The Orb in the Sword: Chapter 3	Copyright 1998
	-------------------------------	By Ben Christie.
					All rights reserved.

	The rain fell relentlessly against the mountain tops
from a dark, overcast sky far above. It splashed in the
puddles atop the gray cliff, steams of water pouring down
the side. Bellow was another cliff, slick with water, which
curved around the largest mountain, connecting to another
farther west. It was the path best traveled by anyone
crossing through the Cliffs of Cavenmore, but few ventured
into them, the dangers of the mountains turning them back.
Over the edge of the path a straight drop leading to another
bank which sloped towards the valley forest. Legend told of 
a lost city beneath the trees, but tale dare not leave out the
stories of those who attempt to find it. Few had returned
from such a quest and none spoke of what went on beyond
the wall of the woods. The forest stopped at the base of the
southern mountains. The paths through those mountains
were treacherous and often fatal keeping most people to the
northern cliffs. The King's troops, made up of the most
vicious and powerful beasts of the land, even trafficked the
simple course. The only way to avoid the cliffs were to
follow a course around the mountains and such a task took
nearly two months worth of travel. That was the route of the 
caravans.
	It was a day not fit to travel the path, but the troops
were out, marching along the cliff below and watched from
the cliff above. Standing, leg against a rocky mound, a gray
haired, brown chest rottweiler gazed down at the soldiers
approaching from the east. The rain hit against his fur and
he was entirely drenched, but it ceased to turn him back.
Splashes in the puddles around him drown out the voices of
the army below, but their conversations didn't interest him.
He had other things on his mind. The soldiers stood side by
side forming two lines and carrying platforms between them
which supported several chests and most of the weaponry,
but his eyes followed the leader of the troops, General
Marweil who sat gracefully atop a chair held up by one of
the many platforms. Marweil wore the cloths of a General
and sported the markings of one across the dark fur of his
chest. The rottweiler paid close attention to him, watching
his every move, staring at his dark face. It was as cold and
cheerless as the day this dog had first met Marweil in the
King's Court.
	"You may enter now," he had said, holding the
immense wooden door open.
	From beyond the wooden doors, the rottweiler
moved into the court. Before approaching the King's throne,
he took a look around. The ceiling was far above their head,
held up by eight stone pillars four on either side. There were
no windows or openings to the outside leaving the room to
glow in torch light. The walls were a dark orange colour
mixed with the black of the shadows cast into the corners.
In the center of the room was the city of Cyrottweil's
symbol, the side profile of a dog's skull with two swords
crossing behind it enclosed by circle. At the far end of the
court was the King's throne. It sat atop a pyramid of steps.
Most of the throne was an orange colour like the rest of the
room, except for the dog heads made of solid gold on both
of the arms. The backrest rose high up and curved over the
King himself who sat motionless, arms on the rests and legs
spread shoulder width apart. His face was dark and strong
like his body, but it was cold as well. As cold as the bottom
of the sea. The King's chest don the markings of the ruler:
the curved red S on the right mirror on the left, with the
three point star centered in the bottom of the S's. His fur
was dark, almost a solid black. His chin and throat were a
brown which blended into the black of his chest and his
waist was covered by the gold and red cloth marked with
the same mirrored S symbol as his chest. His body was
massive and powerful and even though the rottweiler
standing before him was equally impressive he was
intimidated by the King. He'd heard tales of the King killing
an entire camp of rival armies with his bare hands. Many
stories were told of the King's bravery in battle, wielding his
broad sword which sat next to the throne. Ganter Rottweil
was as impressive a king as his father Cavenmore Rottweil,
who had mapped the northern mountain range to the west.
	General Marweil closed the huge wooden door
behind him. It's slam echoed through the court. Marweil
lead Trakt to the throne and introduced him to the King.
"Your Majesty, I present to you Trakt Weilsam."
	The King frowned as he looked over Trakt's figure.
Despite the fact that Trakt was a broad, strong rottweiler,
the King still looked down on him with disgust. He looked
into Trakt's eyes and spoke in a loud booming voice. "Trakt.
I sent you to the Village of the Crocodiles. What news do
you bring back?"
	Trakt swallowed the lump in his throat. "After
traveling to the village, some of the troops and I explored
their huts and conversed with the people. We know them
now and were accepted into village. Their culture is based--
"
	"I don't have the time to listen to someone recite
information on a petty village," the King barked. "I want to
know if they pose any kind of a threat to Cyrottweil or my
throne?"
	Trakt wasn't prepared for the question and he
stuttered before answering. "Well, um, they have weapons."
