TIFAAN'S WELL

It was a crisp, clear fall morning in the hills of southeastern Almor. Mychail Taborwin lay in his blankets, looking up at the underside of the small tent he shared with another soldier. He dared not close his eyes, for fear he would only see the grisly scenes of his dreams repeated again.

He'd been a soldier for nearly five years, since shortly after his fifteenth birthday. He now held the rank of sergeant in the army of the Great Kingdom of Northern Aerdy, and he was a squad leader for Alpha squad, 2nd Platoon, 9th Infantry, in charge of ten men. Well, nine men now. They'd lost Artigan the day before to an Almori lance.

For as long as he could remember, he'd wanted the life of a soldier, honor and courage, valor and discipline, comradeship. He'd found all those things, but he'd also found much more, more than he'd bargained for. He'd found anger and hatred, fear and terror, deceit and greed. He'd seen, and in his younger days, even taken part in murder, arson, rape, theft, and innumerable other crimes. War is like that. It is found in almost every army, in every war, but with the army of the Great Kingdom, it was worse. It was encouraged. Rather than be discharged, or court-martialed, if caught in such an act, the soldiers of the Great Kingdom were applauded, even promoted. Such was the way of this dark nation, and such was the way of the church of Hextor, which was very powerful and deeply linked with the military of Aerdy.

A declaration of war against Almor was still days away, yet Mychail's unit, and many others, had been in Almor for days, pillaging, burning, destroying what they could. He'd seen hundreds killed, few of them carrying weapons, and even fewer in armor or uniforms. He'd watched as his fellow soldiers raped women, even young girls, put torches to homes, farms and barns. He'd watched as men killed livestock, which would have fed those left alive, through the winter, for no reason but the joy of killing. It sickened him, and he was afraid that others would notice his revulsion when he chose not to take part in their awful looting and pillaging.

He heard a noise outside the tent flap, like the soft tread of a boot on the damp earth. What followed was the sound of someone clearing their throat, and a voice, Yeardly, he thought, said, "Sergeant, the Captain wants to see you in his tent."

"Very well, Private," he said, surprised at the gruff sound of his own voice. "Inform him I will be there shortly."

"Yes, Sergeant," Yeardly said, and Mychail could hear the soft tread of his steps as he spun and marched away. Mychail had been expecting this meeting since the afternoon before. His Lieutenant had taken a spear in the ribs. Death was quick. That left Mychail as the highest ranking soldier in the platoon.

He rose and took a moment to change from the wrinkled shirt he'd slept in to a neatly folded one from out of his saddle-bags. He buckled on his sword belt, glad to have the feel of the sabre on his hip. He picked up his warhammer, from the ground next to his blanket where he set it every night before sleeping, and slid the handle through the metal ring on his belt. He rubbed his face with one hand and decided the stubble on his chin could wait. The Captain would not want to.

He threw aside the flap and strode through the gray light of dawn, between the rows of small tents spaced evenly in neat rows, until he reached the Captain's tent. He saluted the Corporal standing guard outside, fist to his heart, and had that salute returned. Before the Corporal could even announce his presence, the Captain's voice came from inside, "Come in Sergeant Taborwin."

The Corporal pulled aside one of the flaps and Mychail ducked his head and entered. He offered the Captain a salute as soon as he had straightened up. The Captain returned it half-heartedly. He was sitting on a folding chair, at a small folding table, which was covered in maps, mostly of the local area. One was spread out in the middle, held down by an ink jar on one end, and a sheathed dagger on the other. The Captain was speaking with the bear of a man standing to his right.

Mychail knew the man, had known him for a long time, and there was no love lost between them. His name was Gregor, and he was a priest of Hextor. And, though he was skilled in weapons and tactics, he was no soldier, at least not in Mychail's mind. He was a butcher. He'd been a friend of Mychail's borther, Odarin, growing up, and had loved to torture and beat a very young Mychail. Odarin, though less fearsome in stature, had often cowed Gregor into backing off. By the time Mychail had begun to gain his great size and strength, Gregor had been whisked off to a temple of Hextor to begin training. As he stood now, at the Captain's elbow, he grimaced, his contempt for the younger of Berdram Taborwin's two sons as strong as ever. A wicked looking flanged mace hung at his belt, and the unrelieved black of his breastplate seemed to soak up what little light the morning yet offered.

Mychail stood at attention, chest thrust out, feet together, shoulders square, arms straight down at his sides, eyes straight ahead. He held that position for a good minute, waiting for the Captain to explain his summons. Finally, the Captain looked up, his steely gray eyes seeming to bore into Mychail. He felt certain that the Captain must be able to see his every failing, his every weakness. be it his foolish compassion, or his dangerous doubts about Hextor, but the Captain said nothing about any of it.

