Free Onyx Dragon (Book 1) by Shawn E. Crapo

whoever or whatever their hidden watchers were, they were also enemies of the Jindala.
     
    When the two humans had mounted their horses and left the area, the hunters spread out to gather their arrows. Their small, cloaked bodies made no sound as they passed through the underbrush. Each hunter plucked his arrow from the body of his target, and disappeared into the trees as quickly as they had come.
     
    The lumber mill appeared deserted as Eamon and Wrothgaar approached a few minutes later. There were no sounds of wood being cut, no boiling pots of stew over the ovens, and no sign of the millers or their families.
    The two men dismounted, readying their weapons. They would have to circle the mill silently, being careful not to alert any enemies that may be around. Eamon signaled for Wrothgaar to take the right and meet him on the other side. The Northman nodded, taking his route around the mill.
    Eamon circled slowly, listening closely for any movement. He heard only the distant chirping of birds, and the occasional squirrel chatter. The mill seemed abandoned.
    When Eamon rounded the last corner, he saw the bodies. The decapitated corpses of the millers and their families were lined up in a row, their heads tossed casually aside. They had been bound, with their hands tied behind their back, and they lie face down in the dirt. Thick pools of decaying blood coagulated on the ground, and the smell of death still hung in the air.
    Wrothgaar appeared around the opposite corner, still crouched in a stalking position. He saw Eamon’s face and followed his gaze down to the bodies. The Northman froze, expressionless, as he saw the carnage. He briefly considered their last moments, and the terror they must have felt watching each other die in such a gruesome fashion.
    “These poor people,” Eamon said, his face a mask of sorrow. “My people. My subjects. How could I allow this to happen?”
    Wrothgaar straightened, regarding his friend with sympathy. “We have avenged them, my friend,” he said. “And we will avenge the deaths of all who have fallen to the blades of the Jindala”
    Eamon sheathed his sword, stoically maintaining his anger. “I have to bury them,” Eamon whispered. “They deserve a proper burial. They milled wood from this forest without disturbing its balance. Even the rangers did not concern themselves with them. There was no need.”
    Wrothgaar said nothing, but grabbed a pair of shovels that leaned against the side of the mill. He handed one to Eamon, who took it grudgingly. The two began digging.
     
    The hunters had followed the men to the mill, where they were now burying the bodies of the Peaceful Ones. The two seemed sad, particularly the one dressed in all black. Black, like the Priest named Erenoth. Was this a friend of Erenoth? Who was he? Who was the large man with the strange horns and the axe that seemed to have a life of its own?
    The hunters discussed these questions among themselves, all the while watching the men bury the dead. They all lamented not arriving in time to save the Peaceful Ones, but they took solace in the fact that the two men had avenged them. Clearly, these two men were friends of the forest, and must be kept safe.
    The hunters would protect them.
     
     
    Chapter Eight
     
    Farouk led his men northward, toward Gallot, where he would meet up with another group of soldiers. The two groups would then join forces, with Farouk as their commander, and march to Morduin. There, the five groups, combined, would lay siege to the city, bringing the Northern kingdom to its knees.
    Still, in his heart, Farouk felt that same sense of loss that overtook him upon stepping onto shore. Now, however, he did not feel alone. He noticed that half of his men, Azim included, seemed distant and occupied. It was as if a cloud of doubt and infidelity had surrounded them all. Nevertheless, he remained quiet.
    Azim marched ahead of him, cheerfully prodding the tired men on, as was his method. The