Tales of Cobardon

Chapter IV

Arthur

Grieving time was over. Sons will be born and will die and anyway he still had two male heirs. He dismissed all the fawning courtiers to have his own counsel. A war was waging. The Dupark had turned treacherous and brought down Napemol; The Eye had been ignorant and Morningshade had just begun forming their host with slouchy bannermen.Fort Wingbearer had started the rebel and had crowned Orwen king.Our own king cannot even mount a horse, he hopelessly pondered. They and the valley were the only ones to act breakneck and remain staunch allies to Rulerstead.

There came a scream and then the horn sounded 4 times - An arbitrator. Arthur commanded to let them in and he with a few other guards met them at the castle gates. In came a strange contingent - a harper, a timid man with an intimidating crossbow, a beaming senile and a conceited man hidden in a black cloak with red trimmings. Dupark colours ,he thought viciously. The concealed man moved forward cautiously. A voice boomed from within the clock,"Come forward" and his finger pointed at Arthur.Arthur sceptically trotted forward on his horse and humbly inquired, "Who are you, who speaks with such valour?"

The figure leaned forward from his horse and whispered in his ear,"You know me!" In a blink of an eye the figure drew behind and threw away his cloak. The face underneath enlightened and surprised Arthur. "I bring my lord the Dupark and Napemol armies," Taperend gleefully announced, ushering himself into Arthur's embrace. Arthur's face paled, his voice quavered,"Taperend, Lord of Napemol, how is this possible!" He gently pushed back Taperend and touched his chin. His hand didn't pass through it. Not a ghost,Arthur determined, colour returning to his face.

The tables had turned in an instant because such was fate with its unconjecturable maneuvers .

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Benz

A racing gale ruffled through his hair as as he stood on his mighty warship : Soulcrusher, with a hand against the mast, eyeing a raging thunder storm on Seachurner's prince's path.

"All cowards escape to the bearth", he boomed loud enough for the adjacent ships to hear. Nobody stirred. Good, he mused proudly. "Then brace yourself for a storm", he announced stretching the last words threateningly. The deck jiggled beneath him. His eyes were fixated on the storm, daring it on. The deck quivered. Strong gusts threatened to push overboard. Lightning crackled. The salty,tangy order of the saline sea was replaced by a blanche yet violent one. The sea turned darker and fiercer, a colour alike black ink. The waves lapped higher and higher.

Fog enshrouded everything beyond the ship. The first drop fell and the downpour increased gradually and unnoticeable, like an hour hand on a clock, till it became so obscuring keeping your eyes open was a feat. Everything was drenched bone deep yet, Benz never stirred watching ever ahead. This was Makhri's glory. He would have seemed a statue except for his eyes - red and aflame with an explicable lust of anything that could slay him and the beast within him.

Noone and nothing could, yet, but his time would come and it was not now.

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Roger

Ahhh Oooo! That announced the day's troup come to an end as the soldiers unwinded in their minds and looked forward longingly so camp's coziness. They were in a vulnerable position, geographically, yet the soldiers were worn and denying rest would be a sin. On all sides mountains surrounded them and an unnatural mist hung as moonlight, from east, penetrated with difficulty giving an eerie glow to the fog whereas, the other side glew with an orangish hue from the sun, setting in the west. The moon was waning. Roger hoped that the king's rule wasn't.

Roger stared briefly at the sun set, edging on the horizon, and so did Rulerstead and The valley's mighty host - 10000 veteran archers, 25000 mounted warriors and the pulp - 5000 elephant riders. The elephant riders could slice through foot soldiers as easy as a knife through butter. He was also proud of his all cavalry army which none but Rulerstead could boast stop. What completed the host were the polished archers of The valley. He should have rejoiced yet he couldn't wipe the frown of his face.

More grim news came with the general. He complained idiotically, pointing to a man in shackles brought with him," he was caught stealing food from another soldier's platter". Roger speculated for a moment and then said ," the penalty is ..." His voice trailed off when he saw his nephew, 10 years old, king of Cobardon and Rulerstead, still playing with his stupid dolls. It changed his mind and he completed," death. Get the prince."

An annoyed nephew returned, pouting childishly, with a servant. When he saw a man chained and tied his face portrayed unforeseen horror and tears welled in his eyes. Rodger was to annoyed by the idiosyncrasies of those around him. He said, in a tone that brooked no argument, to the prince ,"straighten your face. People don't like a weak king." His nephew's face hardened a little.

Rodger unsheathed his greatsword and marched to the felon. He announced in a confident, well-versed voice ," Your agnoble life comes to an end by the nobel hands of the king's regent." The prince dropped all pretense of bravery. Robert ignored it, raised his greatsword and brought it down in a mighty swing ... chop! The severed head tumbled to the ground and the body twitched before it lifelessly slumped, straining the chains he was bound to. He turned his head to face a nephew sobbing like cattle to be slaughtered next.

A fear, too great to bear, which he knew had existed since long but which he had ignored, now shoved itself onto his mind. He was cold and not a shadow as skillful and valiant as he had been in his youth. What would happen to his nephew if he died ,and death would come sooner or later. He wished better later than sooner.