Aulon's Crusades (continued...)

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Cuskan’s Power


The cold dark prison was Cuskan’s enemy. It seemed that the very walls were his foe as the cold black granite bit icily upon his pearly white skin, while the thin sliver of light, penetrating the oppressive darkness hinted at the beauty of the day outside, tormented him. The soft drip as water fell from the leaky roof reminding him of his unquenchable thirst and the maniacal laughter of his fellow prisoners reminding him of lost friends. Cuskan was slowly dying

He shivered uncontrollably as he sat in the darkest corner of his cell, his clothing no more than rags which offered scant protection against the terrible cold which plagued the prison, both physically and mentally.

He stared outside longingly as birds chirped and the reassuring sound of the sea soothed him. He was trying desperately to forget what the High Inquisitor had done to him. He glanced down at the mess his body was. His right arm had been hacked off in his capture, it’s improperly healed stub seeping thick creamy puss which oozed out from his month old bloodied dressing. His torso was terribly disfigured, not only from his capture, where his right side had been hacked so that he now resembled a hunchback, unable to straighten his torn and ripped muscles which refused to heal correctly, but also from his torture, where his inquisitor had burnt him with fire, drawing crosses and pentagrams and all manner of strange devices in an attempt to draw out his secrets. His dark, unreachable secrets of The Grey Army.

The prison warden could be heard walking down the passageway, his heavy metal boots clanging noisily against the cold tile floor, an echoing sound which terrified the crushed prisoners, all of whom had experienced the warden’s wrath.

“You’ve a guest, you bastard scum,” The warden said in his low, gruff voice as he placed a powerful kick between Cuskan’s bars, sending Cuskan whimpering across the floor. Once a great warrior, Cuskan was now a weak man, unable to even stand up to the warden, a short, portly, balding man who took his anger out on weaker men.

Cuskan continued to hide in the dark shadows, covering his face with his hand, a feeble attempt at both protection and mercy. The obese warden pulled out a thick wad of keys, flicking each one over until he came to Cuskan’s key. Cuskan’s key, Cuskan’s desire, he prayed each night asking for either a blade to cut his own throat, or his key, so that he could escape. The warden grunted as he found the large key which he placed inside the huge keyhole. It clicked loudly as the warden’s chubby hand turned the key.

The cell door creaked with protest as the warden pushed it open, allowing a cloaked man to enter Cuskan’s cell.

“It has been a long time,” the man said as he pulled down the hood which had been covering his head, “It appears it would have been longer for you than it has for me though.” Aulon smiled kindly as he looked down at the mess of a man before him.

Cuskan uttered a soft whisper, his thin chest heaving in and out from the effort it required,” You….You ruined my life, why have you come here? To torment me further?” The words where slurred, hard to hear.

Aulon’s friendly smile never left his face. He tried to put the poor elf at ease, he wanted the elves help, and he wished no harm to the poor creature.

“I have come to offer you a deal, it –“Aulon was cut off by the elf

“Many have offered me deals, none I have accepted, what makes you think you will have any more luck?” Cuskan was a confused soul. He wished nothing more than to be free of this prison, but had refused to tell of any secrets. He had even tried to bite off his own tongue.
Aulon sighed, he had heard of the Cuskan’s pride, nay unmatchable it was. Aulon flicked a piece of imaginary dirt off his cloak,” I think you will accept my deal because it will grant you your freedom, in exchange for information… “Aulon stared deeply into Cuskan’s eyes, judging how much he could draw from the damaged elf, “information, such as, why you tried to kill me?”

Aulon too had been permanently damaged when Cuskan had been captured – for he had been the one who had done it. Aulon’s eyes flickered to his damaged left arm, the thick orange scar which ran from shoulder to wrist. Fortunately, priest had been able to restore his arm to nearly the same strength as it was previously. Left with only stiffness and the spider web scar which ran like a puzzle down his left arm, his wounds had been far less grievous than Cuskan’s had.

Both men sat in silence as Cuskan thought over the proposal. The sounds of screams could be heard from one of the cells as the torturers did their gruesome trade. Cuskan shivered as he thought of what they had done to him.

“Fine, consider it a deal.” Cuskan said at last. He had tried to maintain a standard tone, but Aulon could tell that Cuskan was crying silent tears, leaving pearly white patches on his otherwise grey, filthy skin.

Aulon had stuck to his word, and three weeks later, Cuskan was being released after telling Aulon of his mission.

The warden walked Cuskan down to the front of the prison, his bare feet slapping the ground noisily as he walked. The prisoners, like brothers, where as pleased about Cuskan’s release as he was, even if he was a murderous, vile, dirty grey elf.

The closer Cuskan came to the front of the prison, the more light filtered in. After spending three years in a dark, moldy prison, the light blinded Cuskan as he hobbled down the passageway, his hunchback even more distinctive while he was walking.

“This be yer affecs at time o’ capture,” the warden said grimly. He had enjoyed kicking Cuskan. Not often did he get the chance to kick a Grey Elf. He would miss that.

Cuskan looked into the crate of his belongings, his warped left hand making slow work as he sorted through the pile. He gasped as he came across his magnificent longsword. Even after sitting in a wooden crate for three years, it still had the power to awe him. He tried to lift it up with his left hand. He struggled to hold it upright, and would never manage to swing the thin blade. The light glistened off the blade as it had done so many years before, reflecting the meager light into a million colors in a million directions. As he held up his sword, the prison was no longer dark. He placed it down on the wooden counter. It may be a lovely sword, but Cuskan was no longer strong enough to wield the blade – or even hold it – he would need to sell it before he began his long journey home.

“Warden, your sword is old and rusted, I will give you this sword in trade for 3 gold pieces and your food for the day,” Cuskan announced.

“mmm…’dis a mighty fine blade, but all me food? With 3 gold pieces? You must be mad! I’ll give you me food, and 3 copper piece.”

They bartered for a few minutes before they settled on a price. 1 gold, 3 silver and his full food ration.

Cuskan pulled on his black robe, pulling the hood up high to hide his disfigured face. The army may have granted Cuskan safe passage, but the inhabitants of the Kingdom certainly wouldn’t. Cuskan hobbled out the prison, finding himself in a busy street, with smells and sounds and sights that he had seen too long ago.

The cobbled street was covered in filth, the thick brown human excrement winding its way down the drains on each side of the street, finding their way into the sewers at the bottom. Whores at every stopping doing their trade, merchants shouting prices over the bustling crowd while small boys pick pocketed the unsuspecting nobles.

