Shadows of Men (The Watchers Book 1)

by M. Lee Holmes

  “Would you like to tell me what your vision was about this time?” Valindra asked, knowing Myranda always felt relieved to unload the burden of her visions onto someone else.

  Valindra was surprised by the tears that appeared behind Myranda’s eyes. “It was about Mayvard.” She said. Her hands dropped down to her sides and her chin began quivering.

  “What has happened to him?” Valindra asked, feeling her heart begin to throb at the thought that he could have fallen into trouble. Though Valindra had only spoken to the man on a few occasions, she had been impressed by his kindness and he made Myranda happier than Valindra had ever seen. This was enough for her to hold him in the highest regard.

  “I was standing in the chapel, dressed in white, flowers about my hair and a vale shrouding my tormented face. I was there alone. No one had come- no one would come. Mayvard was gone.” Myranda’s tears began streaming down her face and Valindra, in her sympathy for the Sorceress, leaned forward and wrapped her into an embrace, allowing her to cry upon her shoulder. Valindra’s dress was low, leaving the skin of her shoulders bare which were now being showered with Myranda’s sorrow.

  “He will return.” She said. “Your wedding will be beautiful.” Valindra, however, doubted her own words. Myranda’s visions were never wrong, and if her vision was right this time, there would not be a wedding.

  Just then, a soft knock came at the door and Myranda sighed with relief as Valindra jumped to her feet, ran to the door and hastily pulled it open to reveal Derrick Evardin, the castle’s potion master. He was an ancient man, to say the least. His long, white and gray hair fell about his shoulders in thin wisps that looked as though they would fall out with the slightest of breezes. His eyes were two sunken dots that barely showed any life behind them. His face was wrinkled with age and hanging off the bones as though it had been pulled loose. His back was bent with the weight of the years of his life and made him walk with a hunched gait. His long, gray robe hung loosely about him, suggesting that at one point in his life it had fit, but as age had begun to tear away at his strength and form, the robes grew larger. His arms, which were the only part of him besides his head that was visible beyond the robe, were covered in dark spots and shook with a slight quivering.

  He shuffled his way across the room to where Myranda sat and stood before her, looking down to her with pity. In his shaky hand was a vial of green and brown liquid, swirling together to form a most unappetizing appearance.

  “Lady Sorceress, this tonic should help with the pain.” He handed her the vial and Myranda drank it quickly without asking what it was made of. She did not wish to allow the taste to linger on her tongue either; she knew from experience what Derrick’s tonics tasted like. The liquid poured down her throat like thick oil, almost making her gag. She swallowed, keeping the liquid down, not wanting to waste any bit of it in hopes that it would rid her of her throbbing head.

  The Potion Master and Valindra stood in silent anticipation as they watched Myranda, waiting to see if there was any change in how she felt.

  Myranda blinked for a moment, wondering why her vision seemed to blur. Her eyes fluttered opened and closed and with one swift movement, she fell forward out of her chair, unconscious. Valindra let out a surprised shout as she leaned forward and caught Myranda just before she hit the ground.

  “Is that supposed to happen?” She asked the potion master with concern. She tapped Myranda lightly on the cheek but there was no motion from her.

  “Oh my.” The old man said as he stroked his long beard and looked down to the unconscious Sorceress. “I must have mixed the sleeping potion with the pain remedy again.”

  “Again?” Valindra asked irritated. She looked to the potion master as though he was losing his mind.

  “Lay her on the bed. She will wake in a few hours.” Valindra dragged Myranda to the large oak bed in the center of the room and the potion master helped her lift the Sorceress with a most unpleasing groan of anguish. Valindra cringed as she heard Derrick’s bones crack as he bent even lower to grasp Myranda by the legs, and then crack as he tried to straighten to lift her.

  “She will be alright.” He said after leaning down and listening to make certain she was still breathing. “Perhaps rest is exactly what she needs for her headache.”

  “I hope you are right.” Valindra replied with trepidation.

  After the potion master left, Valindra walked to a small shelf in the corner of the room, lifted a book she had started reading a few days ago and walked to the sun chair, opening the shutters to let in a little light to read by.

