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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic

A kingdom overthrown and torn apart by civil war. The royal family lie dead, the royalist forces destroyed and scattered yet there is hope for the kingdom. Yet to appear many believe the hope is foregone but it may be stirring...

Chapter 1 (v.1) - Birthright

Submitted: April 24, 2013

Reads: 100

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Submitted: April 24, 2013







Three figures moved swiftly through the dense fog. The largest gasped turning his head behind him. Turning back towards his two comrades he demanded ‘take this and run. Both of you! Keep running till you reach Leatherbridge. Damion must get that package,’ Turning his head again, ‘at all costs.’ He finished. He handed a heavy looking backpack to the taller of his two comrades. He hefted it up on his back tightening the straps to his frame. With a nod they both picked up the pace and vanished in the fog.


The larger figured turned around whilst drawing his twin swords, pitch black creatures pounced upon him. They looked almost human, yet they wore no clothes or armour; had limbs missing or new limbs added; stank of death; and felt no pain. With blinding speed he cut the first to pieces, the second and third didn’t stand much of a chance either. But it was a short victory as more and more of the creatures were jumping at the lone swordsman from the fog. He ducked and dodged the smaller goblin like ones that had sharp claws and spiked appendages instead of arms. He killed both types quickly and efficiently showing no mercy or regret as his enemies would neither care for it nor know how to show it. Thirty maybe forty he had slain yet they were still coming.


He was beginning to tire yet his blades stayed true, cutting and hacking more of the dark creatures. One got lucky its sharp claws biting into his un-armoured side. Wincing the swordsman removed the creatures head, it disappeared into the fog. He ignored his wound; he would worry about that later. Using his brute strength the man threw one of his swords at an incoming creature, its face ruptured as the keen blade sliced through it; another creature received a similar wound as the blade carried on travelling hardly slowed by either impact. The blade came to rest in a nearby tree, shaking violently from the collision. Dashing forward whilst cutting up another attacker, the swordsman retrieved his blade from the tree. It took most of his strength pulling it from its temporary holder, as it gave his elbow smashed a would-be aggressor in the jaw; if he lived he would always remember the awful sound that contact made, gore splattered his whole arm and got in his hair.


He would not be overcome, there could not be too many left as he could see several dozen corpses lying in many unnatural positions on the ground around him. The fog was fading he could see further hardly any creatures remained. He had to dig deep. He would not be defeated. He fought on slicing up the creatures. He took wound after wound as he tired but he would not surrender. One of the final creatures caught him, a burst of blood shot out from his face. He cried in pain he could not see through his right eye. All he needed was one last push, he prayed for the power. The gods granted it. With immense power he decapitated the enemy. Several strikes later all the aggressors lay dead or dying. He finished one of the smaller creatures that lay wounded in front of him. Its death cry was followed by silence. The man’s head spun.


He slumped down using his swords as support. Gore and death littered the battlefield. He had to rest, he moved off to the side of the road. The fog had gone. Using all his remaining will he cast one of only a few spells he knew; heal body. His body felt the magic weaving its way through it. He was nowhere near as powerful as he needed to be to heal fully; he hoped it would be enough.


 He collapsed by a felled tree he could not be seen from the road. Sitting he began wrapping his most severe wounds with a bandage from his small belt pouch. Checking they held in place he lay down. Someone would come along the road soon perhaps they could help him. He closed his eyes and slept.




Hours later an oldish man in brown robes was handed a backpack. It took nearly an hour to find Damion’s whereabouts many locals were reluctant to give the strangers any information or even the time of day, it was the early hours after all! Damion thanked the comrades with a large bag of coins. He went back inside his priory. Once inside he ran straight for the hidden door, lighting a candle with a silent spell he put the backpack down, it was quite heavy. With a sigh he sat on a weathered arm chair relieved to have finally received his long awaited package. He opened the backpack, the time had come...

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