An old rundown carriage made its way towards him, the skilful driver flicking the whip just behind the horse’s ears, keeping them at a steady speed. The back wheel was skew, moving suspiciously as the cart rumbled slowly towards Cuskan. As it pulled to a stop, the neat driver dropped down onto the road noisily, his metal tipped, black shoes clicking. He pulled out the old, rusted folding step, which grinded noisily. He opened the small side door, gesturing for Cuskan enter this old, yet serviceable, carriage.

“Compliments of Sir Aulon Hunter, ‘me Lord,” The driver said, bowing to Cuskan,” He tells me ‘ye be wanting to travel to Durugath, and then on to The Gateway to the Gods. I be the only man ‘vir the job,” The driver said reassuringly as he did a little tap dance.

Although Cuskan would never be the fighter he was, his mind was still as sharp as ever. He wondered what Aulon was up to, for no human gives without thinking of rewards. He scratched his messy beard with is left hand, sprinkling lice and filth onto the otherwise clean carriage,” They think they’ve destroyed my patriosm when they destroyed my body. There are many ways for an elf to kill a man,” Cuskan told himself as he thought into the future. He closed his eyes, thinking of all the ways in which to enact his revenge. His evil smile appeared terrible, his grotesque face amplifying his features.


Words: 1638
Total Writing Time: 96 minutes


Cuskan’s Glory


Cuskan, draped in his black robes, crouched over like a hunchback, leaned heavily on his gnarled staff as he watched life pass him by. It was a rainy day today, thick droplets splashing onto the cobbled paving, washing away the filth which littered the streets of Calcuth. The sky was lost behind a thick layer of thunderclouds, sitting ominously in the sky, occasionally showing the moon which hung like an axe waiting to chop down on the unsuspecting citizens. The inhabitants of Calcuth rushed like ants, desperately trying to find shelter from the severe storm which soaked through cloth clothes, infecting the vulnerable humans with diseases and viruses that their pathetically weak bodies where unable to shake.

Cuskan shook his head, his thick grey beard flicking water droplets everywhere, “Humans…humans,” Cuskan giggled maniacally,” So powerful, yet so weak.” Cuskan danced in the rain, his black robe flaying around him like a blossoming flower. Ever since his release from the prison, Cuskan had been plagued by thoughts of revenge and hatred, his feelings slowly driving him mad.

Cuskan had stayed in Calcuth, killing the driver who had offered to drive him in his own carriage all the way to The Gateway to the Gods, The Grey Elves’ homeland. Ever since then Cuskan’s mental condition had begun to decay faster, as he fought with the spirits which plagued him. Ever since the spirits came, he had been granted powers. Powers unlike any other magician. He could cast spells without having to study books or scrolls, he had inborn magical strength.

Cuskan stopped dancing, the rain running down the scars on his mutilated face, past his chest burnt with pentagrams and crosses, snaking its way down his destroyed legs onto the cobbled roads. A town marshal approached Cuskan, his longsword swinging at his waist comfortably, his painted round shield strapped onto his back. His friendly gait suggested that he had no idea that he was walking into a fiery elven furnace, a furnace so bright and great and terrible, that one day, an Elven Demigod might be forged.

“Old sir, you be needin’ some help?” The town marshal asked quizzically, his friendly face open and warm and hospitable. Cuskan hated him for his face.

Cuskan slowly turned towards the marshal, his robe covering his scared face, only his bright white eyes visible in the darkness of his hood.

“I am looking for Sir Aulon the Hunter,” Cuskan said in his slurred, low voice. He gritted his teeth as he said Aulon’s name. His mission was to kill Aulon, and he couldn’t return home without doing it.

The marshal’s eyes narrowed slightly as he stared at the hunchback,” Very good. Follow me.”

They made their way down small alleyways where the houses on the sides seemed so old and rotten that the washing lines tied to the dwellings on the other side of the street appeared to be the only things keeping them standing. Cuskan wobbled his way after the marshal, his damaged stride and black cloak giving him the appearance of a demon hunting his next victim.

After several minutes, they arrived at a large stonework building, a small castle, it was. Two guards stood at the gate, protecting the entrance.

Cuskan thanked the marshal as he walked up the flight of stairs to the entrance.

“Yer business?” the senior guard asked Cuskan in flat, lifeless tone.

Cuskan ignored the guards. He smiled faintly as he lifted his left arm out straight, pointing it towards the heart of the senior guard. Bright blue lightning shot of his palm, lighting Cuskan’s face which until that moment had been hidden by his cloak. Cuskan laughed gleefully, his eyes rolling back into his skull as he felt the joyous pleasure of killing a human. It had been too long since he had killed.

The guard screamed as his skin burnt off, thick black blood erupting from the guards destroyed heart, soaking Cuskan in powerful erratic squirts. Cuskan stopped laughing as he saw the guard die. He hadn’t lasted long enough. Perhaps his more youthful friend would?

The younger guard was crouched over, hiding behind his round shield. The guard was wracked by sobs as he watched his master die. The guards pants soiled and wet, Cuskan shook his head, “Boy, in death, a man only has his pride. You have managed to even loose that.”

The guard shook his head, tears running down his young face, “Sir, please…” he begged.

Cuskan lifted his hand once again. The lightning sliced out his palm noisily, echoing loudly. The guard tried vainly to hold in his organs from the huge hole Cuskan had made in his stomach. His hands shock violently as he tried to hold them over the gaping wound, blood squirting out between his fingers, spraying onto the already blood covered floor.

For the first time in over a year, Cuskan felt powerful and strong and happy. He ignored the dying guard, and heaved open the giant wooden door.

Cuskan was greeted by Aulon standing in the center of a large hall, waiting for him. His faithful bastard sword in his hand, his tower shield at the ready, once again, the two greatest warriors in existence would fight.

“I gave you back your life!” Aulon snarled at Cuskan,”Yet you come back here, and try to reclaim mine?

Cuskan hobbled into the giant room, his bloodied shoes leaving gruesome footprints upon the marble floor, “You never gave me back my life, all you ever did was take my pride. My life will not be mine until I kill you.”

“Let us see! I killed your Lord Magician, I shall now kill you!” Aulon said viciously.

Aulon sprinted towards Cuskan, his heavy metal boots banging noisily upon his marble floor. Cuskan raised his cloaked hand,”So be it.”

Once again, thick blue lightning shot from Cuskan’s palm, reflecting off the marble floor and roof beautifully. The lightning snaked its way towards Aulon, who braced himself behind his shield. The lightning hit the shield. In a flash of brilliance, where the room was encased in bright blue light, Aulon’s shield broke..

