the
Guardians would have soon turned against the presence of the son of
Skyrgal at the Fortress. They would have conspired against him too
if he had failed to agree immediately with their side. Some were
idiots enough to do so, and talkative enough to convince the other
ones to do it. They would never accept that blasphemy among them.
He could ask them to be quiet about it, but soon, he realized that
no agreement could ever prevent a Guardian to speak with complete
freedom with his blood brothers, with whom they shared life, war,
and death.
At the end of the fourth day’s march, the
wind got weaker. The Pendracon decided to camp for the night saying
that the worst part was over. Now they could proceed with more
calm. After the horror they had witnessed, and the fatigue of the
long march, his men were heartened by the idea of finally being
able to sleep in the shelter of their tents. They decided guard
duty with a draw of straws and, to set a good example, Hammoth made
himself available. When he was roused in the middle of the night by
the hand of the watchman who preceded him, he realized that the
dreadful hour had come. He waited until they were all asleep. Then
he drew his sword. He chose to start from the most faithful among
them: Worton, his old instructor, who provided him with all his
knowledge and made him the man he had become. The same who had the
honor of pulling his eye out when the Council had elected Hammoth
Pendracon of the Guardians. He closed his lips with his hand and
slid the blade along the neck, choking his short and mute surprise.
There ended his humanity. Once he found the courage to begin it,
that task got easier. He delivered to death his chosen Guardians,
men and women who had offered to his service the best years of
their life and unquestioned loyalty. Throat after throat, tearing
jugular veins and carotid arteries, he got to the last one, the
youngest.
Hammoth realized he was not sleeping. He
had watched everything in silence, waiting for his turn with
maniacal discipline. He did not scream. He did not tremble. He just
nodded and, with his last words, he said, “Do it, my King. It is
the right thing to do. A secret is worth a thousand
explanations.”
The Pendracon bowed his face and closed his
eyes. He put his sword against his throat and leaned with all his
weight against the handle. The boy died with dignity. His blood,
still warm, soaked into the sand, turning the camp into a quagmire
where his brothers’ corpses were already resting in their eternal
sleep. He turned. Aniah was awake and held the child in her arms,
looking at him. She said nothing.
The Pendracon rose with a bloody punch of
sand in his hand and threw it in her face, then took another and
pressed it against his lips, sucking the blood of his loyalists.
“May the shame of this night and your sins remain forever within
us! Eat! Eat the consequences of your actions, bitch!”
The storm ended completely on the fifth day
of march. They continued to move forward on that one, old road that
ran through the desert. He began to think things would get better
when he saw the dry land shaking its mantle of sand off. With
another day of march, the earth was dressed with a shy and
suffering vegetation. Soon they found themselves crossing the
central plain of Candehel-mas, marching past crumbling farmhouses,
empty barns and low, white stone fences, which didn’t seem to
protect anything; that land was stubbornly arid. The poor and dirty
peasants bowed as they passed, the children flocked barefoot and
saluted with their bony hands. But not the animals. The dogs
snarled, hurting themselves against the rusty chains in the attempt
to reach them. The birds in the sky, in turmoil, deafened them with
their screeching. Soon the farmers stopped bowing, looking wary.
Hammoth took the woman on, his face still, unmoved. On the seventh
day, he saw a mountain rising against the red sky and breathed a
sigh of relief. They were home, no matter what they had
Guardians would have soon turned against the presence of the son of
Skyrgal at the Fortress. They would have conspired against him too
if he had failed to agree immediately with their side. Some were
idiots enough to do so, and talkative enough to convince the other
ones to do it. They would never accept that blasphemy among them.
He could ask them to be quiet about it, but soon, he realized that
no agreement could ever prevent a Guardian to speak with complete
freedom with his blood brothers, with whom they shared life, war,
and death.
At the end of the fourth day’s march, the
wind got weaker. The Pendracon decided to camp for the night saying
that the worst part was over. Now they could proceed with more
calm. After the horror they had witnessed, and the fatigue of the
long march, his men were heartened by the idea of finally being
able to sleep in the shelter of their tents. They decided guard
duty with a draw of straws and, to set a good example, Hammoth made
himself available. When he was roused in the middle of the night by
the hand of the watchman who preceded him, he realized that the
dreadful hour had come. He waited until they were all asleep. Then
he drew his sword. He chose to start from the most faithful among
them: Worton, his old instructor, who provided him with all his
knowledge and made him the man he had become. The same who had the
honor of pulling his eye out when the Council had elected Hammoth
Pendracon of the Guardians. He closed his lips with his hand and
slid the blade along the neck, choking his short and mute surprise.
There ended his humanity. Once he found the courage to begin it,
that task got easier. He delivered to death his chosen Guardians,
men and women who had offered to his service the best years of
their life and unquestioned loyalty. Throat after throat, tearing
jugular veins and carotid arteries, he got to the last one, the
youngest.
Hammoth realized he was not sleeping. He
had watched everything in silence, waiting for his turn with
maniacal discipline. He did not scream. He did not tremble. He just
nodded and, with his last words, he said, “Do it, my King. It is
the right thing to do. A secret is worth a thousand
explanations.”
The Pendracon bowed his face and closed his
eyes. He put his sword against his throat and leaned with all his
weight against the handle. The boy died with dignity. His blood,
still warm, soaked into the sand, turning the camp into a quagmire
where his brothers’ corpses were already resting in their eternal
sleep. He turned. Aniah was awake and held the child in her arms,
looking at him. She said nothing.
The Pendracon rose with a bloody punch of
sand in his hand and threw it in her face, then took another and
pressed it against his lips, sucking the blood of his loyalists.
“May the shame of this night and your sins remain forever within
us! Eat! Eat the consequences of your actions, bitch!”
The storm ended completely on the fifth day
of march. They continued to move forward on that one, old road that
ran through the desert. He began to think things would get better
when he saw the dry land shaking its mantle of sand off. With
another day of march, the earth was dressed with a shy and
suffering vegetation. Soon they found themselves crossing the
central plain of Candehel-mas, marching past crumbling farmhouses,
empty barns and low, white stone fences, which didn’t seem to
protect anything; that land was stubbornly arid. The poor and dirty
peasants bowed as they passed, the children flocked barefoot and
saluted with their bony hands. But not the animals. The dogs
snarled, hurting themselves against the rusty chains in the attempt
to reach them. The birds in the sky, in turmoil, deafened them with
their screeching. Soon the farmers stopped bowing, looking wary.
Hammoth took the woman on, his face still, unmoved. On the seventh
day, he saw a mountain rising against the red sky and breathed a
sigh of relief. They were home, no matter what they had
Similar Books