Then quickly added, "But they're only sticks and spears.
They aren't prepared to attack anyone or defense against
anything as big as us. I'm sure with a little preparation they
could do some damage."
	"Do they pose a threat?"
	"We didn't find--"
	"Trakt!" The King interrupted, standing from his
seat. "Yes or no. Do the people of the crocodile pose any
threat to Cyrottweil or my throne?"
	Trakt answered. "No."
	The King calmed himself. "Are you sure about this?"
	"Yes, your Majesty."
	King Rottweil sat again. His head resting on his
hand, he pondered for a moment. Trakt watched nervously
as he figured his performance was poor in front of the ruler.
He knew this would reflect bad on the King's impression of
him.
	Marweil walked towards the throne. "Is that all you
need of Trakt, Sir?"
	It was a moment before the King looked at Marweil
and answered. "That's all I'll need of him. You may leave,"
he told Trakt.
	Trakt bowed. "Yes, your Majesty." He turned
towards the door and was lead out by General Marweil who
closed the door loosely behind him. Trakt rested against the
wall and hung his head down in shame. He was embarrassed
by his appearance before the King.
	"How could I be so stupid," he mumbled to himself.
"The culture of the crocodile. Why would the King be
interested in that?"
	He ran his hand through the fur on his head.
Noticing his cloth wasn't very neatly done up, he frowned.
Trakt bent down to fix it. The hallway before the King's
court was quiet. The walls were the small orange colour as
the court and it too was lit up by torch. He wondered where
the guards had gone which normally stood watch. Faintly in
the background he could hear the conversation in the court.
Trakt ceased to straighten out his cloth and listened in.
	"This is for sure, your Majesty?" Marweil said.
	The King replied. "Absolutely."
	"Then I'm to gather some of the forces and eliminate
the village?"
	"Yes, and quickly. No one is to know of this, you
understand? You heard what Trakt said. If they know you're
coming, they could do put up a defense against the troops. I
want them wiped out completely. Not one is to be left alive.
And no prisoners."
	"What are you doing?" called a deep voice.
	Trakt looked up from the ground to see a hulk of a
rottweiler guard standing before him. His upper chest was
massive compared to Trakt's and his arms were like chiseled
boulders. In his right hand he carried a spear.
	"I was just fixing my cloth," Trakt quickly replied,
standing from the ground.
	"You're not suppose to be here. Leave, before I call
more guards."
	Trakt hurried past the guard. "I was just leaving."
	As Trakt turned the corner the guard moved
towards the door, pushed it partly open and peering into the
court. "Honored King. Sorry to interrupt, but I found a dog
outside the door. He may have overheard some of your
conversations."
	The King glowered at the guard. "Do you know
who it was?"
	"The one who you were speaking to."
	"Trakt Weilsam?" the General said.
	"Yes, Sir."
	"You may leave now," the Majesty said, waving his
hand. The guard closed the wooden door behind himself,
the sound echoing throughout the halls.
	Trakt wiped the rain from his face. He narrowed his
eyes and watched as the army passed underneath along the
mountain trail. Removing a curved blade from his waist
cloth, he moved closer to the edge of the cliff. Finally, the
troops completely passed by his lookout and like a hawk
swooping down on it's pray, Trakt jumped from the cliff
above gliding to the ground below. He landed softly,
narrowly avoiding the puddles scattered about. Crouched
down, his right hand gripping the blade firmly, he sped
towards the troops ahead. His head avoided the platforms as
he dashed under them, out of sight from the troops. The
soldier's legs breezed by him at an incredible speed. He was
swiftly approaching General Marweil seat. The air rushed
through his ears and fur. He could hear the conversations
among the troops, but couldn't make out any discernible
sentences. Trakt reached the back of the seat where
Marweil was perched and using his powerful legs, jetted
himself through an opening in the platforms. The blade he
held forward, it's curved edge pointing skyward. The troops
silenced at the sight of the mighty rottweiler leaping into the
air. Reaching the peak of his vault, Trakt somersaulted in
the air. His feet landed hard against the cliff's rock ground
and immediately he leaped again, towards the cliff's edge.
Before anyone could attack the predator, he was gone.
	Several of the troops had dropped the platforms to
the gournd, spilling their contents and were gripping their
weapons tightly. One such troop peered over the cliff's
bank. He looked back at the General and uttered, "He's
gone, Sir."
	Marweil sat still, his eyes looking forwards in a
glazed stare. From beneath his chair a puddle had formed. It
was dripping from Marweil's seat. It was not water. It was
blood. General Marweil of the King's Royal Army was dead.