Aulon roared with pain. He had never felt mortal pain, or feared death until this moment. He lay upon his beautiful floor, his hands frantically pulling at the pieces of wooden shield which, on impact with the lighting, had shot back into his chest. Sharp stakes had punctured their way past Aulon’s breastplate, deep into his chest. He groaned loudly as he felt his strength leaving him, his vision swimming. A dark shadow covered his body. Aulon looked up

Cuskan stood in front of him, his mad grin stuck firmly onto his face,” I have killed you Aulon, I have killed you,” he said simply, his slurred mouth struggling to express the pleasure he felt.

Cuskan turned and left, his black robe shimmering into nothing as Aulon’s vision faded. In blackness, Aulon told himself, “You cannot die. If you die, so will The Kingdom. You are the only one who has defeated a magician; you are the only one who might be able to kill Cuskan.”

In darkness, Aulon clawed his way on hands and feet, his chest leaving a thick blood trail across the floor. He pulled himself upright, using his hands to find the gong and mallet used to call the Town Guard. He hit it repeatedly, feeling his hopes soar as he heard it echo in his head. He kept hitting it till he fell asleep.

This time, in sleep, Aulon felt fine. He knew he would live. He knew he still had something to do.


Words: 1217

Writing Time: 122 minutes

Anyone mind commenting on these? positive feedback is good, but positive critisism is better

[ December 07, 2003, 21:04: Message edited by: The_Apprentice ]

 

First one, third paragraph. Way too many 'He' and 'His' starting the sentences. Haven't read the second one as of yet.

 

Thank you! will take your feedback into account with my next peice... =)

 

This story is becoming very interesting, and your writing style has improved in strength a lot since your orginal essays. I still think the final battle was over too quickly, and by this, I do not mean descriptions of gore, only that I felt Cuskan would have done more to seek his revenge. But still, very nice work. I look forward to reading more. Some background on this war between the elves and humans and perhaps the spirits you spoke of with Cuskan would also be interesting, I assume that this is meant to build tension or mystery about the characters, and will be released gradually, so by all means take your time.

 

Thanks Manus! After your post, I reread my story and I definatly agree with you.. Cuskan would have wanted to torture Aulon, really make him pay for the suffering he had endured. Not sure how I could have written that in without killing Aulon though.

Atleast from the next story he is going to have some companions, so even if he does die the story can go on


-------------------------


The Kingdom’s Shield


Aulon lay in bed, the urine-like smell of sickness hanging heavily in his room. He glanced out the large window which dominated his sickbay. He was overlooking the harbor. He could see the sailors getting ready to set sail, their lovers standing on the shore, waving goodbye to them. The sailors scampering all over the ships, tying knots and cutting ropes, they moved like ants over the hull, no mast too high to climb, no rope too thin to climb. After a few minutes work, the sail burst into life, stretching wide as it scooped up the air.

Aulon sighed heavily. He had been bedridden for nearly two weeks now, and was ready to leave. He ran his hand over his chest. He could feel large gashes and dimples on it from the stakes. The surgeon walked into the room, his blood soaked apron unnerving Aulon.

“Aulon, you’re free to leave. Just remember – no strenuous work for the next week,” The doctor said, unaware of his grizzly appearance. Aulon could even see blood in his hair.

“Thank you doctor, without you, I would have bled to death.”

The doctor smiled, he had flawless teeth, “You’re very welcome. I wish you the best of luck against those retched elves.” His smile left his face. Both men knew they where loosing the war against the elves.

With the help of one beautiful nurse (who Aulon had been flirting with since his arrival), Aulon quickly packed his things and left the hospital. He hated hospitals.

Aulon walked down the street slowly, enjoying the fresh sea breeze. He could see seagulls flying high up into the air, and then dropping straight down like spears upon the unsuspecting fish. The ship Aulon had been watching from his bed was on the horizon now, a white spec among the endless blue ocean.

Aulon’s lazy walk was interrupted by a small boy bumping into him. Aulon cringed as pain attacked him, his chest throbbing devastatingly. The boy was homeless, his filthy rags and knotted hair distinguishing him as the scum of the earth. They where considered to be worse than rats. Rats where easier to get rid of as well.

“Sorry Sur, not meanin’ any disrepec’,” the boy said, grinning toothlessly

Aulon looked suspiciously at the boy. He had not seen him at all until he had fell onto him. He patted himself, checking his belongings. Aulon had been wearing his noble’s garb and would be the perfect target to be pickpocketed.

The boy, seeing Aulon check for his belongings, laughed gleefully and took off down a dark ally, his torn clothes trailing behind him. Aulon groaned as he took off after the boy, each agonizing step causing Aulon to loose his wind. The boy had better taken something valuable, this pain better be worth getting it back, he thought as he reached his top speed, his elegant stride long and beautiful, his black cloak flapping behind him.

Aulon could hear the boy’s heavy breathing as he ran down the thin alleyway, both their steps echoing softly. He was catching up to the boy; he could see him every now and then as he turned deeper into the alleys, finding himself further and further away from the Harbor District, and deeper into the Cheap Side, the area where thieves and murderers preside. Aulon had lived there once, in what seemed like a lifetime ago. The garbage in the alley piled up the further he ran. He occasionally saw dead cats and other – possibly human – corpses that had been beaten to mush, only pieces of skulls and hands remaining.

Aulon laughed as he saw the boy take a bad turn. He knew where that ally went. It was a dead end. Aulon slowed down to a walk. He was tired, his breathing heavy, each inhale feeling like knives being stabbed deeper into his chest.

“Boy, give me what you took, and I’ll go easy on you,” Aulon said gruffly.

No response. Aulon hadn’t expected a response. Aulon would go easy on him, but he suspected that most people would probably have killed the boy had they caught him.

Aulon glanced around the filthy dead end, rotten fish and garbage and fascias, all manner of disgusting things which most noblemen would never see in public. Aulon pushed over a human corpse with his foot, showing a young girl with a dagger cut to her throat. She had obviously screamed when she was attacked, and had her neck sliced so that the attacker could rape her in peace. Poor girl, Aulon thought to himself.

Aulon saw something suspicious. He saw a garbage crate, the right way up, with its lid on. You never see that in an area like this. The poor would turn them over and use them as homes. Aulon walked quietly up to the crate, unsure if the boy was armed or not. Aulon jerked off the lid.

The boy screamed in his unbroken voice, taken by surprise at the sudden movement. Aulon threw his arm into the crate, grabbing the boy by the scruff of his neck. He heaved the struggling boy out of the crate, its curses and growls more vicious than most full grown men.

