running away.” He chuckled at himself as the memories of his childhood came flooding back. All the training and hard work his father had pushed him through made him despise the sword in his teenage years and more than once he was caught trying to slip away during the night.

  When the last of their food and ale was gone, they slowly stood and made their way back to the training grounds. The sun was passing midday, making the air feel stale with heat. Terryn picked up his sword where he had left it and Fendrel did the same.

  Without warning, Fendrel spun with blade in hand and tried to strike Terryn down. Instinctively and with a speed Terryn did not know he possessed, he raised his blade in defense and blocked the oncoming blow. Fendrel swung again, turning his blade the other way and Terryn pulled his sword to the left, blocking the blow once more. He ducked, held his blade overhead and blocked Fendrel a third time. Before Fendrel could counter again, he stood tall and swung his blade with force. He felt the tip of his sword slice through Fendrel’s flesh and he cried out in surprise at his own deftness.

  Fendrel lowered his sword and stepped back a few paces. He looked down to the red stream of blood that flowed from his arm and smiled.

  “You see?” He asked, looking back up to Terryn with pride. “You overthink everything. When you let your instincts take over, the warrior in you comes through.”

  Terryn smiled excitedly. He did not know he had it in him to fight off Fendrel. Perhaps I will have a fighting chance when the battle begins.

  “Are you hurt badly?” Terryn asked once his excitement wore away. Fendrel laughed and patted Terryn lightly on the shoulder.

  “No, friend. I have suffered much worse than this, believe me.”

  “I believe you.”

  Terryn turned to set his sword against the weapon rack, knowing they were done for the day, and stopped suddenly, frozen in fear. Fendrel, who still held onto Terryn’s shoulder, stopped as well and grasped tightly to Terryn’s tunic. They stood motionless and stared at the men who surrounded them. There were at least twenty; all dressed in the King’s guard chainmail, with red undershirts and red cloaks- the color of Axendra. All had swords in their hands, unsheathed and glistening in the afternoon sun. They stood blocking every exit of the training grounds.

  Finally, Fendrel gathered the courage to speak. “What is the meaning of this?” He asked with a fierce voice. Only Terryn could hear the soft tremble of fear when he spoke and it sent a wave of panic throughout his body.

  “You are both under arrest. Drop your weapons and kneel before the King’s guard.” A tall man across from Fendrel said. He had round, hazel eyes and dirt colored hair, with what appeared to be the attempts at growing a beard protruding from his chin. Terryn recognized him at once. His name wa
s Theodoric Tholy and he stood in Mayvard’s place as Captain when Mayvard was indisposed. Theodoric shot an angry glance towards Terryn and he knew then there would be no escaping. The Captain recognized Terryn as well and would certainly tell the King what he had been doing with his time away from the castle.

  “For what reason are we being arrested?” Fendrel’s voice became harsher, filled with anger, but Terryn could hear the fear there, masked behind the booming strength of his courage.

  “Treason.” Was all Captain Theodoric said and he motioned for his men to move forward.

  Terryn could feel himself begin to shake. It is happening! My nightmares are coming true! He wailed and dropped his sword by his side- all the warrior’s confidence he was beginning to feel had fled. He fell to his knees in panic and could not help the tears that rolled down his cheeks.

  Fendrel, however, would not give up so easily. Instead of dropping his sword, he raised it above his head and waited for the first guard to come close. He swung his blade and the guard ducked away. Another man moved behind Fendrel and swung at him but he ducked and swung his blade in defense.

  “Seize the fool!” The captain shouted and the entire King’s guard rushed forward. Three men surrounded Fendrel and he stood poised for attack, panting with anger. He swung at them but all of them deflected his blows easily.

  Terryn, knowing that his friend stood no chance against so many, gathered his courage and grasped tightly to the sword he had dropped. He gave an angry shout as he rushed forward, trying to strike at any man who was in his way. His sword was quickly knocked from his hands and he felt a swift kick hit him in the back, causing him to fall forward.

  Fendrel rushed forward, striking at the King’s guard with anger. His blade slashed through one man’s arm and another man’s leg but he failed to cut any of them down.

  One of the guards rushed forward and thrust his blade deep into Fendrel’s leg. He cried out in pain and fell to the ground, dropping his sword into the dirt. Terryn cried out as another guard thrust his blade into Fendrel’s chest. He pulled the blade quickly out, sending a spurt of blood into the air.

  Fendrel swayed and fell forward. He lay motionless in the dirt and Terryn shook as he stared at his friend’s lifeless body. Finally he stood, raced towards Fendrel but was grabbed by one of the guards and forced to his knees.

  A large man in bright chainmail stepped in front of him and raised his blade, laying the tip of his sword at Terryn’s chest. This is it. I am going to die here, today. He closed his eyes and braced for the pain that was to be expected when being stabbed in the chest, when suddenly the Captain shouted; “Stop!”

  Terryn opened his eyes and the guard standing before him lowered his sword and stepped away.

  “The King has specifically asked for us to bring this man back alive.” With that, Terryn’s hands were pulled behind his back and tied together with a thick rope. His mouth was gagged and his blade was kicked aside as he was forced to his feet and marched from the training ground.

  As he was pulled away, he looked back one last time to Fendrel’s body lying in the dirt. His heart pounded with grief for his dead friend but once he was no longer in sight, his heart began to pound with fright for what his future held. The King had commanded Theodoric to deliver Terryn to him, which meant the King already knew of Terryn’s betrayal and was waiting for his arrival. The King would have a harsh punishment planned for Terryn- that much he was certain of. I wish I could trade places with Fendrel. He thought as he was marched through the streets of Mordrid. Death is certainly preferable to what I am about to endure.

