Micura
Sweat wreathed Orwen's forehead as he struck the armoury's charred, granite wall with the practice metal blade. A constant din of sharp screeches filled the air. Suddenly, anger welted in his mind. He struck the sword heavily, blow after blow, muttering between his heavy breaths after each strike, "who...gave...Arthur...permission...to... order...my...daughter's...assassination!" He screamed the last word as his blade shattered against the wall, leaving only the hilt in his hand. The shadows cast on the blade pieces by the sun made the shards seem like dark, ebony fissures marked upon the granulated floor.
Micura observed his king's trauma from afar, worry flooding him. He had seen such bursts of agony and rage repeat day after day since he had arrived at Fort Wingbearer – almost a week ago. He had seen Orwen's face light up a week ago when he had arrived, yet soon the energy had drained and with each passing hour, Orwen was becoming more and more focused on nothing but revenge for her daughter. It was not good as Orwen was becoming more single-minded, his mind crowded with a blind fury so that there was no space in his brain to think clearly and make wise choices. He felt nothing but sympathy for Orwen. Wingbearer's sole heir was dead and Orwen's grief was totally justified. This was the Orwen he knew – completely calm and making no unwise decisions except ... when a loved one died! Micura had seen it before too – when King Edward had been injured beyond healing Orwen had brutally killed Laskhor.
He approached Orwen loudly and announced, "King of Cobardon and ruler of fort Wingbearer". Orwen turned around and eyed Micura, then smirked and said, "more like usurper Orwen if the news you bring isn't good." Orwen tossed the hilt to the ground and declared, "Speak." Micura cleared his throat and said, "Napemol with all its might had fallen when the Dupark reincarnated Taperend." "They killed Taperend, even after my explicit orders were to keep him alive," Orwen sneered with disgust. "Yes, but they bought him back to life and Taperend swore fealty to you." Micura delivered. "Taperend swore or was made to swear?" Orwen asked with the slightest undertone of amusement. "By what I know from the one time I met Taperend, I ... do not know." "Yes, I know him much better than you, yet I too do not know. Though I can tell if Taperend swore without any force he will stab us in the back the first chance he gets." Micura nodded to that.
"Good," muttered Orwen, and suddenly his face aged a million years as he grimly spoke, "The dragon rides. They even disobeyed my direct command. We have let it fly for too long, too far. It is time we cut its wings." Micura spoke defiantly, "The Dupark are our strongest bannerman." Orwen abruptly ended the argument, "and they will soon begin thinking they are stronger than us. Unleash the hell hounds!" An uncanny smile crossed Orwen's face. "As you say, ser," Micura obliged reluctantly.
He mounted his horse and started riding hard to make Maegor's hill. Micura reached the monumental hall of Lampstar and rapped on its humongous doors, reverence echoing in the knocks. It opened with a grunt as old, rusted hinges turned after hundreds of years (literally) and a timid figure hidden in a black linen cloak, brushing the crystal-clear marble floor, tapered with a red border appeared.
"It is time", Micura meekly voiced out. The letter in his hand flew away, hovering in front of the wizard for a while. Micura could not make out one detail of the legendary, immortal sorcerer, its face hidden behind a layer of procured shadow. Nameless: he recounted from his memory of the history of Wingbearer. The alchemist snapped his fingers, and the letter crumbled in the air and incinerated to ash that fell at his feet and lazily blew aside. Nameless flipped around and gestured Micura to follow. It walked with fluidity, never seen before, almost sliding over the solid floor as if it were a layer of butter. Micura wondered whether the wizard's feet even touched the ground, but alas he couldn't find, for Nameless kept them hid under its cloak. He had to jog to keep up.
Suddenly, the sorcerer stopped and turned. On turning, Micura saw a sight only a lucky few had ever seen - an impossibly large intimidating door with frost on its knob and icy blue streaks running across the door like thin streams of water. The doors flapped open and a heart-chilling wind rushed past his face. The sorcerer spoke for the first time, but in a language long forgotten, something malicious. He heard a bone-chilling chant rise through the air — 'Feed on flesh, human and dragon as long as they fly the Dupark flag.' 4 shadows of white with ripples running across their plate armour emerged out of an uncanny, obscuring hailstorm. One of them unsheathed a sword from a scabbard attached to its back. The sword also rippled, it was a shade icier than the being itself. Beasts of the Nameless.