“Put me down you bastard son of a poxy whore!” The boy screamed at Aulon, his eyes vicious and wild.

Aulon placed the boy on the ground, but was careful enough to block the only exit from the ally. The boy pulled a dagger out of left boot (his only boot, the right one was missing), and tossed it from hand to hand.

“You ready t’ die you ‘ellow livered scumbag? Any real man would be fighting dem elves!” the boy said aggressively as he sliced into the air.

Aulon stood motionless, his armed folded over his chest,” Boy, give me back my belongings. This is your last chance.”

The boy laughed nervously. He didn’t like the cool attitude Aulon had under pressure.

“Oh yeah?” the boy said with more confidence than he felt.

The boy sliced low, trying to hamstring Aulon. Aulon grabbed the blade with his left hand, giving the boy an open handed slap with his right.

The boy was sent sprawling into the rubbish, lost behind the boxes and filth which plagued the Cheap Side.

“Woooah!” the boy said, poking his head out the garbage,” Teach me that!” His toothless grin stuck firmly to his young face.

“I’ll teach you that, but first you have to do some things for me,” Aulon said smiling slightly as he began to see the young boy’s charm.

“What mister?” the boy asked eager to please his new master.

“First, I need you to give me back what you’ve taken from me, and promise to never steal from me again,” Aulon frowned, trying to show the boy the seriousness of this comment.

The boy pulled himself out of the garbage, brushing off the filth. He dug deep inside his shirt, pulling out a small golden timepiece. He threw it lightly to his master.
Aulon caught it neatly, feeling the painful tug of his chest, “Secondly, I want you to help me find the biggest, roughest, strongest bunch of men who are willing to fight the Grey Elves. They must meet me at the Friendly Arm In. Tell them they will be well paid.”


Aulon sat at the Friendly Arm In, sipping gently on his mug of ale. The boy’s word as true as gold, he had been approached by several men, all hardy and strong and experienced, yet none, so far, have met Aulon’s standards. Aulon glanced towards the stage, the tavern girls dancing along to a troubadour’s flute. Their delicate movements where like butterflies, gracious and beautiful and innocent. His eyes wondered further, up to the bar where an assortment of grizzly trophy’s lined the walls. The most impressive of which defiantly being a breastplate with a horse shoe sized hole in it, punched in by a crossbow. Stories tell that the man actually lived.

“You be Aulon?” a man dressed entirely in black asked.

“I am Aulon, you interested in joining my party?”

“Aye, I am your man,” The man said, his dark eyes glinting menacingly.

“You experienced in combat?” Aulon had learnt to ask that question. Already half a dozen wet-eared soldiers had approached him.

“Yes sir. Was a paladin,” the man said as he shuffled his feet,” I’ve been kicked out the ranks though. So am free to join whom I will.”

“A Fallen Paladin?” Aulon judged the man for a second or two. He appeared to be experienced, powerful. He had intelligent eyes and his powerfully built arms showed that he was still in shape. Aulon was worried what the man had done though. Not many men become paladins, few become fallen, even fewer wear black from head to toe after doing so.

”What crime did you commit?” Aulon asked.

The fallen paladin sighed, his black breastplate rising and falling,” I was on a quest to stop a serial killer. I tracked him down, cornering him in the home of his latest victim. He begged for mercy. I gave him none.
I carry his thumb in memory of my crime.” The paladin pulled out the old moldy thumb, the nail broken off, the skin rotting. It looked nothing like a thumb.

“Your name?”

“Cane the Killer”

Aulon stood up, gripping the man by the shoulder. “Welcome to my party Cane.”

The rest of the selection came quicker now, Aulon recruiting three other members besides Cane. An archer, named Wispur, a cleric, named Elizabeth, a fighter, named Zed.

The new party sat round the table at the tavern, enjoying themselves with hopes of plunder and glory and dead elves.

“Sir Aulon, you forgot to mention my name to the party! I have to come too!” the boy tugged at Aulon’s cloak, quickly gaining both his attention and his anger.

“Boy! You’re too young! You wouldn’t last a second!” Aulon snarled at him.

After much persuasion, and heavy drinking, Aulon finally agreed to let boy, who was now being known as Filch, join the party.

And together, they toasted to The Kingdom’s Shield, the party which would kill Cuskan, the mightiest magician in the world, and stop the elves from reclaiming their land.
------------------

I felt this one dragged on abit...was hard writing in the selection process...tell me what you think please !

[ December 08, 2003, 16:50: Message edited by: The_Apprentice ]

 

heh. The Friendly Arm Inn. Nice addition to your other works. Just one thing 'retched' in paragraph 5 needs a 'w' Otherwise....

 

Thanks bro! really apreciate that! will play closer attention to my spelling from now on

 

'bro'?

 

Er...oops! Thanks Val... =P

 

Well, so far I had liked everyone here.

I hadn't posted with the purpose of spam. I was simply seeking feedback for my stories in order to improve my work. If you are too narrow minded to see that, I will discontinue posting here.

If anyone wishes to read my stories, they will (over a period of the next 3 weeks) become available at: http://www.wordcraftsmen.org/modules.php?name=Content&pa=showpage&pid=10

ALl views are apreciated.


Edit: Please note that Manus and i have discussed this matter, and the combination of me bieng overly sensitive, and Beren attempting to keep the boards clean, came to this misunderstanding.

I will be posting the next installment soon.

As always, positive feedback is good, positive critisism is much better.


-------- A Shield's Test: part 1 ------------


Cane knelt on the dark marble floor, muttering prayers to the god of righteousness, Lord Tethbert. The sun had just begun to show itself over the mountains, filtering beams of bright light into the stained glass windows, painting the floor in a dozen beautiful colors. The abbot and other monks chanted their songs as they prepared the church for the sinful, the good, and the ill. The soft hymns relaxed Cane.

“Tuthbert, grant me the strength of sword, shield and mind to follow Aulon into the heart of iniquity, and purge it of its vile bowels. Grant me the strength to ascend back to my previous status of Paladin. “

Wispur walked into the church, his shadow destroying the beautiful colors on the floor, winding its way up to the alter, covering the magnificent statue of Tethbert wielding his mighty staff.

“Cane, Sir Aulon seeks your company. He wishes to discuss our next quest,” Wispur stated in his soft voice.

Together, they walked out of the house of worship. Both men where trained to survive, to kill. The monks and villagers crossed themselves as the two mighty men walked past.

The morning dew was still on the ground, reflecting the light from the sun like bright diamonds. Wispur pulled out his long jagged hunting knife as he peeled an overripe apple. He threw a piece to Cane. Cane caught it, his thick metal armor rattling.