Instead, he said, "With your Lieutenant's death, I need someone to command your platoon." He hesitated a moment, then went on. "I had thought to give you a field commission as a Junior Lieutenant, but it has been brought to my attention," at this point his eyes flickered to Gregor and back, "that you are not so well thought of in the church."

Mychail had to fight to keep from letting out his relieved sigh. The last thing he wanted was to be made an officer. Although no sign of it touched his lips, Gregor could not keep the smile from his dark, beady eyes, feeling that he'd won a victory.

"Instead," the Captain went on, "I am promoting you to Master Sergeant, and you will act as temporary commander of 2nd Platoon, until I can find a worthy officer candidate to replace you."

"Yes sir," Mychail said, saluting again. "Thank you, sir."

"Your orders are simple, Mychail," the Captain said. "Two miles west of us, across this stream, is the village of Tifaan's Well. It is a small village, less than 100 Almoris, mostly farmers and craftsmen. According to the scouts, there are no more than 6 armed soldiers in the town." Mychail nodded along, already knowing what was coming. "You will take the 24 remaining men of 2nd Platoon and you will sack the village. Kill all the soldiers and any men who resist you. Fire the barns and granaries, kill the livestock. The women are yours and your men's to do with what you wish. As acting commander, you will get first choice."

Mychail saluted again, "Yes sir," he said. He'd already begun to think about what sort of mistake he could make, without being too obvious, which would tip off the villagers and allow some of them to flee before the attack. Suddenly, he realized the Captain had spoken again. "I'm sorry sir, what was that?" he said.

"Gregor will accompany you. I recommend that you follow his advice." Mychail's heart seized. Gregor would make quite sure that the attack was a slaughter. Of that, Mychail had no doubt.

Less than four hours later, Mychail was lying flat, at the crest of a small hill, looking straight down into the village of Tifaan's Well. Gregor lay to his right, and Melikus, a Corporal in his squad, and a thoroughly vicious man himself, to his left. They watched surreptitiously, for thirty minutes, noting the numbers of villagers, the soldiers, the visible weapons, the easy access points to the village, and the likely escape routes.

Finally, they crawled backwards, using their elbows, and sliding down the back side of the hill, so as not to be noticed. They rejoined the platoon, about a quarter mile away in a small copse of trees.

A plan was outlined quickly. Melikus would ride left and approach the village from the southwest, with seven men. Gregor would ride right and come in from the North with eight more. Mychail and his remaining eight would charge down the hill they'd watched from, southeast of the town. The attack was to commence at highsun, approximately forty minutes later.

As Melikus and Gregor led their groups out, Mychail thought like mad. How could he manage to save the villagers. The sad truth was, he couldn't. At least, not without destroying himself, and his career.

The attack went forward as planned. The Aerdy troops swept into the town from three sides. Near total surprise had been achieved. The half-dozen Almori soldiers led another dozen or so hardy farm-folk in a staunch defense of the town, but it didn't last long. Soon, there were only a few soldiers remaining.

Mychail watched as four Aerdy troops, including Melikus, chased a wounded Almori into a small cottage near the edge of the town. He followed and watched from the doorway as that one wounded soldier killed three of the men, and wounded Melkius. He turned to face Mychail, keeping Melkius at the edge of his vision.

He was tall and rangy, with sandy colored hair and bright blue eyes. He bled profusely from at least a dozen wounds, but he stared defiantly at Mychail. His sword was raised, but his arms trembled from exhaustion and pain. "Come on, you filth," he said. Behind the man, in the corner of the room, a woman with dark hair huddled, hugging close her sandy haired daughter of five or six, clearly the child of the swordsman. Mychail raised his own sword, but he hesitated to attack. He'd watched the man, and knew he could defeat him, even were he at full strength, and certainly now. There was no doubt in his mind that he was a superior swordsman. For some reason, he hesitated.

As the man shifted his balance, a medallion, made of wood, on a leather thong around his neck, slipped out the front of his torn shirt. Mychail recognized it instantly as the symbol of Hieroneus, brother to, and the god most reviled by, Hextor. He should instantly hate the man, for wearing that symbol alone, but he could not. In fact, he admired him, for his valor, and his honor. He stepped back, lowering his own sword.

The Almorian looked confused, he stared into Mychail's eyes, as he backed slowly toward his wife and child. Melikus scooped up his sword and circled around near Mychail. "We go in together," he said. "He'll fall." Mychail shook his head. He would have no part of it. The Almorian, stumbled, and started to fall. Sensing the opportunity, Melikus moved to finish him.

