Shadows of Men (The Watchers Book 1) (19 page)

              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.  Terryn’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.

              The cloaked man stood forward and removed his hood.  Terryn recognized him immediately.  The woman behind the King stood now too, her robes were cut low to reveal a large portion of her breasts and an opening in the front revealed her long, slender legs.  She smiled maliciously at Terryn as she peered down at him with hatred.

              “Lady Ashryn and her lover Zane.  I should have known!”  Terryn said their names with disdain.  He no longer felt afraid but was now filled with rage.  He found it difficult to look at the traitors.  “How could you betray us?”  He asked, not realizing that he spoke aloud.

              “
We
are not the betrayers.”  Lady Ashryn said as she walked around the bed and sat next to the King.  “And Protector Zane is not my lover.”  She reached a hand over and placed it gently on the King’s chest.  “I am faithful only to one man.”  She smiled again and King Firion turned his head and pressed his lips to hers.  Terryn watched with hatred and disgust as the King slid his tongue into her mouth and she moaned with pleasure. 

              After what seemed like hours of them kissing, King Firion finally pulled away and stood.  He walked to the brazier and placed the tip of his blade into the flames.  Protector Zane walked over to Terryn and without saying a word, pulled his jerkin open to reveal his chest.

              Terryn watched in horror as the King pulled his blade away from the flame and stepped in front of him.  Terryn’s eyes followed the tip of the sword, hoping the King only meant to frighten him with it.

              “Now then,” Firion said, holding the blade up high; “There are two ways we can do this.  You can tell me everything you and that traitor, Lord Ivran,” he said his name with a hiss, “have been plotting willingly or I can extract the information from you.”  Terryn sat frozen in terror.  He knew that he could not tell the King where Lord Ivran was hiding but he also knew how weak he was.  He was uncertain how much pain he could endure before the words spilled from his lips. 

              When Terryn said nothing, the tip of the blade was brought down to his chest and the sound of his flesh sizzling and the smell of it burning made him scream.  Then he felt the pain, cold at first but it quickly grew hot and he knew his skin was melting away.  Zane held his shoulders from behind, keeping him in one place and the King held the blade there longer than was necessary.  Terryn wriggled and writhed under Zane’s hold but could not escape.  He shouted and howled and begged the King to stop but Firion held the blade there until the tip no longer made his skin sizzle.  When he pulled it away, a hole in Terryn’s flesh was revealed and a stream of fresh blood began to trickle down his chest. 

              Terryn felt his eyes begin to water as he opened them again and looked from the King to Lady Ashryn.  She sat on the bed with a grin on her face.  He knew that she was enjoying this. 

              “I shall ask you again; what have you and Lord Ivran been plotting?  I must know how many are planning to attack and when.”  The King set his sword on the ground and grabbed his flagon of ale.  He took a sip but kept his eyes fixed on Terryn.  Terryn’s nostrils were filled with the scent of his burning flesh but he would not yield. 

              “I shall never tell!”  He hissed at the King and he spat at the ground next to Firion’s feet.

              King Firion shook his head in disappointment.  “Then you leave me no choice.”  He nodded to Zane and said; “He belongs to you now.  You may utilize the dungeons in Axendra.”

              Zane nodded, grasped Terryn tightly by the shoulders and pulled him to his feet.  As he was being ushered out of the tent, he looked back and saw Lady Ashryn place her hands on the King’s shoulders and begin kissing his neck.  The tent flap closed and Terryn was forced back into the dark of night.  The guards lifted him onto the back of a palfrey and with his hands still tied he grasped the horn of the saddle for balance.  Zane mounted his steed as well and Terryn noticed the two horses were tied together.  Five of the King’s guard mounted as well and soon they were on their way.

              An hour of riding in the stale, dark night passed before they reached the sleeping city.  They trotted slowly through the deserted streets of Axendra and Terryn was glad there was no one around to witness his incarceration.  Then the castle came into view.  It was a sight he dreaded more than seeing the King in his tent.  It loomed in the distance as a black wall against a black backdrop. 
I shall never escape those cold walls. 
He thought to himself as they made their way closer and closer.  He knew that once he entered those stone walls, he would not be leaving them.