“Well here we are,” Wispur said smiling, “Let’s find out what Aulon has for us.”

They entered The Friendly Arm Inn, the small tavern was almost empty right now, with only a few regulars from the previous night in the common room, drunken to oblivion.

Paul, the innkeeper, indicated which room Aulon was staying in.

The two men climbed up the creaky stairs, stepping over the drunkards. Wispur pushed open the heavy wooden door, finding Aulon and the rest of the party already waiting for them.

“Pull up a chair, both of you, we’ve got a great deal to discuss,” Aulon said in his gruff voice.

Filch poured each member of the party a large mug of ale, the thick liquid still warm.

“As you know, the King denied us the right to assassinate Cuskan. He told us had to first prove ourselves. The King asks us to help one of his Barons, a man who had been struggling to reclaim his keep which has been overrun with goblins. The goblins are believed to be ruled by Xambag,” Aulon said

“Xambag? I killed him me self! Its hogwash dat he be leadin’ them goblins.” Zed said angrily, slamming his mug of ale on the wooden table,” Nasty fello Xambag was. Gave me this here scar he did.”

Zed pulled up his cloth shirt, revealing a thick scar which ran horizontally across his entire torso,” Lucky he didn’t split me guts open. Wielded one of dem Greataxe’s he did.”

“They could have resurrected Xambag. It would have required a powerful dark cleric though,” Elizabeth said.

“Alright, so we have a small army of goblins, an undead orc warrior and a powerful dark cleric,” Aulon said as he tapped his fingers against the table, “I guess we better bring some extra gear then? This might take awhile.”

The Kingdom’s Shield set off, their heavy packs encumbering them, slowing their progress to a crawl. They all enjoyed the walk – all soldiers enjoyed themselves before battle – as they know it might be the last time they may see the beauty of life.

Filch had never been in the countryside before, knowing only the filth and dirt of the cities. He ran and laughed, rolling in the endless fields which rose up to the horizon. Aulon smiled, he hadn’t realized how young the boy was. Wispur picked up the boy’s pack, slinging it onto one arm.

“Whoa!” Filch said in awe,” What’s that!” He pointed to the keep, its dark walls and spiky towers making an ominous picture. With his keen eyes, he could make out the small green goblins patrolling the walls, sharpening weapons and cleaning the grounds.

“Dat be our mission, young ‘in!” Zed said as he looked down at the boy. Zed squinted at the castle, his face a mask of wrinkles and scars, “Looks like they’re well organized.”

“Let’s set up camp here and then we will try to formulate a plan,” Aulon said as he too stared at the menacing castle.

The company quickly set up a camp, Aulon and Cane cutting down trees while Zed dug the foundations. Elizabeth supervised, using her potions and medicines to keep the company invigorated. Wispur was sent out to hunt for game, Filch carrying his arrows.

Wispur crouched low as he entered the dense bush. His movements completely silent to Filch who was standing right next to him. Wispur strung his mighty longbow, the cord fixed tight, humming like a harp.
Slowly the pair made their way deeper into the forest, the thicket obscuring their vision, limiting it to a few feet.

“Bodkin,” Wispur said lightly. The feared Bodkin arrow was a deadly piercing arrow, able to puncture through mail, flesh, bone and then mail again.

The soft sound of deer feeding, much like the clatter of a horse trotting on cobbled paving, could be heard in the forest. The soft pull of branches as the deer pulled the leaves off the trees, the clicking sound of their antlers as they moved, Wispur knew his prey was near.

He pulled the cord to his ear, the bow creaking in protest. The Bodkin arrow sat neatly on Wispur’s cheek as he aimed his weapon. Wispur’s draw fingers released, the yard-long arrow shooting straight and true, hitting the deer with a satisfying crunch.

Wispur rushed forward towards his prey, Filch being slapped by plants and bushes in his wake. As Filch entered the clearing, he saw the deer lying on the ground, blood spluttering sporadically out of its damaged neck. The arrow, still within the buck, had pinned it to a tree. The deer cried in pain, it’s destroyed body not yet releasing its grasp on its soul. Wispur moved towards it, and with a quick strike of his hunting knife, ended its suffering.

Wispur, with a small cut from the arrow on his cheek, motioned for Filch to grab his longbow and arrows. The archer then pulled the arrow out of the deer’s neck, spraying the last of its blood onto the ground. Wispur picked up the deer, positioned it on his back, and made his way back to camp.

Only after sunset did Wispur arrive at the camp, his fatigued arms and legs cramping from carrying the heavy deer. The sun having recently disappeared, the rest of the party was sitting around the campfire, staring at the blue and golden clouds, the remnants of the faded sun.

Wispur sighed as he placed the buck on the ground, “Boy, prepare the carcass for the fire.”

Filch grumbled, his face cut and bruised from the plants, his legs aching from walking,” Yes sir.”

The party sat round the fire, warming their tired bodies. The sounds of the night could be heard already, crickets, owls and wolves, but where drowned out by Filch and his flute. The goblin’s squawks and squeals could be heard over Filch’s song, their drunken laughter merry and happy, yet at the same time so very evil.

Aulon poked the fire with a stick,” Alright, I think I’ve come up with a plan that will work.”

The company’s chatter died down, Filch’s song stopped. They had been having a good time but the thought of the upcoming battle froze their joy.

Aulon pulled his poker out of the fire, and began to illustrate on the ground,” If Filch goes through the sewer system; he will be able to infiltrate the castle. Once inside, he hides inside an empty food keg till midnight, whereupon he finds the servant’s gate and opens it, granting us entrance.”

Aulon waited a few seconds, giving the company the chance to ask questions,” Once inside we proceed to kill the goblins using stealth. If our presence becomes known, hopefully we will have an element of surprise for long enough to dispose of Xambag. If one of us is captured, he is to claim he is here on a solo mission. If you cannot convince the enemy you are here alone, you are to chew one of these leaves, it will bring a painless death.” Aulon unclenched his fist, showing 6 thin yellow leaves.

Each member took a leaf, nodded to Aulon, and began the preparations for the most daring siege ever.


-------------------------------------------

In this story I tried to work on my characterization, as well as learn how to tie events together. Not sure how I did. your views and comments are always apreciated, and will never be thrown back at you.

Thanks !

[ December 13, 2003, 21:38: Message edited by: The_Apprentice ]

 

Well, I think I'm fresh out of comments, but it is good to see you returned. Your characterisation has been strong lately -even with Cuskan- and here is no exception, it is definately more in depth than our first encounter of Aulon. My only thought would be that it seemed to jump forward once or twice (like from the countryside to within sight of the keep) but I must say that the atmosphere is good, and I like the descriptive aspect you have strengthened throughout the story. Nice work.

