Shadows of Men (The Watchers Book 1) (18 page)

              When the morning light reached her eyes, Rhada gently shook Mayvard awake.  Knowing they did not have enough food for breakfast, they gathered their things and mounted their horses.  Rhada’s horse was more willing to walk through the bog after a night of rest and she was glad for that.  She barely had to lead him as he made his way slowly through the water.  He walked easily through the murky pools without any more problems. Rhada, still damp from her fall into the bog water, pulled the blanket that was wrapped around her shoulders up farther, wishing to shield herself from the cold of the fog. 

              She focused her attention ahead, never letting her curious eyes wander to the fog that surrounded them.  She could feel Bloodbinder’s uneasiness as they trudged on- its light pulsing was sending waves of panic through her and with each, grim step her horse took, the anxiety within her grew.  She touched the hilt of Bloodbinder gently, hoping to reassure the sword nothing was wrong.  But the sword was not something that could be argued with.  When it sensed danger, danger was imminent. 

              “Mayvard.”  Rhada whispered, pulling on the reins and stopping her horse. 

              Mayvard stopped his horse as well and was alarmed when he spun around in his saddle and saw Rhada holding the hilt of her sword and peering into the fog. 

              Mayvard prided himself on being a brave man; never afraid to rush into the fray head-first.  He never feared battle or the prospect of possible death, but there was something about the look in Rhada’s eyes and the way she held tightly to the magical sword that caused his heart to sink deeply into the pit of his stomach.  He could feel his heart twisting and writhing in fear as he slowly pulled Bel’dak free of its scabbard.

              Rhada unsheathed Bloodbinder and held fast to the sword, listening intently to its warning.  She knew something was out there, watching them from a distance.  She wondered if whatever was stalking them was afraid to come after them, or if it simply watched from curiosity. 

              Mayvard turned his horse and pushed him forward so that he was standing parallel to Rhada’s. 

              “What is it?”  He whispered back, ready to attack on command. 

              Rhada merely shook her head.  “I see nothing.”  She said.  She turned her head and looked to the fog from behind and when she did this, Bloodbinder screamed in her ears. 

              “Stay here.”  Rhada commanded as she dismounted and began running in the direction the sword guided her.  She was barely aware of Mayvard shouting after her as she disappeared into the fog. 

              Rhada slowed her pace to a walk and stepped carefully through the mist and over pools of water; she did not wish to fall into the bog again.  She held Bloodbinder up; ready to strike at anything that might jump at her.  But suddenly, she somehow knew there was nothing in the bog that
could
attack.  She felt it as she came closer to whatever Bloodbinder was leading her to.  It was the reason she left Mayvard behind.  She knew she would find something in the mist ahead but did not want Mayvard’s eyes to witness whatever it was. 

              As the object she hunted came into view, Rhada stopped suddenly, sucking in small bits of air through her teeth and lowering Bloodbinder to her side.  She examined the scene before her with widened eyes, trying to contemplate what it all meant.

              A ring of stones had been set between two large pools of water.  Inside the ring lay a pile of discarded bones amongst the black soot of a once burning fire.  Rhada stepped inside the ring of stones and knelt beside the bones.  She could see, as plainly as though they were still alive, the bones were human.  Their skulls portrayed the frightened screams of their faces, contorted in agony and charred from the flames that had consumed them.  Rhada examined the skeletons carefully, counting thirty in total and discovering each leg of every skeleton had been broken. 

              The grisly scene that had taken place formed in her mind’s eye.  Thirty terrified captives, crying and fighting whoever was holding them- the swing of a club as it smashed apart the shin- the roaring of the flames as the now helpless and lame victims were cast in.  The flames rising high into the night sky as they consumed flesh and hair and blood and bones.  She could hear their blood sizzling upon the coals; she could see their flesh as it melted away from their screaming skulls.

              Rhada was suddenly aware of her rapidly beating heart.  She stood up tall and looked around, hoping she would not find someone standing amidst the fog, watching her.  Bloodbinder had reduced its warning to a light buzzing and Rhada knew then that she was alone. 

              It was difficult to tell how long ago this shrine of sacrifice had been built.  There was no evidence of footprints or anything that could tell her where they had come from.  The dirt surrounding the ring was undisturbed. 

              She had read about the Shadow Cults in the history books.  She knew they had often made sacrifices to the Demon God they worshipped, the God that was said to have gifted Amag’mar with his potent powers, but she could not be certain that this shrine was made by them, nor could she discern how long ago it had been made.  The Shadow Cult had died with Amag’mar, hundreds of years ago.  But as Rhada looked down to the pile of death at her feet, she knew these bones could not have been that old. 

             
A misguided group, copying the Shadow Cult’s practices perhaps? 
There was no other explanation she could think of. 

              Suddenly, she heard the sound of footsteps approaching.  She turned and rushed towards Mayvard, hoping to stop him before he witnessed what she had just seen.

              “There you are.”  He said in a panicked voice as she came into view.  “I was beginning to worry.  Did you find anything?”

              Rhada shook her head.  “No.  Nothing.”  She walked past him and towards her horse, sheathing Bloodbinder once again and trying to shake away the image of the shrine that lay only a few feet away, hidden in the mist. 

              Mayvard mounted his horse and put his sword away as well.  As Rhada led the way, he turned his head and looked back in the direction she had come, knowing full well she had found something there and was unwilling to share her discovery.  The uneasiness growing inside him made him shudder. 
If Rhada will not speak of it, it must be something truly horrific. 
The anxiety of not knowing what lay beyond the fog was worse, he imagined, than actually knowing what it was. 