  It was nightfall before they reached the camp. Terryn’s hands had swelled from the tight ropes holding them together and he could no longer feel his fingertips. He had been gagged, causing his mouth to dry and leaving the desire for water lingering upon his tongue. Never before had he wanted a drink so badly in all his life. His eyes were left uncovered so he may see where he was stepping. His captors had taken him out of Mordrid and down a trail Terryn did not know existed. Where it led, he could not say. All he knew was that he was closer to Axendra than he wanted to be.

  They came across the main road that led to the gates of Axendra but instead of heading into the city, they crossed the road and continued on the trail. It wasn’t until the edge of the Forest of Shadows came into view that Terryn’s heart began to pound wildly in his chest. He could feel the panicked pulse of it throbbing in his hands and tried to wriggle them loose but to no avail.

  All at once, the procession stopped. Terryn arched his neck to look forward and saw a man standing in the center of the path. He was tall and wore boiled leather stained black. His arms he held loosely in front of him and Terryn noticed the sword dangling from his belt. A cloak was draped over his face and shoulders, blocking his eyes from view but Terryn thought for a moment he recognized the dark beard protruding from his chin.

  “You are late.” He said to Captain Theodoric and he spun around quickly and the captain followed. Terryn felt a push from behind and knew they were to continue walking.

  Darkness surrounded them as they made their way through the dense forest. The tips of the trees could barely be seen over the black horizon. Terryn felt a chill run up his spine and he focused his eyes ahead of him, remembering the last time he had stepped foot in the forest. He did not wish to see another pair of eyes peering out at him from underneath the bushes. Instead, he looked to the torchlight that lit their path and followed his captors in silence. Why are they taking me to the forest? He wondered. Do they mean to leave me here with the wild beasts?

  An hour of silently walking through the dark went by before they spotted firelight in the distance. Terryn craned his neck to see, but the only thing visible was an orange glow through the trees. He focused his eyes ahead of him and took a deep breath to try and calm his rapidly beating heart. If his hands hadn’t been so tightly bound, he knew they would be shaking. He closed his eyes, trying to remember Fendrel’s advice about not being afraid of death but his words were a distant memory that had died with Fendrel. Instead, he saw the face of the King behind his closed lids. He looked down at him from his throne with the same burning hatred in his eyes they held in Terryn’s nightmares. But how does the King know? He could not stop asking himself this question. It does not matter. One way or another I shall die soon; whether it is tonight or some other night in the near future; I can feel it. Death is a cold hand. I feel its icy grip reaching out for me. He shivered involuntarily.

  As the hidden camp came into view and began to take shape, Terryn tried to slow his pace. His breathing became heavier and he felt as though his heart would leap right out of his chest. The guard behind noticed his slowed pace and placed a sturdy hand on his back and pushed him forward. Terryn let out a surprised yell and nearly lost his footing.

  Though the camp was small, it was filled with most of the King’s guard. Some sat around a large fire pit, talking and laughing while others sat at the opening of their tents or stood aside so his captors could escort him through the winding tents. Finally, they came upon a tent Terryn recognized. It was the largest of them all and unlike the guards’ tents- which were all white- this tent was stitched with red and gold threads and pitched with heavy, wooden poles so it would not sway in the wind. Inside were luxuries even most peasants lived without- Terryn knew the King never traveled without them.

  He froze in fear outside, knowing that King Firion sat inside waiting for him. He could feel his body begin to shake all over and refused to step forward. Two guards grabbed his arms and pushed him inside then threw him down to his knees and removed the gag from his mouth.

  He gasped for breath but found it difficult to find any in the smoke filled tent. His knees burned from being thrust into the hard ground and dust from the dry dirt was pushed upward and filled his nostrils. A small fire was cackling in the corner. The smoke rising from the tips of the flames touched the roof of the tent and was pushed back to the ground like a thick blanket of ash. Terry
n’s fear kept his eyes focused on the flames. He could not find the courage to look up at the menacing eyes he knew peered down at him from the bed. He held his hands together, trying his best to stop them from shaking. His heart beat even faster than before and he began to feel faint.

  Courage. He closed his eyes and focused on the word. I will need courage. My fate is sealed. Pain and torture await me but I must not yield. I shall not yield for my friends. His mind wondered to his friend that was now dead. They will all suffer the same fate if I give in.

  Taking as deep a breath as was possible in the smoke-filled tent; Terryn opened his eyes and looked up at the King. He sat at the edge of his bed, flagon of ale in one hand, long sword in the other. His crown had been tossed carelessly to the ground beneath his feet and his hair was in disarray. A woman in red robes sat behind him, keeping her face hidden and the cloaked man that found them on the road walked to the edge of the bed and stood facing Terryn.

  The King motioned for the guards to wait outside and they obeyed with a bow. King Firion took a long drink of ale and when he pulled the flagon away he smiled. It was not a friendly smile Terryn saw on his face; it was a smile of victory.

  “I am very disappointed in you Terryn- very disappointed indeed.” When he spoke, his voice was soft and barely above a whisper. “It pains me to know that my very own servant, whom I have always considered a loyal subject, thinks he can betray me.” The King’s smile vanished and his eyes narrowed. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  Terryn cleared the lump in his throat but still found it difficult to speak. He knew he had been caught. He knew the King was aware of what he had been doing in Mordrid. He must have had someone following me. But who? He looked to the woman sitting behind the King but still could not see her face. His eyes wandered to the cloaked man and knew it must have been him; the same cloaked figure that had eavesdropped at Lord Ivran’s door and ran from his pursuit. Terryn looked back to the King and spoke with forced courage; “You had me followed.” He said it more as an observation than a question.