Soul Under the Mountain (Legend of Reason Series) by David J. Guyton
Authors: David J. Guyton
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The line of captured Medorans rang and clanged as all the men received similar blows to their armor. More and more Vindyri-actual Vindyri—showed up and surrounded them from all sides. Their number had swollen to about 30 men before two were sent away to inform the rest of the army about the Medorans they had captured.
Rommus knelt before a huge man wearing larger armor than the rest of them. His helmet bore a crest of horsehair, signifying his rank as an officer. His helmet hid most of his face, but a thick gray mustache could be seen inside framing his mouth and ending below his chin . Locks of wavy gray hair shot through with blonde streaks escaped from the rear of the helmet, landing on his broad, armored shoulders.
"A black sword, I see," the office r said, looking into Rommus's eyes. "You're too young and stupid to be the true owner of that sword. Has the previous owner died?"
"I don't know what you mean," Rommus replied.
"Yes you do, boy. I know whose sword that is. I have seen it before. Take off your helmet—that is, take off our helmet."
Rommus raised his hands to his head slowly, removing the helmet. Wide eyes and proud chuckles came from the curious Vindyri soldiers when they saw his face. They definitely knew who he was, and they knew they had captured a very valuable person. Rommus sighed and put his hands behind his head.
"Tirinius," the officer said. "You look just like him. It's like staring into the past. I have met your father many times on the battlefield. Surely Tannis has told you stories about the great Desmond Afornn."
Rommus leaned forward and spat at the ground. "Never heard of you."
The slight smile inside Desmond's helmet melted away. "No matter. He'll be reminded of my greatness soon enough. How did you get into the city?"
"We've been here throughout the entire occupation," Rommus lied. " We even helped build those walls over there on the north side."
"Do not take me for a fool, boy. There is a reason your father could never kill me. Now let's get down to business. You will answer me immediately after I ask my questions."
Rommus couldn't help but remember saying nearly the same sentence to men he had captured earlier in the evening. Here he was, on his knees, in much the same predicament. He hoped that he would not me et the same fate as those men, b ut regardless of how similar the situations were, Rommus knew he was in the right. He did not invade Vindyrion and sack a city. He didn't stage troops inside a foreign country in order to organize an assault on the people of that nation. In fact, the only battle he attended in recent memory was out on the Vindyri plains, fighting for the Vindyri against the Bhoors. It was the Vindyri who never showed up to that battle; instead marching into Medora and destroying the capital Brinn and her sister city Taburdum.
"Well?"
Rommus had been lost in thought and hadn't heard whatever Desmond asked. "What's that? I wasn't paying attention."
Desmond punched him—hard. "Do I have your attention now, little Tirinius? How many of you are there in here with us?"
Rommus could taste the blood oozing between his teeth. "500."
Another powerful fist wrecked his jaw, this time knocking him off his knees, into the air and on his back. He had never been hit so hard in his life. The world seemed all wobbly, and the only thing keeping him from thinking it was a dream was the horrible pain across his face. What he had first thought of as a somewhat portly , older man had turned out to be some kind of battle-hardened super warrior.
As he lay there on his back, staring at the bushes, he could just barely make out the shape of the lone Medoran soldier hiding inside them. Next to him was the captured Zeke. B oth men were completely still, and t he soldier was waiting for a command from Rommus ."
Desmond approached and stood over Rommus. "One last time, boy. How many of you are in here?"
Rommus exaggerated his daze, flipping his head back and forth in mock
Rommus knelt before a huge man wearing larger armor than the rest of them. His helmet bore a crest of horsehair, signifying his rank as an officer. His helmet hid most of his face, but a thick gray mustache could be seen inside framing his mouth and ending below his chin . Locks of wavy gray hair shot through with blonde streaks escaped from the rear of the helmet, landing on his broad, armored shoulders.
"A black sword, I see," the office r said, looking into Rommus's eyes. "You're too young and stupid to be the true owner of that sword. Has the previous owner died?"
"I don't know what you mean," Rommus replied.
"Yes you do, boy. I know whose sword that is. I have seen it before. Take off your helmet—that is, take off our helmet."
Rommus raised his hands to his head slowly, removing the helmet. Wide eyes and proud chuckles came from the curious Vindyri soldiers when they saw his face. They definitely knew who he was, and they knew they had captured a very valuable person. Rommus sighed and put his hands behind his head.
"Tirinius," the officer said. "You look just like him. It's like staring into the past. I have met your father many times on the battlefield. Surely Tannis has told you stories about the great Desmond Afornn."
Rommus leaned forward and spat at the ground. "Never heard of you."
The slight smile inside Desmond's helmet melted away. "No matter. He'll be reminded of my greatness soon enough. How did you get into the city?"
"We've been here throughout the entire occupation," Rommus lied. " We even helped build those walls over there on the north side."
"Do not take me for a fool, boy. There is a reason your father could never kill me. Now let's get down to business. You will answer me immediately after I ask my questions."
Rommus couldn't help but remember saying nearly the same sentence to men he had captured earlier in the evening. Here he was, on his knees, in much the same predicament. He hoped that he would not me et the same fate as those men, b ut regardless of how similar the situations were, Rommus knew he was in the right. He did not invade Vindyrion and sack a city. He didn't stage troops inside a foreign country in order to organize an assault on the people of that nation. In fact, the only battle he attended in recent memory was out on the Vindyri plains, fighting for the Vindyri against the Bhoors. It was the Vindyri who never showed up to that battle; instead marching into Medora and destroying the capital Brinn and her sister city Taburdum.
"Well?"
Rommus had been lost in thought and hadn't heard whatever Desmond asked. "What's that? I wasn't paying attention."
Desmond punched him—hard. "Do I have your attention now, little Tirinius? How many of you are there in here with us?"
Rommus could taste the blood oozing between his teeth. "500."
Another powerful fist wrecked his jaw, this time knocking him off his knees, into the air and on his back. He had never been hit so hard in his life. The world seemed all wobbly, and the only thing keeping him from thinking it was a dream was the horrible pain across his face. What he had first thought of as a somewhat portly , older man had turned out to be some kind of battle-hardened super warrior.
As he lay there on his back, staring at the bushes, he could just barely make out the shape of the lone Medoran soldier hiding inside them. Next to him was the captured Zeke. B oth men were completely still, and t he soldier was waiting for a command from Rommus ."
Desmond approached and stood over Rommus. "One last time, boy. How many of you are in here?"
Rommus exaggerated his daze, flipping his head back and forth in mock
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