It was a close thing as to who was most surprised, Melikus, Mychail, or the Almorian, when Mychail moved between Melikus and the family, raising his sword. "Traitor," Melikus hissed, swinging his blade in a vicious cut. Mychail parried it expertly, knocking the blade aside. He stepped right and swept his own blade across, forcing Melikus to labor to block the attack. He thrust his blade in twice, quickly, each forcing Melikus' blade farther out, and with the second, he stepped in and rocked the man with a fist to the jaw, sending him sprawling, his sword slipping from his hand. As Melikus gathered his breath to scream for help, Mychail ended his life, opening a gash across his throat.

Mychail turned back, half expecting to see the Almorian right behind him, waiting to strike, but the man was lying on his back, his sword barely held in his right hand. His breath coming in ragged gasps. His wife and daughter bent over him, crying, kissing his cheeks, begging him to stay .

Mychail was almost loathe to approach them, to interfere with their final moments together in this world, but a small motion from the dying man, with his left hand, bade him to come closer.

He did not put up his sword, but held it down at his side, in a non-threatening gesture, and he did move closer. The woman and child moved to step between him and the man, but he said in a weak voice, "No, Rhona,…Lydie." They stepped aside. Mychail stood over him, and looked into the man's eyes.

"You see now, don't you?" he asked. No explanation was necessary. Mychail did see. It was as if his eyes, closed throughout his life, had finally opened. Without a word, he nodded. "I thought so," the man said. "It was there in your eyes, a gentleness, silk beneath the steel." Mychail almost flinched. Such a comment from a Hextorite would have been a grave insult, but this man meant no such offense.

"You are dying," Mychail said, bluntly. "I cannot save you."

"I know," the man said. "More of your men will arrive soon. Even were you to defend us, you could not defeat them all." Mychail nodded. The words were simple truth. The man's breath rattled in his chest, and Mychail sensed that only his will kept him clinging to life. "You cannot save me….but you can save them." His eyes rolled toward his family.

Without a thought, Mychail gripped the hilt of his sword hard, bowing his head slightly. He said, "If by my life, or death, I can protect them, I will." The man smiled, and reached out toward his daughter. Mychail looked at the women and said, "You must keep quiet, and I will apologize in advance for what I will need to do to convince my men."

The light left the man's eyes, as his hand closed on his daughter's. His wife let out a strangled cry and moved to him. She stroked his cheek, gently. Mychail felt like an interloper, observing their grief. The daughter clung to her father's chest, crying into his blood-soaked shirt.

Behind him, Mychail heard the shouts of his men, as they approached the cottage. He quickly stepped up to the woman, Rhona, and grabbed her by the arm, pulling her to her feet. She shot a look of green fire from her eyes at him, as two soldiers entered the room. Mychail pulled back his hand and hit her, a backhanded slap, across the cheek, though he did pull the punch a bit. "I said shut up woman!" he roared, as she fell back against the wall, eliciting a scream from the child, Lydie. "And get control of her," he pointed, then turned to his men.

They were both grinning, and one eyed Rhona, who was undeniably beautiful, openly. "Report!" Mychail snapped, bringing them to attention.

"Master Sergeant," one of them, Durlek by name, said, "the village is ours. All resistance has been crushed."

"Gather the survivors in the center of town," Mychail said, knowing full well that they would have been doing so already.

"Them too?" Durlek asked hopefully, his lust for Rhona hidden not at all.

"No," Mychail said. "I killed the man. I claim them as my own." The disappointment was clear on their faces. "You have a problem with that?" Mychail asked, his voice dropping to a near whisper. They both stumbled over themselves denying it. "You have rope?" Mychail asked. Durlek handed over a large coil.

Mychail turned toward the women, now huddled together again. Looking back, over his shoulder, he said, "Dismissed." The two soldiers moved quickly to leave the cottage.

As soon as he was certain the men were gone, Mychail turned to the women. "I will get you both out of here," he said, "but you must listen to me, or we will all die." The woman, Rhona, her eyes flashing with the sting of loss and the heat of anger, and her cheek, a bright red where he'd struck her, stared him in the eye.

"You think I'd trust you?" she asked, putting a hand to her cheek.

"I'm sorry for that," Mychail said, and the simple sincerity in his voice, for some reason, made Rhona believe him, "but it was necessary to convince my men."

"Convince them of what?" she asked.

