Of The Line Of Estelondo: Percival's Tale.

Chapter 28: The Drakorian Skirmish: Incomplete

The winter snow came down in sheets as they rode out of Le Elorean and crossed the Marellocoile to the south-east of their previous location. "Why are we going to Drakoria, Percival?" Metimafoa asked, his voice containing a slight frigid vibrato. "Last I heard, it was razed to the ground."

"Two reasons," Percival explained, "the first and foremost being that as we found Simon in Elorean, we have to assume we will find some loyal dragonborns, and they should be of great avail to us. Their racial ability should be enough to concern Gyges, at least enough to make him accept a duel."

"I still don't think this will work, Percival," Faramaureä stated for the sixth time over their journey. "Gyges may be a miserable excuse of a man and an utterly despicable individual, but he isn't an idiot. He knows he will have the better terrain, being in a castle, better supplies, having access to the entire Kingdom, and a larger army. Why would he risk it all on a duel?"

"You're the one who mentioned his egotistical self-image," Percival answered. "If he cares so much about how the people think he looks, he won't have a choice."

Faramaureä was disquieted, but she held her tongue, instead only thinking the phrase. We might need a greater incentive than that... Percival was unaware of this thought for obvious reasons, and rode his horse onward, until they could see the village in the distance. Smoke rose from its obsidian buildings and yellow uniforms marched throughout the piles of rubble, with some picking up the purplish-black rocks and loading it into carts. The Vilzriquathtorixen Hall was well lit, as residence had been taken up there since the two heirs had stayed in its torrid halls. She saw all of this and knew that Gyges had taken the city. "We can't go here, Percival," she stated, "The city is far more occupied than I had predicted. There must be a hundred soldiers there."

Percival had stopped on his horse and was looking at the village before them. Even now, he wished for the warmth of the Obsidian Hall, and even more so, for the Halls of Meneltarma. He wheeled his horse to face his siblings. "Give me our Banner."

Metimafoa was speechless for a moment, but he recovered enough to say, "You can't seriously still intend to go in there. There are only five of us, and there are a hundred of them." He paused when Percival gestured for him to hand over the banner anyway. "We'll be butchered like lambs at the slaughter!"

"No, you won't, Metimafoa," he said with maddening calm, as he rode his horse over and pulled the pole from his younger brother's hand. "I'm going in alone."

"Not a chance in the Halls of Mordelisk!" Canoelloestel exclaimed. "Are you mad, Percival? Even your family couldn't face up to eighty guards, and there were eight of them. You want to face odds of a hundred to one."

"I won't be alone. I said 'I'm going in alone,' not that I would be fighting alone." He pointed to the village. "In that village, over a hundred Dragonborns are living under martial conditions. They will fight for whoever comes to free them, and avenge this razing of the Drakorian folk." He away toward the village. "I trust you will come when I call, but apparently I trust you more than you trust me." He spurred his horse and rode off, leaving them all where they sat.

Percival entered the city perimeter moments later and dismounted. Immediately going toward the centre fountain, he was stopped by a officer. "What is your name?" The woman asked, gesturing for some of her men to stand by.

"I am one who bears a name known to all of you, but I am known to none of you." He held up the banner, and said, "I will give you this one opportunity to flee, but if you do not take it, I am not responsible for what happens to you."

The woman looked enraged, and gestured for the men behind her to raise their arrows. "How dare you speak to me in such a form of indifference. I'll ask you once more: What is your name?"