 

Wow, Thanks Manus! your feedback is much apreciated. I know my stories jump, and am trying to work on that...it's one of the hardest opstacles for me =P

This latest story was difficult as it was a 'bridge' between two stories, the previous one, where Aulon recruits everyone, and the next one, where The Kingdom's Shield will try claim the castle.


No other critisism you can give me?


Also, I don't want to destract from this websites members - as I think it a great site - but should also mention that Ive found a great site for amatuer, young authors (under 25, with the majority bieng in their teens).

http://www.wordcraftsmen.org/

As always, SP has the best atmosphere, but as young writers are looking for varied opinions, the more sites one submits their work to, the better =) Hope this site helps with that.


--------- Filch's Struggle: part 3 of First Test


Filch crept down the corridor, his dagger guiding the way, glistening golden from the reflection of the half-burnt torches hanging on the old walls. His stride was determined, his face cold and grim. He was about to kill a goblin, and hopefully wake up the entire keep. Filch let his ears lead him, the sounds of the goblins’ shrill laughter and snarls directing him down tunnels and corridors as he searched out his prey.

Filch turned into a dead-end, a large wooden door standing in front of him. He ducked down, looking into the keyhole. He cursed badly. The keyhole still had the key in it. He couldn’t see inside. Filch stood up, plastering his ear firmly to the door. He could hear three goblins grunting with laughter as a fourth one told a joke.

Filch held his breath and said a silent prayer as he decided what action to take. His felt his hands quivering and his mind racing as adrenalin pumped through his veins. Filch flipped his dagger round, holding the razor-blade point between his fingers. He pushed the door open an inch, the goblins too drunk to notice the tiny gap. He peered through, choosing his target.

The fourth goblin appeared to be some sort of leader, wearing a golden crown which hung around his long, torn ears. A heavy medallion hung around his neck, the burden of carrying it causing him to slouch down.

“Looks like I’ve found me target,” Filch said as he stared at the goblin, malice in his young eyes as he thought of possible failure.

Filch jerked the door open, taking the drunken goblins by surprise. He held his dagger at eye-height, aiming. The goblins banter had died down, staring at the young, cold killer in front of them. The goblin leader was the first to come to his senses. He rushed forward, a golden scepter in his clawed hand. He twisted his waist, preparing to smash the golden rod into Filch’s face. Filch had finished aiming, his young eye and strong arm causing the dagger to fly straight and true. The dagger sliced into the goblin’s eye, deep into its brain. The goblin dropped its scepter and began to tear at its face, blood and jelly dripping down onto the ground as it tried to dislodge the dagger.

Filch turned and sprinted out the room. The goblin was as good as dead, and it wouldn’t take long for the other goblins to snap back to reality and give chase to the young boy. The burning torches blurred as Filch dashed down the corridors, his small body moving vast speeds. Filch could hear a goblin hammering the gong with the mallet, trying desperately to bring help to their dying leader. Filch jumped onto his knees, allowing his momentum to carry him across the floor till he stopped in front of the servant’s door. He tore a thin strip off his already destroyed shirt, wedging it into the door’s lock.

Filch could now hear heavy footsteps as the warrior goblins came down the corridors, their thick metal armor rattling noisily. He finished wedging the cloth into the lock; he turned round and ran back down to the sewer entrance, jumping the flight of stairs straight into the waist-deep water. His wind was heaved out of him from the long fall, but he ignored it and ducked his head under the water.

Xambag, ruler of the goblin warriors, mightiest of all fighters, killer of a thousand men, ran down the corridors, his unarmored chest remarkably built, his thick, barrel sized arms moving backwards and forwards as he ran. He snarled at his foot soldiers to run faster, to find the intruder.

“The bloody coward must be around here somewhere!” He snarled at a whimpering goblin captain which shook in fright at the thought of having his master’s wrath directed at him.

Filch held his breath, his eyes shut firmly as he tried desperately to forget he’s in sewage. He felt his fingers and hands tingle as his body began to run out of air. He felt his arms and legs become weak, and feared he would float to the top. He threw his arms out to his sides, wedging himself underwater. He couldn’t give up. He was so close now.

Xambag walked down the halls, his neck rounded so that his massive frame didn’t collide with the roof. As massive and mighty as he was, Xambag’s gift wasn’t his strength – all orcs where strong – his gift was his intelligence, and the fact that an intruder had managed to infiltrate a keep which he commanded insulted it. People never insulted him and lived.

Xambag peered into the sewer. If he had been an infiltrator, that’s where he’d have come from, he thought as he prodded the ground with the tip of his sword. Filch felt something disturb the natural current of the water. He opened his eyes. He was greeted with dark, filthy water. Unspeakable things floated in the water, not only excrement, but pieces of corpses, eyes, and livers, and tongues.

Filch looked up, he could see the dark outline of a creature on the background of the golden light of the torches. Filch felt dizzy now; he had been holding his breath for near two minutes. He focused himself, and began to slowly edge his way back from the monstrous being which overlooked him.

Xambag grunted. He couldn’t feel anything in the water. He turned around, making his way up the stairs, taking them 4 at a time.

After Xambag disappeared, Filch burst out of the sewage, gasping for air. He dragged himself out of the water, his tired body unable to do even a trivial task like standing. Filch lay in the darkness, the sound of dripping water his only company. He pulled himself up to a wall, sitting upright. He vomited into the sewer, his meager stomach contents floating away. Filch wiped his face with his arm.

“Tuskash, God of Mercy, if this is yer way of telling me to pray more, lighten the hell up,” Filch snarled at the darkness.

Filch heaved himself up, sneaking his way back into the corridor. He sat in the shadows, timing the patrols. Crouched over, too weak to stand, Filch opened the servant’s door, careful to lock it behind him. He hobbled in the darkness, moving down the lightless corridor. He held his right hand in front of him, fumbling his way till he found the servant’s exit. His hands ran over the doorknob. Never had Filch been happier. He turned the lock, pulling the heavy metal door open.

In front of him, The Kingdom’s Shield stood, ready to finish the mission.

--------------------------------

A death for another: Final Part of First Test

Filch fainted. He fell slowly to the floor, floating down like a feather towards the ground. He slipped into nothingness, his vision swimming, his ears taunting him with echoes of past conversations. Elizabeth rushed towards him. Her shield and warhammer fell to the ground noisily as she pulled Filch up against a wall, forcing him to drink one of her vile green potions.

