Land of Shadows by Jeff Gunzel
Chapter 1
Benches that had been sanded until they were smooth provided little comfort. Walls made of rigid brown stone encased the oval-shaped room. For hundreds and thousands of men, this dank, musty room was the last sanctuary they would ever see before going to the afterlife. The air was filled with the usual sounds of grown men crying and whimpering while curled up on the floor. Men who considered themselves brave and hearty when tested by life’s trivial challenges now rocked back and forth as they hugged their own shoulders, sobbing uncontrollably while relieving themselves where they lay. Others laughed hysterically as their minds broke like twigs spun through a tornado, while others still remained quiet and reserved to their fate as they knelt on cold stone, praying to the deity they had always been told to pray to from the time they had taken their first breath, with no answer or sign forthcoming. Ironically, praying seems to make men feel more in control, when giving up all control. It is easier to believe your life was never yours to begin with.
Even through the pungent smell, sheer emotion carried the strongest scent of all, as the air was thick with pure terror. Only the strongest men could resist the onslaught of looming reality swooning around the room. It would seem death itself was more welcome than the reality of having to think about it. Fear has many of the same contagious side effects as laughter, as it seemed to affect all in the immediate area.
Three lit torches spread evenly around the oval room cast distorted shadows which danced across the gray stone floor, each one flickering with an invisible breeze that couldn’t be felt, threatening to extinguish the only light sources in the room. Only to barely come back to life again and repeat the process with the next unfelt breeze.
The warrior sat back against the cool stone and began to take in the whole scene. A room full of dead men who could not accept the cruel reality of their fate, was nothing more than an annoying distraction to him now as he tried to clear his head for the upcoming test of survival—a test he not only didn’t fear, but found a strange sense of exuberance and even acceptance for. We all meet our end sooner or later. No sense fearing the inevitable. Continuing to let his mind relax, he found the cries and whimpers of the irrelevant souls in the room begin to fade into a muffled, distant hum, becoming nothing more than background sounds similar to wind rustling through the leaves of trees off in the distance. It was barely even a discernible sound at that point, certainly not out of place or even all that apparent.
With the warrior’s mind coming under a relaxing trance—a battle tactic learned long ago—his conscience drifted to the events leading up to his newest challenge. Back to a life that no longer belonged to him...
*
This is going to be a slaughter, the warrior thought to himself. More than fifty trained mercenaries attacking an unsuspecting village in the middle of the night. “Where is the honor in this?” the giant grumbled while fingering the handle on his axe, a handle shaped to represent the head of a wolf, complete with fangs and yellow eyes. If that wolf could talk, it would brag of the many souls taken over the years, none of which had been taken through anger or vengeance, but simply because that was the job that needed doing that day. No different than anyone else who takes pride in their craft: the local painter adding one more coat to the project he was entrusted to, or the local baker making a cake for an upcoming event, using excruciating detail in the final decorating process. The final product must reflect the business as well as the family name.