              That night they camped underneath a full moon.  Rhada could see its ghost hovering above their heads, trying to burst through the cloud of fog unsuccessfully.  She watched it with trepidation, wishing she had some tobacco left to stave off the memory of the pile of charred death she had left behind. 

              Mayvard sat before her, carefully pulling away the cloth he had wrapped her shoulders in and examining her wounds. 

              “They are still swollen but less so than before.”  She thought she saw a slight smile appear on his lips as he delivered this news to her.

              “They are less painful as well, except for my new bruise.  But I suppose that will heal quicker than the rest.”  She said, pulling her leathers back into place as he leaned away.

              “I’m not ashamed to admit that I was quite afraid for you.”  He said.  Rhada could see his face- bathed in the blue light of the moon- soften as he spoke these words.  His long dark hair, which was pulled behind him by a leather strap, had come loose around his face and shrouded his countenance from her view.  It was his lips that gave away the relief he was feeling.  As he examined her shoulders, they had been pursed and frowning with worry.  Now, they curled about at the corners and smiled.  She saw so much of his father in Mayvard’s appearance just then.  He was, perhaps, handsomer than his father had been but nearly a perfect mirror image of Natharian.

              “I am not ashamed to admit that I was worried for myself.”  She replied.  The fear of being torn apart by the massive wolf had not entirely worn away yet.  She could still see its black eyes gazing down at her, its prey.  She could hear the snarl of its victory as its teeth bared and aimed for her neck.  She reached a hand up and began rubbing at her throat, aware of how close she had come to not having one. 

              “I am beginning to think perhaps we should have brought more men with us.”  Mayvard said, pulling the leather strap from his hair and grasping the fly-away strands dangling in his eyes.  He ran his fingers through them, pulling them back with the rest of his hair and resetting the strap.

              “Perhaps you are right.”  Rhada agreed.  She wished Myranda’s vision had included how difficult their journey was to be so she could have been better prepared.  Of course, Rhada knew most of the blame was to be placed upon her own shoulders.  If she had just been brave and taken the road through South Fort, they would not have been attacked by ghost wolves, her shoulders would not be burning from pain, and they would not be lost in the bog. 

             
But something tells me I needed to see the sacrificial shrine hidden in the depths of the Forest of the Dead. 
She got the feeling it was somehow connected to the events in Tyos, and it was a feeling she wished she could be rid of. 

              Sleep eluded her that night.  She sat hunched from the weight of her exhaustion.  Her tired yet open eyes spent the night scanning the fog for anything out of the ordinary.  The only bit of comfort she had was the fact that Bloodbinder remained silent all through the night and the sound of Mayvard’s soft snoring; telling her at least one of them would be well rested in the morning.

Chapter 15

T
he sun was shining brilliantly as Terryn stepped out of the inn and into the hopeful day that lay before him.  He smiled and took a deep breath of fresh morning air before beginning his trek through Mordrid to the training grounds.

              It was his second week of training and Terryn, though still awkward and shy around the sword, was learning faster than he ever imagined he could.  He had followed Protector Fendrel’s advice carefully, doing exactly what the man from South Fort instructed, and was thankful he had such a marvelous teacher to guide his way. 

When he arrived, he found Fendrel patiently waiting for him.  He smiled warmly at Terryn and held out a sparring sword for him to take.  Terryn reached out and grasped the hilt tightly, trying his hardest not to drop it. 

              He had almost grown accustomed to the weight of the blade.  The pain in his arms from swinging the heavy thing at the training dummy was already fading and he felt his grip becoming stronger.  He smiled as he held the blade up into the morning light.  He no longer feared the weapon he held but felt as though it was becoming a part of him.

              “Today we will practice together.”  Fendrel said and he unsheathed his own blade, turned towards Terryn and held it up in a defensive pose.  “I shall let you strike first.”

              Terryn grasped the hilt tightly with both hands and held the blade out before him, ready to strike.  He studied his opponent, like Fendrel had taught him to do, but realized he could not read the expression on Fendrel’s face.  He knew he would not be able to predict Fendrel’s moves.  He had never fought against an actual person before and Fendrel was quick on his feet.  He had witnessed the speed with which Fendrel struck the wooden dummy.  Even if the dummy had been a real person, he was certain it would stand no chance against him.

              Terryn, knowing that the longer he stood in contemplation, the more frightened he would become, took a deep breath and rushed forward, swinging his sword ferociously and with a bit too much fervor.   

              Fendrel blocked Terryn’s strike easily with his blade, spun and kicked the back of Terryn’s knee, knocking him off his feet and to the ground.  Terryn cried out in surprise as the sword flew from his hands and his face hit the dirt.

              From behind, he could hear Fendrel silently chuckling to himself.  “Perhaps we should start with defense.”  He said as he bent low to help Terryn stand. 

              Terryn quickly brushed the dirt from his clothes then bent down to pick up his sword.  “Let me try again.”  He said.

              Fendrel nodded, held up his sword in defense and waited for Terryn to make his move.  This time, Terryn swung his blade low and aimed for Fendrel’s leg.  Fendrel jerked his hand down swiftly and blocked Terryn’s blow then slashed his blade quickly to the side, making Terryn cry out in pain.  Once again his sword flew from his hand and he reached up to his arm where he felt the steel of Fendrel’s sword slice through his delicate skin.  When he pulled his hand away, it was red with blood. 

              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 was 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.