"They consider us barbarians," Tiriel said softly. She was looking out from the high tower over the fields below. The armies of the Northern Tribes were already gathering for battle, their campfires just starting to light in the deepening dusk. "They call us barbarians," she repeated, "and they think this land is theirs. They are coming to fight us, to kill us, and to take this land from us."
Her tail snaps back and forth as she draws her sword, the sacred blade of the Cliclan, still stained with the blood of the Beast that the hero Algrin slew many generations ago, taming this now-fertile and beautiful land. "They are coming to kill us," she said, "because they see that our skin has scales, while theirs has fur. They call us forked tongue liars, but it was they who broke the truce."
She takes a deep breath. Taking down her war helm, she places it on her head, and the heavy metal plates seem to comfort her, to relax her a bit. "I don't intend to let them," she says. "Tomorrow, I take my personal guard to stand against the enemy. I hope you will be there with me, to guard my flanks. I will have need of your cavalry, old friend."
I look behind us, to where the women and children flee to the south. My wife and child are there. I long to be with them. But this friend, this close friend of mine whom I have known from childhood, needs my aid. There is no hesitation. My sword is hers.
I drop to one knee before my warlord.
11 years, 5 months ago
04 Jul 2011 01:51 CEST
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