Cold to beat the heat! Ice to beat fire!
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Trevan
Trevan looked up at the ominous castle, perched upon the cliff's precipice like a vigilant bird upon a branch's end. He had arrived! The memory of the time when he had himself saved the Lord of that palace flooded back to him. The castle had been under siege for two weeks and their resources had been strained. The castle was only approachable from one side, west to the castle. The other side, east of the castle was a very steep valley, more of a chasm. The land-side of the valley was lower than the castle-side of the valley. So, if someone wanted to enter the castle from the east they would have to tie ropes on both the valley's ends, the rope being diagonal as the sides of the valley were at different heights. Then a person had to crawl up the ropes, diagonally upwards and reach to the castle-side. He had done it and reached the castle. Then, he had rescued the Lord out of the palace and he and the Lord had crept back across the valley to the land-side. He had managed to successfully take the Lord out of the siege and had gotten the Lord to a safe house. Another week later, when many soldiers in the besieged castle had starved, the castle's Lord had formed an army and broken the siege. Later, Trevan had been appraised and hailed for his seemingly impossible feat.
He snapped back to the real world when he realised the irony. A sad, cruel smile came to his face – last time he had saved the Lord, this time he was going to kill the Lord. The night was dark upon them as they quietly crept through the muddy quagmire. The tall canopy of trees and absence of the moon were their only allies, striving to camouflage them. Trevan peeked back and saw a stretch of trees and nothing else except the rare faint sound of brisk movement. There was no chance of being spotted. They crept forward, ever closer to the target. Trevan who was scouting ahead was suddenly aware of a watcher.
Instinct took over. He rolled swiftly to take cover behind a rock and saw a spear poking out from the scrape he had stood on a breath ago! Hail Raguela, he prayed with relief. He immediately peeped over the rock and saw the tail of a cloak disappear behind a tree. He notched an arrow and let it fly almost straight up. The arrow disappeared over the treetop. For a second, nothing happened. Then he saw a glistening, silver arrow tip racing down the other side of the tree, eager to get red. He reached the enemy's hiding spot and saw him lie slumped against the tree with an arrow sprouting out of his head.
Trevan's worry was quenched when he saw no sigil, no emblem - a merely scared traveller. He plucked his arrow and returned the arrow to its quiver. He took a step and another and another and abruptly found no solid ground as his leg fell into emptiness, pulling the rest of his body. His chest lurched forward. He gave his body a jerk and twisted himself around, his back facing into the unknown abyss. His right foot flew up because of momentum and the left felt the edge of the precipice as he free-fell face-up. Hands fluttered frantically, failing to grab anything to hold on to. His stomach squeezed and his back felt strong gusts tug against it. Puke rushed up to his throat.
Suddenly, he felt a pull on his jerkin shirt near his stomach. His entire body — bones and puke and all juggled inside him. Another pull and he was nearing the edge. A final pull and he found himself and giant Bob panting hard, still nauseously close to the fall. He managed to mutter, "thanks" between his quick breaths. Trevan marshalled his courage and made himself look into the depths of the chasm. It got dark with every inch till you couldn't say the bottom, but nevertheless, his body would have found it if giant Bob had not come.
His eyes followed the other side of the chasm. The other side had no flat land but was instead a steep slope that climbed higher and higher and ended 200 metres above with a plateau upon which stood a dreadful, intimidating castle, ever unyielding. They had to cross the chasm, climb the slope and infiltrate the castle. His mere 200 men had to do this, but first, they had to reach across the valley without making any noise. Those who fell down the chasm would have to stifle their screams and give up their lives in obligate silence. His every man had to do it, somehow. Somehow.
Paramount importance though was to infiltrate this castle of...
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