Tales of Cobardon

Chapter V

Micura

" The situation is dire, my lord. The Dupark have betrayed us. Our rebellion has foundered," he said grimly. Orwen smirked and replied," who said? you are a poor informant, Micura. Now let me tell you something. Napemol has been won to our side with all its might and the Dupark are feigning treachery." Orwen asked a question he already knew the answer to," Tell me something about The Eye." Micura played along ," You can see everything from its top. Its height is only topped by The Tower and conquering it is like sailing in a sea of fire or so is said about it." Orwen announced ,"It's true, the arrows rain like water from a thunderstorm ... and now that and Seachurner are ours." Lopelanzec is a loyal pig in a butcher's house.

Aaaahhooo! Aaaahhooo! "2 horns we have been infiltrated. By who?", Micura muttered with utter perplexity. Orwen unsheathed his Sword of Darkness, while rushing towards the hall door. The castle clamoured with chaos. He didn't know what to do, what you think, who to blame? He knew nothing. It was total mayhem. Orwen flung the heavy door shut and bolted it with godspeed, cursing, "Bloody Oskcopa!". He then slumped on the timber door and sighed.

Micura's ears caught the noise of wood rupturing and splinters succumbing to steel. Orwen moaned and then glanced down. Micura's eyes widened and he screamed aghast. The sight was menacing - a vermilion spear head jutted out of Orwen's gut and scarlet red blood dripped and splashed on the flooring. Orwen hissed like a serpent and offered his sword, hilt first to Micura, saying ,"Take it. Take it, quick." Orwen's eyes shut and grasp loosened as the sword drooped towards the floor. Micura leaped forward before it touched the floor.

That day he learned one thing at least - Orwen's blood was not really black.

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Trevan

The had crossed the gorge, crawling on taut ropes slung end to end,rock climbed the escarpment and breached Wingbearer. He himself had driven the spearhead through the elegant fretwork of the hall ingress and had heard Orwen make a sibilant sound as shrapnels had blown all over his torso.

He was correctly speeding for the rendezvous point. He sounded his clarion and looked about to realise that he and his men had turned the whole castle into a butcher house when they had caught the sentinels unaware. The Wingbearers were not likely to forgive or forget this gift bestowed upon them by the Lopelanzec.

He reached the rendezvous point and saw 50 men already reforming lines over there. They cloistered themselves in wet cloaks for protection from the ablaze, fire arrows. He heard a clunk as one of his comrade crumpled to the ground an arrow sticking out of a chink in his armour. "Dispatch", he commanded and a dozen men started sliding along the rope that stretched over the abyss .

Next he knew, he was halfway across the length of the rope, his hands' grip tight and legs hanging, on top of the ravine's devouring mouth. All of his men were on the ropes (literally) and were crawling towards the other end at a laggard, leaden pace. His stomach cramped and he had a bad gut feeling.

He heard something whistle through the air and he pulled with his arms to swing his legs and wrap them against the ropes. An arrow passed through where his left leg had been half a heartbeat ago. The arrowhead was a blazing inferno, a sphere of wreckage, which dipped into the unlit, pitch black basin beneath. He knew something was amiss.

He heard a jarring, fiery roar and then what he descried put his eyes and the whole valley on fire. Jade green and flaxen yellow waves of flame lapped beneath him eager to burn him up. The conflagration leaped and danced in heart beats, graceful and slick like a snake poised to strike. He was mesmerized and enchanted as well as aghast by this man-made atrocity. "Raguela, save me!", he managed to scream.

He opened his mouth and managed to squeal like a wingless bird. He was naked without his wings and wanted nothing but to fly. It was his last wish. Last! His heart was in his mouth and his life - desperate and ablaze like a matchstick burning on its last cinders.