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Fantasy Fiction
Chronicles of War II: A Desert Ocean
And a King to Sit His Throne
Chapter 12 Page 1
Chronicles of War II: A Desert Ocean
And a King to Sit His Throne
Chapter 12 Page 1
12. And a King to Sit His Throne
Epsilon rounded the headless statue, and was once more progressing along the bloodstone wall, when he met up with a fistful of ruffians, led by the offended gatekeeper. All five of the sloppy man's compatriots were large, well armed men, though they were scantily armored. All appeared to be quite angry.
"There he is," shouted the slovenly gatekeeper, handling his crotch obscenely! "That's him that cannot follow directions! That’s him what named your mothers for whores! Have at 'im, boys!"
Snarling savagely, the five charged, each raising notched and stained broadswords to menace their prey. Epsilon checked the strap of his helmet and reached for his buckler. Guiding Helmcleaver with his knees, he drew his sword coolly and prepared to meet the assault.
Some fifty sticks distance separated him from the five swordsmen, and they had to run up a slight, curving slope to approach him. Ever the tactician, Epsilon shook his head disapprovingly. They drew their weapons too soon and charged prematurely. As they neared, the Ritesman guided his stallion across the street and up onto the walk, where it was covered by a low, roofed awning. There he lingered, until all five men had climbed onto the walk and were nearing close enough to swing their weapons.
With a powerful spring of corded hindquarters, Helmcleaver jumped off the walk and came sharply about. The goons had only just left the raised porch, when Epsilon turned to meet them, blustering furiously. All five had raised their swords overhead to administer chopping blows, but had failed to note the awning above. When they attacked, all five blades sliced forward to embed in the cross supports of the low ceiling. At the sound of steel meeting wood, all five raised their stunned eyes in unison, and then lowered them again helplessly. Immediately, they began tugging at the hafts of their weapons, eager to re-arm themselves prior to their mounted foe's counterattack.
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