  I will just stay here until she wakes. Someone needs to make certain she does wake.

  Several hours later, Myranda sat bolt upright in bed. She screamed loudly, making Valindra jump from her chair. Her book, which had fallen to her chest as she had drifted into a deep sleep, fell to the floor with a thud, its pages flapping like wings on its way down. She ran to Myranda’s side and gently grabbed her hand.

  “What is it?” She asked concernedly.

  Myranda seemed to take notice of the maid for the first time. She turned her head slightly and peered down at the young girl with frightened eyes. She opened her mouth but seemed unable to speak.

  Valindra reached to the bedside table and handed a glass of water to Myranda who practically ripped it from the young girl’s hands and drank the contents of it fully down. When she finished, she handed the glass back to the maid and stared off into the distance, as though she had suddenly forgotten where she was.

  “Lady Myranda? Is everything alright?” She asked. She could not help but notice her own voice tremble.

  “No.” Myranda whispered. Her face grew paler by the minute and her hands began to shake as she sat still wrapped in her blankets. “Everything is wrong.” She said without looking at Valindra.

  “What do you mean?” The maid asked, wondering if perhaps Myranda had had another vision.

  “He has returned.” Was all she said before her eyes fluttered again and she fell back into her bed in an unconscious heap.

  Later that evening, Myranda made her way hastily down the dark corridor towards the King’s room. Her headache had subsided but it had been replaced with a daunting fear she could not get rid of. Her stomach twisted and turned as she walked, threatening to relieve itself at any moment. She tried to focus her thoughts on anything else to take the nausea away but she found that she could not. Her wandering mind refused to settle on anything besides her fear- the nightmare she had just awoken from.

  She had seen it as though she was there- a great cloud of fog and what looked like fire in the distance. The fog was cold, colder than anything Myranda had felt before. She found it difficult to breathe inside the cold and found herself wandering towards the flames in the distance, even though she knew there was something dangerous about them.

  Two eyes appeared before her, glowing red like fire and burning into her soul. She fell to her knees, unable to stand on weak legs. Then a man emerged- his white hair flowing around his shoulders in ghost-like wisps. His black robes cascaded from his shoulders like a shadow trying to conceal its master. He held out a boney hand towards Myranda, piercing her heart with his gaze. And then she felt him inside her mind, flowing through her thoughts like water, telling her that she cannot stop the wave of death that was approaching.

  She awoke with an anguished cry and immediately jumped out of bed, knowing in her heart exactly what she had seen.

  As she approached the King’s door, she stopped and took a deep breath to try to calm her nerves. The King will not take kindly to this news. She realized as she stared at the large, oak door that loomed before her. The sentry outside looked to her quizzically and asked; “would you like for me to summon the Queen?”

  Myranda shook her head. “I must deliver this news to the King himself.”

  The sentry looked to the oak door then looked back to Myranda with regret. “I am sorry, Lady Sorceress, but the King is away.”

  Myranda was t
aken aback by this news. She had not been informed the King had left Axendra.

  “How long does he plan to be away?” She asked with nervousness. She desperately wanted to know where he had gone but it was not her place to ask such a question.

  “He did not say. All I know is that he has been gone for two days and no one is certain when he will return, not even the Queen.”

  “He did not tell the Queen where he was going?” Myranda’s sickness grew with this news. This is very suspicious. What could the King be doing?

  “No, my Lady.” The sentry smiled warmly at her before asking; “would you like for me to fetch the Queen?”

  Myranda was about to answer yes when her stomach churned heavily and she doubled over in pain. She grasped her stomach and bent over, trying her hardest not to vomit. The sentry stepped away from his post and grasped her by the shoulders to help her balance.

  “My Lady Sorceress, are you alright?” He asked. “Are you ill? Should I fetch a healer for you?”

  “No.” Myranda blurted out. She knew the sickness would pass. It was not an illness that made her stomach revolt; it was the growing sense of doom in her heart and the fear that warned her not to tell the Queen anything.

