The Swordmaster's Apprentice

Prologue

First Draft~ Edited.

oOo

Countless of his men lay dead on the plateau, rivers of their blood rushed through the crevices littered across the cliffs. Those still alive were engaged in vicious fighting with monsters beyond that of description. Fatigue was spreading through their ranks. Soldiers below him fought tooth and nail against creatures that hadn't existed before this war. He watched as a giant of a monster grabbed one of his men, hoisting him from the ground and ripping him in two. The man let out a gruesome scream as he watched it eat his legs. He dragged himself away dragging a pool of blood with him. Harvald could do nothing but watch as the creature dragged his soldier and dug its teeth deep into his neck, ripping his head clean for his torso. It discarded the body and moved on to its next victim, clearing a path for its commander to ride through.

His eyes followed the stream of dead bodies to the man who he held a true hatred for, the man who had started this pointless bloodshed. All for power. The man, with a face as pale as sheep's wool, and wrinkled features, sat atop a skeletal steed. His black eyes, consumed by dark magic, scanned the battlefield, looking for the warrior he was so eager to kill.

Harvald's hand slid to the sword in its sheath, never wavering eye contact with the monster. A shrill sound pierced the air as the sword swung from its cover, the deadly sharp edges gleaming in the sunlight and an ominous glow emitting from its spine. The sword of Neemia truly inspired fear in the hearts of those who opposed the Swordmaster. To his right, a creature known as a 'Wyrd'- a gargoyle with human-like features, continued up the mountain pass slaying all those who neared it. After cutting down what seemed like a mini-army, the Wyrd finally reached the plateau where the Swordmaster stood, its teeth yellow and covered in blood, its eyes pure black with spots of red. The monster lunged.

In an attempt to knock the Swordmaster off the cliff and to his demise it ran at full speed towards him. At the last second, he swept to the side, kicked his foot out and swung his sword in an arc, removing the Wyrd of its head and sending it tumbling down the cliff to the feet of Morgiath. A monster such as a Wyrd was widely respected in the ranks of his armies and extremely hard to conjure; the Swordmaster defeating it with such ease caused Morgiath's blood to boil. He let out a blood-curdling scream and began to gallop through the ranks of monsters. Speeding like the demon he was, up to the mountain pass until finally, he reached the plateau.

"Harvald!" Morgiath had his twin-bladed spear drawn, its two blades curving in opposite directions each protruding from black skulls. The blades were as sharp as a Wyvern's talon and gleamed in the sunlight. "You will die at my hand..." He flashed an evil toothy grin, his yellow decayed teeth disgusted Harvald "and then so will your wife!" His eyes narrowed at the mention of his wife. "How is Milena? Oh, and of course we can't forget about little Samuel, right?"

The newborn had been a constant source of joy for both him and his wife, although he had, had next to no sleep the past week Harvald was happy to finally have a family with the woman he loved. The baby already had a few strands of blonde hair growing on the top of his head and his toothless grin had melted the heart of his warrior father within an instant of seeing it.

"You know we're going to have to name him soon?" Milena his wife chuckled whilst looking at him "If we don't soon, he'll be more prone to responding to long pauses!"

His wife had always had a brilliant sense of humour and rapier wit but she was right and the two had resorted to just calling the child 'baby', "What about 'Henry'?"

"After your grandfather? The one who fled a battle?"

"Yeah... good point, what about... Mark?"

"What about Samuel, after my pops?" Milena's father had died at Harvald's side whilst fighting Viking raiders from the north. In doing so he had saved his life by throwing himself in front of an axe hurled by the Skirl of the party of Vikings.