Chapter 670: Tell all who will hear
–Thud. Thud. Thud.
Javelins struck iron circle in the shields in rhythm, a pounding that rolled through the ranks like thunder. The sharp metallic clangs echoed off the stone walls of Herculia, each blow punctuated by the barks of orders.
"Move! Keep moving!" "Let’s go—we’ve no time for your slow feet!"
Soldiers in Yarzat colors, black and white, the colors that the Herculeians had learned to fear, snarled and shoved, corralling the long line of displaced souls through the ruined gates. Thousands of them: citizens, soldiers, remnants of what had once stood in defiance , now marched with heads bowed, herded like livestock through the city streets.
These were the ones who had chosen flight over fealty, who had accepted Alpheo’s offer of safe passage. It had been extended to all: the garrison, the townsfolk, even the highborn who would have usually fallen captive for a ransom.
Yet most of the local militia, city-born and blood-bound, had stayed behind, too rooted in their home to abandon it, especially now knowing that they still had a chance at life.
Those who had now moved eastward were mostly the men who had followed Lord Cretio, and with his death, their purpose had also died.
For two days, they had been kept penned in a crude, makeshift camp just outside the siege walls—wooden palisades now stripped bare and splintering.
None among them knew what lay ahead. The guards driving them forward gave no hint. Their silence was not of peace, but simply a quiet they felt would not last, and the looks the invaders gave seemed only moments from turning fatal.
Many feared they were being marched to their graves.
Fortunately for them, death was not today’s sentence.
Instead, they were led to the eastern edge of the city, where a massive wooden pavilion had been raised seemingly overnight. Its beams were still raw, lashed with thick cords, yet the banners fluttering from its sides made it clear this was no holding pen.