The Long Road to Glory
Book I Chapter I: Dusty Roads
The sun blazed high overhead, it was noon; Devlin has been walking through the desert for over a week now searching for the town of Izlude. His body was covered by wounds and bruises of various degrees, his mind was totally devoid of any thought and emotion, and he drifted in and out of consciousness due to exhaustion. He had just attempted to end the existence of the Orcs in which he has failed. He barely escaped with his life; he despised them, all of them, the Orcs. They were the reason he grew up not knowing his parents' love. He was almost successful until he was faced by the Orc Hero. It was just too much for him, a newly inaugurated Swordsman.
As he walked through the desert in his rags he tried to face the disappointment he felt at failing to avenge his parents' brutal deaths. Mumbling to himself as he walked aimlessly through the desert in hopes of eventually reaching his hometown. He was not really lost, he knew the way, but in his state of mind he could not tell what was going on in the world around him. Nothing was clear, he could hear and see, but he could not understand anything.
"There, that's the one, the swordsman we've been hearing about," whispered a merchant as Devlin passed Morroc headed in the direction of Izlude. "What do you think happened to him?"
"I heard he went crazy as he tried to kill the Orcs," answered an assassin. "I guess some people aren't meant to be swordsmen no matter how much they dream of it."
Word started to spread that the Crazy Swordsman was passing through Morroc. Everyone wanted to see this unfortunate soul because of the rumors that have preceded his arrival. He was just passing by, his feet still remembered the road home, but as he came close to the town's exit he was confronted by a group of swordsmen who were known throughout the area for their merciless treatment of those who were unfortunate enough to cross their path. One of them saw the dusty cloaked figure of Devlin approaching and headed toward him. He blocked Devlin's path and pushed him to the ground.
"You pathetic excuse for a swordsman!" he yelled. "Discard your clothes and sword. You give us a bad name. Orcs too much for you?"
That push was what Devlin needed; it rocked his body into consciousness. He heard and understood every single word the large swordsman uttered. He was not affected in any way by the words, for they meant nothing to him. He simply got up and stepped aside and continued on his way. The large swordsman was shocked; this was the first time anyone had blown him off so casually that he did not know how to react. But he quickly gained his wits and grabbed Devlin by the arm and with his other hand, prepared to draw his sword. "You little punk!" he yelled. At this the rest of the swordsmen in his group already knew that the Fool was as good as dead.
In one swift motion Devlin drew his sword and blocked the large swordsman's strike over his head. Everyone was surprised by what they saw; no one could have known the swiftness of this stranger who they thought to be seriously ill. Within that instant, his eyes were no longer glazed, they pierced through your very soul. He was back, he was alive again. He looked directly at the large swordsman's eyes and said, "Leave me in peace and there should be no more arguments. I guarantee your safety."
"You what?" the swordsman ask incredulously. "Guarantee my safety? What a joke! Just think about your situation you little punk. I'm more than enough to take care of you, but I still have my party. No, no, it is I who will guarantee your safety if you give us all your items and money and you discard all signs of your swordsmanship."
People started to gather, some where already protesting to their actions. Pleading with them to let go of the poor swordsman, he's crazy, he does not know what he's talking about. Some were telling the others to just watch for fear of what this group of vandals might do to them. Some were already calling for the knights to bring back order to this peaceful trading post.
The crazy swordsman finally gave his quiet but firm answer, no. People stood there in disbelief, maybe this swordsman really was crazy, he did not know the danger he was getting himself into. "Stand down now and live, or you can die here in the sands of the desert," Devlin finally said. "It does not matter to me either way."
This did it; the swordsman was now shaking in his rage. He prepared to strike once again, but before he could even raise his sword his head fell in the sands a few feet to his left. It oozed and left a pool of blood underneath it as his knees gave way and his body slumped over before it finally fell. The sands were now red with his blood, glistening in the afternoon sun, and the stench of blood filled the air. Everyone looked in awe as he continued on his way to Izlude. No one could have suspected this lowly swordsman to be the most talented sword-handler of that time, and no one could also have suspected how easy it was for him to kill.
Devlin continued his journey to Izlude leaving the people of Morroc in awe of his abilities. This time however, rumors of his very casual "argument" were just the beginning of his rise to the awareness of the denizens of Midgard. He got to Izlude after about an hour of walking watching as the landscape slowly changed from a torched desert to a lush assortment of greens. He was finally at Izlude's entrance; it was just a matter of time before he was back within its streets where he played as a boy.
As he walked towards the central square, he noticed an old man looking at him, analyzing him. He looked tired; his eyes carried the weariness age brought with it, and his frail frame only made his clothes look bigger. He was dressed in a loose gray tunic, which was soiled and rather aged, and was standing next to a cart of fruit. Devlin thought of him only as a shopkeeper who was searching for patrons, but when he spoke to him he was rather surprised by it.
"Have you forgotten your destiny, the one you have created for yourself?" he softly whispered.
"Old man, do not talk to me unless you want your patrons to think you are crazy like me," Devlin answered. "I am far too tired to pursue it."
"You haven't given up," he said, "you are far too proud to do so, young Devlin. I am Ahasuerus; it is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance."
"Have the rumors already gone this far?" he asked, finally interested in the old man.
"No, I have known about you for a long time," Ahasuerus said. "This is merely the first time we have met. Go. You already know where. You shall have your chosen destiny."
"Then I will be seeing you," he finally answered after considering what the old man just said.
As Devlin walked away the old man returned to tending to his cartful of fruits, peddling his wears to the travelers who frequented the square to find the best deals on the street. "You don't know how soon," he whispered as a female acolyte came to him.
