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Fantasy Fiction
Chronicles of War II: A Desert Ocean
And a King to Sit His Throne
Chapter 12 Page 2
Chronicles of War II: A Desert Ocean
And a King to Sit His Throne
Chapter 12 Page 2
Meanwhile, Epsilon casually but quickly guided Helmcleaver around to the awning's two supporting piers. At its master's urging, the stallion kicked these out, one by one.
Now the five assassins were forced to catch the collapsing roof, before it could swing down and crush them against the wall. It was all they could do to hold it up, apparently, and they blew and strained to save themselves. Their blades were, necessarily, forgotten for the moment.
Epsilon next turned his stern attentions on the gatekeeper, who had turned to flee, while cursing the fates of stupid men. Helmcleaver easily ran the unsavory character down and knocked him, sprawling, to the cobblestones. As he slid, the slovenly man's face scooped through a dense pile of fresh manure. The gatekeeper sputtered and coughed, and wiped the shit from his eyes as he rolled over to sit up.
The Ritesman laughed heartily. "The color and smell suit you, citizen. The mask is a definite improvement over your natural features." He reseated the Warfarer's ornate blade and took up the reins once more. Helmcleaver circled the prone robber closely, his steel shod hooves dashing sparks and sharp splinters from the pavement. The keeper flinched at every clatter. "What a despicable coward you are! I would dash out your brains on the spot, scum, except for the danger of my stallion slipping in the mess! Now get up! Get up, damn you! Your witless friends are in need of aid, and you should not abandon them! Get over there, now, I say! Raise your hands and hold up your share of that roof!" The gatekeeper took his place in the ranks, and performed as instructed.
Epsilon stood in his stirrups to address the gang as a group. "Beware," he intoned, "you have all come before a Holy Warfarer of the Martial Rite. Empowered in the name of Empire as Prefect of all these Wilderlands and its peoples, I have summarily judged you and found you guilty of wanton criminal behavior. Your punishment is declared to be death!" All six men paled to hear this, both that they had vainly attempted to assault a Holy Warfarer and that the Warfarer had sentenced them to death for their crimes. "However, in light of this awning's need of your collective support, you are hereby redeemed until some kind citizen should come along to replace the piers. I hope for your sake that one happens along soon!"
Now the five assassins were forced to catch the collapsing roof, before it could swing down and crush them against the wall. It was all they could do to hold it up, apparently, and they blew and strained to save themselves. Their blades were, necessarily, forgotten for the moment.
Epsilon next turned his stern attentions on the gatekeeper, who had turned to flee, while cursing the fates of stupid men. Helmcleaver easily ran the unsavory character down and knocked him, sprawling, to the cobblestones. As he slid, the slovenly man's face scooped through a dense pile of fresh manure. The gatekeeper sputtered and coughed, and wiped the shit from his eyes as he rolled over to sit up.
The Ritesman laughed heartily. "The color and smell suit you, citizen. The mask is a definite improvement over your natural features." He reseated the Warfarer's ornate blade and took up the reins once more. Helmcleaver circled the prone robber closely, his steel shod hooves dashing sparks and sharp splinters from the pavement. The keeper flinched at every clatter. "What a despicable coward you are! I would dash out your brains on the spot, scum, except for the danger of my stallion slipping in the mess! Now get up! Get up, damn you! Your witless friends are in need of aid, and you should not abandon them! Get over there, now, I say! Raise your hands and hold up your share of that roof!" The gatekeeper took his place in the ranks, and performed as instructed.
Epsilon stood in his stirrups to address the gang as a group. "Beware," he intoned, "you have all come before a Holy Warfarer of the Martial Rite. Empowered in the name of Empire as Prefect of all these Wilderlands and its peoples, I have summarily judged you and found you guilty of wanton criminal behavior. Your punishment is declared to be death!" All six men paled to hear this, both that they had vainly attempted to assault a Holy Warfarer and that the Warfarer had sentenced them to death for their crimes. "However, in light of this awning's need of your collective support, you are hereby redeemed until some kind citizen should come along to replace the piers. I hope for your sake that one happens along soon!"
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