Shadows of Men (The Watchers Book 1) (4 page)

              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 only 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.