  Slowly she stood tall and backed away from the oak door. “I will be alright.” She told the worried looking sentry. “I must rest a while, that is all.” As she turned to leave, she whispered to the sentry; “please do not tell the Queen I was here.” He nodded in agreement and stepped back to his post and Myranda fled as quickly as she could back down the corridor and into her own chamber where she threw herself on the bed and grasped tightly to her stomach.

  She lie on her bed for a while, willing the pain to go away and watched as her room grew darker and darker and finally, when her maid returned to light her candles, the pain had subsided enough for her to sit up in her bed.

  Valindra looked to her with worry as she lit the candles and finally, sat next to her on the bed and asked; “how are you feeling, my Lady? You look very pale.”

  Myranda smiled warmly at the maid and replied; “I am feeling better.” She sent Valindra to fetch water and fruit for her supper and when she was gone, Myranda stood and walked slowly to her window to peer out at the city below. If I cannot tell the Queen then I certainly cannot tell the King! Tears began to roll down her cheeks as her thoughts turned to Mayvard. I wish he was here! She knew she could tell him anything.

  Suddenly, her tears stopped and her heart filled with panic once more. She grasped the edge of the windowsill and closed her eyes, focusing her breath to try to calm herself.

  I have sent him to his doom! She clutched tightly to the wooden frame, as though she would fall through the window if she let go. They are walking right to him and I can do nothing about it!

  Myranda stood, ran to the other end of her room and threw open the door. She walked into the hallway, stopped and looked one way then the other but before she took a step into the darkness of the corridor, she threw her hands up in frustration, knowing she could not leave. She could not follow them to Tyos. She would not get there in time.

  Slowly she turned and walked back to her chamber, closing the door tightly behind her. Throwing herself back onto her bed, she began to sob loudly into her pillow; feeling helpless and wondering if she would ever see Mayvard again.

  Chapter 14

  The air in the bog was thick, like a wet blanket that stuck to their skin and soaked them to the bone. The waters from the tepid pools seeped into the air and tainted what little there was to breathe. Bloodbeatles buzzed around Rhada’s and Mayvard’s heads, trying to swoop in for a snack. They were nasty creatures, like mosquitoes but twice the size. They had been assumed extinct long ago but Rhada now knew they had just been in hiding all these years, flying into the forest for a meal then back to the swamp to lay their eggs. They swatted them away as best they could but they had accumulated so many bites, Rhada wondered how it was they had any blood left to give. She scratched angrily at her arm, not realizing that her fingers grazed the pest biting her, squishing it into her skin. Mayvard swatted at the back of his neck, pulling his hand back to examine the corpse of the little bug he had just killed and wiped its remains onto his leather pants. Both horses flipped their tails, furiously trying to keep the bugs away.

  For each mile they traveled, their spirits became a little more disheartened. Every so often, Rhada would look back to catch a glimpse of the angered expression on Mayvard’s face and she would quickly look away. Even if he wouldn’t say it aloud, Rhada knew he felt their suffering was her fault.

  She sighed heavily and flicked a bloodbeatle off her horse’s ear then pulled her waterskin from the bag at her horse’s side and yanked off the cap. She peered inside and realized her fresh water supply was dangerously low, and with there being no sign of the treacherous bog coming to an end, she decided only to drink when necessary. She replaced the cap without taking so much as a sip, and leaned forward on her horse, fighting back the restlessness that was taking hold of her.

  When they stopped to rest, Rhada opened her food bag only to find two strips of jerky, a bundle of carrots, some molding fruit, a piece of cheese, and a handful of bread. She frowned, removed the bread and a strip of jerky then sauntered to where Mayvard sat in the dirt, chewing on his last jerky as well. She fell in next to him, leaning her shoulder on his arm and took a bite of the bread. It crunched under her teeth and turned to dust on her tongue.

  “Do you remember Miss Yunder?” She asked as she forced herself to swallow the stale bread.

  Mayvard nodded his head and a small grin appeared on his lips. “I do.”

  Rhada chuckled. “Do you remember what she used to say to you when you would not eat?”