"Turn around," he said, "and cross your wrists behind your back." She hesitated, looking into his eyes again, then did as he'd instructed. After all, Nylan had seemed to sense something about this large and intimidating man, just before his death. Mychail began tying her wrists with a section of the rope he'd cut with his dagger. He said, in answer to her last question, "I have to make them believe that I am still like them, that I still honor Hextor." He paused a moment, "If any of us are to live through this, I must convince them of my own depravity, and for that, I am sorry."

He'd finished tying her, and she turned to face him, "What does that…mmmph," she was unable to finish the question as he shoved a wadded up rag into her mouth, securing it with another bit of rope. As she looked up at him questioningly, he walked to her daughter and bound her as well. He apologized as he gagged her, and promised her she wouldn't be hurt. She was too terrified to resist.

"Where are the clothes?" he asked, rifling through the bureau that Nylan had made for her three summers earlier. He selected one of her dresses and one of Lydie's. He stuffed them into the large pack he wore on his back. "You'll need something else to wear, later," he said. "And again, I'm sorry." As Rhona wondered what he meant, he walked over and quickly tore her dress, ripping one sleeve nearly off, and tearing the buttons down the front, leaving her halfway exposed. She turned away, thinking she'd made a mistake in her judgment, but he turned away, giving her some privacy. "Keep quiet now, and we may survive this day."

Without looking at her, he grabbed her bare upper arm, and scooping Lydie onto his other shoulder, forced them both outside. There were nearly a dozen soldiers there, all gathered nearby, including a large bear of a man in black armor. They all gazed lustily at Rhona, who felt her cheeks coloring. The man in armor strode forward.

"A fine catch," he said, hunger in his eyes.

"You have command for now, Gregor," Mychail said. "I intend to seek a bit of privacy where I can enjoy myself for an hour or two. Bring me Tornado, and Fireheart," he said to a private, referring to his own mount, and also Melikus'.

"It's about time that you started to act right, Taborwin," Gregor said, breaking into a grin. "I will oversee the questioning of the prisoners we took here."

"And see to it that our own dead are buried," Mychail said. It was not truly necessary, nor really even important to him, but it would tie up some of the men for some while, and give him more time.

He pushed Rhona onto Melikus' horse when the private returned, pulling himself and Lydie onto Tornado. "I'll return to the grove on that hill," he said, pointing to the spot from which they'd reconnoitered the town. "I'm not to be disturbed for at least two hours." He stopped, moving Tornado close to Fireheart, nuzzling Rhona's neck a bit and said, "Make that three." The look of disgust on her face was convincing, because it was quite real.

He rode at a leisurely pace to the top of Hart's hill, Rhona's dread growing with each moment. She was very unsure of the man. Would he protect her and protect Lydie as he claimed to her in the house, or would he prove to be as vile as he told her he wanted those other men to believe him to be?

They reached the top of the hill, and he rode into the trees just over the ridge, stopping and jumping down. He set Lydie gently on the ground and reached up, pulling Rhona down from her horse. She stood before him, determined that she would fight like a lioness if he tried to rape her. He pulled a knife from his boot, and a lump formed in Rhona's throat. Would he simply kill them? He spun her around, and with one deft move, he sliced through the ropes binding her wrists.

As she pulled her own gag loose, he freed Lydie from her bonds, and her daughter ran into her arms. "It's alright, baby," she said, wiping away her child's tears.

The man gently placed the dress he'd brought on the ground next to her. "Please hurry," he said. "We need to be moving, quickly." She looked up, only to find that he had turned his back, giving her some privacy to allow her to change. "We need to move fast and hard. The more ground we can put between us and them before nightfall, the better."

Rhona released Lydie and quickly changed. She watched the man closely, half expecting him to watch her from the corner of his eyes, but she saw no sign of it.

"Can you ride?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, surprised at the strength in her own voice.

"As soon as she'd finished, she moved to the horse she'd ridden up the hill, lifting Lydie into the saddle. He moved behind her, and she turned to face him.

"It's not much," he said, holding his hand out to her. In it, there was a knife in its sheath. As she reached for it, he said, "I'll defend you both with my very life, but if I fall, you should have some protection."

She drew the blade quickly, and lunged in, pressing it against his throat, the sharp edge pressing just hard enough to draw a trickle of blood. She was certain he could have stopped her, but he didn't, and he didn't pull away. He looked at her with those eyes she couldn't read and waited. "If you ever try to touch me, or to hurt me or my daughter, I'll kill you," she said. He waited until she'd tucked the knife away, then simply nodded, mounting his horse. She followed suit and they rode away, south and west, using the hills as cover from the soldiers in the town. Rhona looked back only once, whispering a prayer to Hieroneus that he look after Nylan's soul. Her overwhelmed mind had not yet even considered where they were going, or what they would do when they got there. They were questions and fears for later.