Protologue

The wind danced upon the desolate dry valley, kicking a few random leaves here and there. It was hot. Very hot. Very, very, very hot. So hot that the cloaked figure had to take a few extra breaths of air as he pushed his way down the hill, trying his best to not trip, while scanning the valley below at the same time.





The sun beat down on him, scorching his already sun bleached brown hair that stuck out through the sides of his darkened cap.


He didn’t seem to mind, his eyes just trailed around on the valley below. Looking. Searching.


Then in the distance a stone catches his gaze. He strains his eyes looking down at the stone just sitting there, just where he had anticipated it to be. He lets out a satisfied smile grabbing a small wooden shovel like object from inside his cloak he hurries down the hill, towards the stone, that lays there silently in the open air.


There it was! It really existed! The tale actually wasn’t a myth. The figure lets out a ‘whoop’ of glee.



No matter how much it had been denied that it actually existed sure enough the gravestone sat there as clear as day.



The figure crouches down in front of the stone, his gaze drifting over the stone, studying it with his eyes. The figure traces his finger along the words Though unable to read them, he feels their power.


Then he sees it, a soft glow in the sand in front of the stone. His smile drops into a worried expression.


“Do I dare?” He asks himself in a whisper, fear breaking through his tone.


It glows brighter, as if beckoning him to grab it, to touch it.


He places his hands in the sand, slowly pushing the sand away. His fingers strapping off the dirt.


He digs more, the object shining brighter and brighter in the light. More and more beckoning him to touch it, and unwind it.


Finally its free, with a grunt the figure pulls a sword out.



He gently blows the dust of the old scabbard, his hands slowly examining it down. The scabbard was covered in dry sand, holding on tightly to it. Was this
the first time after it had been buried that it had finally been undug?






The figure with his thumb gently pushing the rest of the sand off then a small inscription comes to him on the handle carved into it.





Arthram K.





The figure gasps and almost falls backwards at the sight of the words, but somehow is able to catch himself. His eyes widen, wrinkles forming on his brow. Pain! Anger! Flies through his mind, as is threatening to take him down to someplace where he cannot breath.


His heart aches in his chest, despair breaks through like a sudden sharp blade piercing through his heart. Pulling him, trying to push him down into the
ground.




He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t have unburied the sword and left it be. I high pitched screaming surrounds him as if all evil in the world had been released down upon him. “Ahh!”


He looks up at the sky a high pitched moaning sound surrounding him like a storm. He feels claws and talons cutting into him, but he sees no marks. He
screams and moans in agony as he’s pulled down into the ground by a unsee able force.




“I shouldn’t be here, I should have left while I still could!”



He pushes himself, trying to get up. Finally through all of the pain he manages. The screams get louder.


He jumps up, eyeing the sword in his hands he looks off in the distance, and sees it. Figures. Countless cloaked figures in black on horses of the same color, running on their way towards him. He gasps, his heart beating fast in his chest.




“They’re here.”


The figure makes his way, tripping and tossing up the hill to where his horse awaits tied to the tree where he had left it. Almost fainting from heat exhaustion the figure pulls himself onto the saddle. Quickly with his knife he releases the horse from its rope bonds.





“Boy, lets get out of here! Hoowah!” He screams kicking the horse. The horse lets out a shriek suddenly flying into a fast gallop. As the horse goes the
figure can’t help, but look in the distance where a dark swarm of black gathers, like lightning in the sky. “What have I done, oh what have I done!” The figure moans, tears rushing into his eyes, forcing their way down his cheeks. “What have I done!”





[This is a story I've been working on for some time, I'm trying out doing medieval writing, btw this is a thriller. Lol its not suppose to be creepy. Sorry, if it is kind of.. Its just a little practice 'I'm doing to see how I like writing medieval and yeah, Please if you have any ideas of anything to help with my writing to get it better at all, please let me know lol, thanks :)

(This was written by me, all of the ideas were ideas of mine, Or at the least inspired by someone else's writing I didn't use a AI to write this.) :)