  Mayvard chuckled as well. “You’ll grow up to look like a starved little girl if you don’t finish your supper!” He said in a mock, elderly woman’s voice.

  Rhada laughed, remembering Mayvard as a child, seated with all the other school-aged children in the dining hall, poking at his stew with the prongs of his fork. She had been in there eating as well, seated in a back corner, trying to get a moment of peace and quiet, when all of the children flooded the room as a frenzied mass of rabbling munchkins. Rhada remembered feeling annoyance at the disruption of her solitary lunch, until her eyes fell upon Mayvard. She remembered watching him, a boy no older than ten and two; his long, dark hair and big round eyes reminded her so much of Natharian, she had found it difficult to look at him.

  Miss Yunder brought out the pot of stew she had made for the children and slopped a ladle-full into each bowl. Rhada chuckled silently to herself as she watched the children make faces at the bowl of mystery food they were being forced to eat. Whenever Miss Yunder made stew, it meant there were too many leftovers to deal with and everything went into the pot. Rhada had tried to eat it once, but the smell alone reminded her of the slop she was forced to eat as a child living in the orphanage and she gagged and pushed the bowl away.

  “I swear that woman hated children and was trying to kill us all with her cooking.” Mayvard said. Rhada laughed even harder. “How she managed to secure a job as the castle chef, I will never know.”

  “She was the King’s great, great aunt, or some such thing.” Rhada said, forcing herself to take another bite of rock-hard bread.

  “Well that explains her age then.” Mayvard looked to Rhada and smiled. “And what brought this up?”

  “This rancid bread reminded me of her.” Rhada said, holding up the crumbling bread for Mayvard to see. They both laughed for several moments, forgetting for once they were lost inside a festering bog.

  “Do you remember how she died?” Mayvard asked after his bout of laughter ceased. Rhada shook her head. She had always assumed the old bat died of age. One day, she was simply gone and when Rhada inquired, she hadn’t been given the details. The only thing that was said to her was Miss Yunder had passed away, and she left it at that.

  “She choked on her stew.” Mayvard said before bi
ting off more jerky.

  “No!” Rhada said in disbelief. She studied his face, thinking he must be joking with her. When he looked at her, his eyes were serious and he nodded his head.

  “I swear to you, that is how she died.”

  Rhada stared at Mayvard for a few moments before they both burst into another fit of laughter.

  Within the hour, they were on their way again and Rhada felt, for the first time in days, her spirits had lifted, if only slightly. She rode on at a moderate pace smiling to herself as memories of the child Mayvard came flooding back.

  She remembered going to him on his fifteenth birthday and giving him two daggers as a gift. He took them in his hands and silently stared, as though he had been given a gift from the Gods. He thanked her over and over again that day, and again the next morning when they met for training. Rhada insisted she train Mayvard herself and they spent the next several years together, fighting with the training dummies, dueling other trainees, and traveling into the woods together for hunting outings; all the things Viktor had done with her. Mayvard was her pupil, and he grew into a stout, quick-witted warrior, just like his father.

  Rhada’s heart suddenly warmed as she thought about the old days. She did not even become annoyed when her horse left solid ground to trudge through a puddle of slimy water. But when the bottom of the pool suddenly dipped and her horse lost his footing, she fell to the side and was thrown from the thrashing beast, sliding into the water and sinking beneath his feet. She could hardly see through the grime that infected the pool and when she tried swimming up, she got caught beneath a panicked hoof that slammed into her injured shoulder.

  Rhada screamed from the pain and her mouth filled with water. She clutched her shoulder, which was now spewing a jet of red into the water around her, and curled into a fetal position, sinking to the bottom of the pool. She closed her eyes and choked down the bog water that had filled her mouth and only when her lungs began screaming for air did she make an attempt to swim to the top. She uncurled herself and reached, screaming again from the pain of moving her arm. She stopped for a moment and looked up, seeing the blurred vision of Mayvard’s face looking in at her. She forced herself to push off the bottom of the pool and reached with her uninjured arm towards him. His hand was suddenly in the water, grasping for her and when he pulled her out, he laid her on her back as she coughed out the taste of the poisonous bog.