Book I Chapter I: Dusty Roads
The sun blazed high overhead, it was noon; Devlin has been walking through the desert for over a week now searching for the town of Izlude. His body was covered by wounds and bruises of various degrees, his mind was totally devoid of any thought and emotion, and he drifted in and out of consciousness due to exhaustion. He had just attempted to end the existence of the Orcs in which he has failed. He barely escaped with his life; he despised them, all of them, the Orcs. They were the reason he grew up not knowing his parents' love. He was almost successful until he was faced by the Orc Hero. It was just too much for him, a newly inaugurated Swordsman.
As he walked through the desert in his rags he tried to face the disappointment he felt at failing to avenge his parents' brutal deaths. Mumbling to himself as he walked aimlessly through the desert in hopes of eventually reaching his hometown. He was not really lost, he knew the way, but in his state of mind he could not tell what was going on in the world around him. Nothing was clear, he could hear and see, but he could not understand anything.
"There, that's the one, the swordsman we've been hearing about," whispered a merchant as Devlin passed Morroc headed in the direction of Izlude. "What do you think happened to him?"
"I heard he went crazy as he tried to kill the Orcs," answered an assassin. "I guess some people aren't meant to be swordsmen no matter how much they dream of it."
Word started to spread that the Crazy Swordsman was passing through Morroc. Everyone wanted to see this unfortunate soul because of the rumors that have preceded his arrival. He was just passing by, his feet still remembered the road home, but as he came close to the town's exit he was confronted by a group of swordsmen who were known throughout the area for their merciless treatment of those who were unfortunate enough to cross their path. One of them saw the dusty cloaked figure of Devlin approaching and headed toward him. He blocked Devlin's path and pushed him to the ground.
"You pathetic excuse for a swordsman!" he yelled. "Discard your clothes and sword. You give us a bad name. Orcs too much for you?"
That push was what Devlin needed; it rocked his body into consciousness. He heard and understood every single word the large swordsman uttered. He was not affected in any way by the words, for they meant nothing to him. He simply got up and stepped aside and continued on his way. The large swordsman was shocked; this was the first time anyone had blown him off so casually that he did not know how to react. But he quickly gained his wits and grabbed Devlin by the arm and with his other hand, prepared to draw his sword. "You little punk!" he yelled. At this the rest of the swordsmen in his group already knew that the Fool was as good as dead.
In one swift motion Devlin drew his sword and blocked the large swordsman's strike over his head. Everyone was surprised by what they saw; no one could have known the swiftness of this stranger who they thought to be seriously ill. Within that instant, his eyes were no longer glazed, they pierced through your very soul. He was back, he was alive again. He looked directly at the large swordsman's eyes and said, "Leave me in peace and there should be no more arguments. I guarantee your safety."
"You what?" the swordsman ask incredulously. "Guarantee my safety? What a joke! Just think about your situation you little punk. I'm more than enough to take care of you, but I still have my party. No, no, it is I who will guarantee your safety if you give us all your items and money and you discard all signs of your swordsmanship."
People started to gather, some where already protesting to their actions. Pleading with them to let go of the poor swordsman, he's crazy, he does not know what he's talking about. Some were telling the others to just watch for fear of what this group of vandals might do to them. Some were already calling for the knights to bring back order to this peaceful trading post.
The crazy swordsman finally gave his quiet but firm answer, no. People stood there in disbelief, maybe this swordsman really was crazy, he did not know the danger he was getting himself into. "Stand down now and live, or you can die here in the sands of the desert," Devlin finally said. "It does not matter to me either way."
This did it; the swordsman was now shaking in his rage. He prepared to strike once again, but before he could even raise his sword his head fell in the sands a few feet to his left. It oozed and left a pool of blood underneath it as his knees gave way and his body slumped over before it finally fell. The sands were now red with his blood, glistening in the afternoon sun, and the stench of blood filled the air. Everyone looked in awe as he continued on his way to Izlude. No one could have suspected this lowly swordsman to be the most talented sword-handler of that time, and no one could also have suspected how easy it was for him to kill.
Devlin continued his journey to Izlude leaving the people of Morroc in awe of his abilities. This time however, rumors of his very casual "argument" were just the beginning of his rise to the awareness of the denizens of Midgard. He got to Izlude after about an hour of walking watching as the landscape slowly changed from a torched desert to a lush assortment of greens. He was finally at Izlude's entrance; it was just a matter of time before he was back within its streets where he played as a boy.
As he walked towards the central square, he noticed an old man looking at him, analyzing him. He looked tired; his eyes carried the weariness age brought with it, and his frail frame only made his clothes look bigger. He was dressed in a loose gray tunic, which was soiled and rather aged, and was standing next to a cart of fruit. Devlin thought of him only as a shopkeeper who was searching for patrons, but when he spoke to him he was rather surprised by it.
"Have you forgotten your destiny, the one you have created for yourself?" he softly whispered.
"Old man, do not talk to me unless you want your patrons to think you are crazy like me," Devlin answered. "I am far too tired to pursue it."
"You haven't given up," he said, "you are far too proud to do so, young Devlin. I am Ahasuerus; it is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance."
"Have the rumors already gone this far?" he asked, finally interested in the old man.
"No, I have known about you for a long time," Ahasuerus said. "This is merely the first time we have met. Go. You already know where. You shall have your chosen destiny."
"Then I will be seeing you," he finally answered after considering what the old man just said.
As Devlin walked away the old man returned to tending to his cartful of fruits, peddling his wears to the travelers who frequented the square to find the best deals on the street. "You don't know how soon," he whispered as a female acolyte came to him.