Filch spluttered, gagging on the slimy liquid. Aulon’s eyes stung as he tried to hold back tears, watching his young servant suffer over the dangerous mission he had given him. What a cruel man I am, he thought as he squatted down next to the boy, his scabbard scratching against the cold granite floor.

Aulon pulled off his gnarled gauntlet, rubbing his unarmored hand through the boy’s golden hair.

Filch opened his bright blue eyes, glancing towards Aulon,” My master, I beg of you. Be careful,” Filch’s breathing was light. He tried to suck in air, his skinny chest shaking from the effort.

Filch’s eyes closed, his body became limp. Aulon turned towards Elizabeth, fearing confirmation over what he had said.

“He lives, yet only just. His life cord is thin and weak, and it would need just a thin slice from a god to end it. The rest of the company should continue the quest. If Filch is to live, I must be by his side, arguing his case to the gods.”

Aulon nodded to Elizabeth. Aulon stood up, his face grim, his eyes alive with hatred and anger. He pulled out his thick blade, the metal glistening in the moonlight. He held it to the skies.

“I swear upon my soul, that if this boy dies, I will kill goblins, elves and orcs until my sword turns crimson, my armor as dull as the thunderclouds of the north, my soul as black as the dead of night. I do not ask for Filch to live. I command it! For if the gods do not grant him life, I will full the hells to the bowels of the 7th!” Aulon snarled at the sky.

With his unarmored hand, he gestured that his band of warriors should follow him. Aulon walked down the ancient passageway, the only light coming from a solitary torch which stood forlornly upon a cracked coat-of-arms, a trace of the former glory of this once fine keep.

Aulon stopped at the locked servant’s door, glancing at each one of his warriors, silently wishing them luck.

Cane had his left hand clutched over his crucifix, his other hand rotating his longsword, warming his wrist up for combat. His sword sung softly from the speed.

Wispur was stringing his longbow which hummed like harp, the bowstave arched over tightly. He readjusted his quiver. He nodded to Aulon, his face expressionless.

Zed was leaning against his pike, drinking from a leather skin of ale. He belched loudly, his belly grumbling. He could see the rest of the party staring at him, waiting for a sign that he was ready. He quickly downed the last of the leather skin.

“Alright mates! I’m ready now! Let’s get em!” Zed said enthusiastically.

Cane broke open the door, shattering it onto the ground. He rushed through it, slicing a runty goblin across the torso, spilling its guts across the floor.

Zed sprinted out, sliding on the bloody floor. He laughed gleefully as he skewered another of the sentries, kicking the corpse off his long weapon.

Aulon had not bothered with the sentries, walking coolly down the walkway, his chainmail the only clean set of armor among his bloodthirsty band. Aulon felt arrows flicker past him, Wispur’s bodkin arrows flying gracefully towards an oncoming group of warrior goblins.

A goblin jumped from behind a pillar, snarling menacingly. Cane shouted his holy war-cry as he punched it with his mailed fist. The goblin’s attempt to surprise the experienced band of fighters proved foolhardy, his face broken in, he slumped to the ground, his jaw lying next to him in a bloody mess.

The Shield made their way towards the oncoming goblins, which, after seeing their companions killed within minutes, had slowed their charge down to an insecure shuffle. Wispur’s arrows continued to fly past the company, each yard-long shaft slicing deep into armor, flesh, bone, then more armor.

Aulon stopped in front of the party of goblins. Throwing his massive sword from his right hand to his left, and then back again.

“I wish that only one rotten soul travels down to the lowest hell, so I give you the option. Join me, together we can kill Xambag, your master, and you will all be granted freedom to travel back to your homeland, or fight me, where you will only be greeted with death.”

Aulon smiled as he said the last words, his lips thin and icy. Aulon thought of Filch as a son, even if he wouldn’t say it.

A large goblin, the biggest goblin in the group, charged Aulon, his ragged armor rusted and bent, his sword frayed and damaged, he would be no challenge. His high-pitched voice squealed with glee as he swung his blade down towards Aulon. Aulon ducked down, rolling to the side, his chainmail giving him freedom to move as if he was unarmored.

Aulon came up from his roll, swinging his body to the right, slicing his mighty weapon deep into the unarmored portion of the goblin’s leg joints. The goblin cried out as his limbs where sliced from under him, severed completely, he crawled towards Aulon, his torn legs dragging behind him. The rest of the goblins stood back in awe. Aulon was a well-known warrior, and he would as easily have killed one man as he would have half a dozen. Aulon stood up, flicking his sword round, he slammed the point into the goblin’s skull in a spray of blood.

“Does anyone else wish to fight?” Aulon said tonelessly as the rest of the Shield caught up to him. All of them bloody and dirty, they scared the goblins into submission.

Together, the goblins leading, they made their way towards the hall, the place where Xambag and his royal guards would be feasting.

The floor became cleaner, the walls better lit, the decorations more extravagant the further they went into the seemingly endless keep. After a few minutes of brisk walking, they made their way to a set of huge doors, reinforced with thick steel and engraved with grizzly scenes of battle.

A small goblin stepped forward, a ring of keys round his waist. He lifted the biggest one – the size of his forearm – and heaved it into the keyhole. He turned with all his strength, the key grinding noisily on the metal as each pin clicked into place.

The Shield prepared themselves, flexing tired hands and cleaning dirtied faces. All of them occasionally gave the goblins menacing looks, they had heard from the boy how terrifying Xambag was, sketchy details, but very fearful ones, and tried to ensure that the goblins wouldn’t turncoat on the band.

The small goblin pushed open the heavy door which creaked loudly with protest, so much so, that it was as if a herald had announced them.

The hall was beautifully lit, with a large chandelier that dominated the center. At the far end there was a massive throne, reaching up to the roof, forming a support beam which had been decorated with an intricate engraving of the a map of the world of Aryol. Upon the throne sat a massive figure, standing near 8 foot tall. It looked forward menacingly as the Shield walked inside.

Several young human slave-girls where cowering in a corner, whimpering as they dragged an unconscious girl away from their master. He obviously beat his servants.

Xambag stood up, his massive frame reaching towards the roof. He laughed sadistically as he looked at the force before him, “You enter my keep and try to kill me, with a band of half a dozen?” Xambag sneered, his thick green skin wrinkling. Xambag gestured towards his chamber warriors, “Kill them.”

Xambag stayed back, enjoying the bloodsport, he occasionally laughed when a goblin was killed or when a human was injured.

The small assortment spread out, surrounding the Shield and their goblin allies. The force giggled manically as they came in closer, the braver of the them jabbing with spears and halberds and any other weapons with reach.

