The quiet village erupted suddenly with cries and shouts. “To arms, to arms!”, some of the men shouted frantically. The Hand of the Throne had been seen just a few hundred yards away. The villagers were already dead, and they knew it. They would defend their homes and their families to the last, but there was no real hope.
Any able-bodied men from the surrounding villages had already been conscripted in the service of “His Majesty”. What remained were the “undesirables”, those who were deemed too sick, weak, or cowardly. The scene always played out in the same way. There was resistance. Then blood. Then…only silence and smoke. With a roar, Varigan, Calen, and The Hand of the Throne launched their attack.
Compared to most, this particular village put up a brave fight. Two of the Hand of the Throne were killed, one pierced with arrows shot from a nearby barn. The other was stabbed in the throat with a pitchfork as he entered a home to burn it. This level of resistance infuriated the soldiers, but not Varigan. He knew the response would have to be particularly brutal, but he secretly admired those who had stood up to His Majesty. It was an admirable stand, but foolish, he knew. Orders were orders and an example had to be set.
When the last of the defenders had been slain, the rest of the villagers, many wounded and all frightened, were ordered to gather in a large barn. Varigan rode up to the barn, looked at Calen, and simply nodded. Calen turned to his men, “Light it!”, he shouted. Four torches were thrown simultaneously onto the straw old building.
It was over in minutes. Those who attempted to escape were cut down immediately by Varigan’s archers. The screams of the dying reached the ears of the men, but they had become used to such sounds. They stood silent and grim, each knowing another grievous sin had been added to the balance.
Once the screaming had ceased, Varigan smiled fiercely through the smoke and addressed his men. “Those who resist die”. “Those who are traitors, suffer!” The men returned in unison. The “traitors” had been punished. Old, sick men and women. Innocent children. All were traitors to “His Majesty”. Calen gave the signal and, without more words, The Hand of the Throne marched away from the smoldering village, preparing to accept its next mission.
To Be Continued…..
Fantasy
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