Cane took a spear blow on his shield, “Aulon, What should we do?” he asked as he sliced down on the spear, ripping it into a pile of splinters.

“We do as we have trained. We fight,” Aulon said grimly, wondering if he had not only killed Filch but the rest of his party as well.

The royal guard broke formation, running into Aulon’s forces. It became a bloody orgy as humans and goblins fought in a crazed days, men fighting not with training or tactics, but simple, primeval instincts.

Zed roared as he swung his pike round, slicing four goblins, spraying blood onto his already crimson breastplate. He spat on the corpses, his once joyful disposition gone in the fear of outnumbered, well-trained fighters.

A goblin swung a handaxe down onto Cane, who blocked it neatly with his shield, stabbing his sword underneath, cutting the goblin down groin first. Cane turned immediately to his next enemy, screaming a holy war-cry. He bashed his shield into a goblin’s face, leaving it a messy puddle of broken teeth and exposed bone.

Wispur shot off his arrows, taking down one after another goblin, his reload and aim taking a single heartbeat. His quiver was near finished now and his hands where bloodied and sore from the tremendous effort of drawing his bowstring. His left hand was cut and bruised from whiplash, but he didn’t notice, he was too busy fighting for his life and the lives of his friends.

Aulon swung his powerful weapon, shattering armor and steel and flesh under his mighty blade and mightier arm and mind. He was quiet; he felt no joy or happiness in killing these goblins. He felt only hated towards them for putting his young friend in such danger – or rather making Aulon put his young friend in such danger. He cut down another goblin, its severed sword-arm twitching on the ground from his mighty cleave. He felt his face refreshed anew as the stump sprayed blood onto him.

Xambag laughed loudly, his massive chest heaving in and out, “Well fought, smallins! I was hoping I would have the honor of fighting you.”

Xambag walked off his throne, pulling out a set of twin greatswords from the scabbards across his otherwise naked chest. He hit the blades together as he walked towards the Shield who stood facing the mammoth being, lost in awe.

Xambag screamed as he swung his blades at Wispur, who appeared to be the most vulnerable of the group. Wispur dodged, jumping backwards, letting loose a dozen of his bodkin arrows. The arrows hit Xambag’s chest noisily, but it had no affect on the huge orc.

Xambag slashed backwards, parrying Aulon’s sword blow, then kicked forward towards Cane. Cane braced himself, taking the full force of Xambag’s kick on his sturdy shield. The shield bucked inwards, throwing Cane across the hall to hit against one of the support beams.

Zed lunged hard at Xambag’s back, trying to surprise the massive creature. Xambag spun round, blocking the pike with his greatswords. Aulon saw his opportunity, slicing across Xambag’s hamstring, the orc’s cry of pain echoing in the hall as he flicked his greatsword towards Aulon. Aulon dropped to the floor, letting the blade swoop over his head.

Wispur continued to launch his arrows, near thirty of them lost in the orc’s massive chest as blood began to seep down onto the ground from the tiny cuts. Wispur shot off the last of his arrows, fingering his quiver as he tried to find more. He dropped his longbow, rushing forward to the melee, a hunting dagger in each hand. “An archer’s work is never done,” he mumbled under his breath.

The fierce battle drew on for minutes, the seeming indefatigable orc slicing and parrying the Shield’s futile attacks.

Cane had recovered from his nasty blow, his helmet dented in and blood splattered across his visor, he was injured, but he refused to give up.

Xambag dived into the Shield, knocking them all to the floor.

He laughed gleefully,” You had honestly thought you could better me in combat?” he sniggered.

Filch had scaled a support beam, hanging on the chandelier as Xambag laughed at the Shield. After Elizabeth’s potion he had quickly recovered and knew that the party would need him. He inched along, careful not to cause the chandelier to shake, less the dangling crystals warn Xambag.

Xambag raised his greatsword, preparing to swing them down onto the Shield, all of whom was beaten and tired, their goblin allies dead.

Filch pulled out a dagger, the small blade fitting perfectly into his tiny hand. Filch dropped from the chandelier, kicking his legs out to gain the distance he needed to land on Xambag’s round head. His wind was knocked out off him as he landed, the orc’s thick skull feeling as hard as stone.

Filch stabbed his dagger into Xambag’s skull, the orc roaring as he clawed at his head in an attempt to pull off the small boy. Zed saw his chance, gripping his pike with the remainder of his strength. He shouted his battlecry as he lunged towards Xambag, driving the pike deep into the orc’s thick body.

Xambag stood awestruck as he peered down at the pike which had been driven through his body. He ran his hand up the weapon, the blood from his wound greasing it. He heaved out the pike, spinning it round so that the butt was on the floor, spraying blood onto the nearby walls. Filch howled as he fell from the orc, hitting the ground with a crack.

Xambag leaned on the pike, using it as a staff as he hobbled his way back to his throne, his once enormous presence reduced to that of an old man. He sat down heavily, a mixture of blood and spittle running down the corner of his mouth.

“Twice I have lived, and twice I have died,” Xambag said between gasps, his soul escaping his weak body,” Yet even in twice lives, I have been the same man’s servant, even though he too has lived twice, but never died. I wish to end my eternal slave-ship, I ask that you kill the man Sashan, the man Cuskan, the lost god.”

Xambag’s eyes glazed over, his breathing stopped. The pike fell to the ground, rolling down the three stairs which led to the throne.

Wispur rushed to Filch, checking that he was uninjured. The boy had cracked a rib, but no serious damage had come from the long fall.

Zed picked up his pike, mumbling under his breath,” Aulon was right, only one death will be remembered today, yet it was not who we had initially thought it was.”

Aulon shivered as he thought of Xambag’s dying words. The world of Aryol was in darker times than even he had thought.

“How can a party of men kill a renegade god?” Aulon asked the dead orc which peered back at him mockingly, “If only you had lived but a moment longer.” Aulon sighed.

Cane knelt on the ground, his helmet on his lap, his crucifix held tightly between his hands.

“Grant me the strength to finish the mission you have given to me. I know now that I was not thrown from your ranks, but granted a mission with a higher purpose. I will prevail,” Cane murmured to his god, knowing fully well that Aulon was going to take them even deeper into the heart of darkness.

And so, The Shield traveled deeper into the darkness, seeking peace for their troubled race and even more troubled world.


----------------

Heya guys,
was just wandering if any of you'd mind criting my work. After writing my last three I've had no feedback hehe =(

[ December 21, 2003, 14:19: Message edited by: The_Apprentice ]