Age of Evil (sampler) by Zachary Burz (best historical fiction books of all time TXT) 📕

Age of Evil
A Reproduction of the Ancient text


“There’s No Turning Back”


Written By:
Zachary Burz


Once you open this book your body, mind and soul will be taken through eyewitness accounts! You’ll travel into danger head first, not knowing whether you’ll make it out alive! Join Erendore Luminessa as he takes you through his journey to destroy the Dark Lord and the army of undead minions. But be forewarned, once your journey begins, there’s no turning back!


Author’s Dedication page


This book is dedicated to


All my Friends

My Family

And

Patrick A. Kenny

For assisting me with the editing and publication of this book


Chapter 1: The Prophecy

In the kingdom of Colys, there was a quaint little village, which held very peaceful people. They worked hard to make a living; they grew crops for their families, and produced livestock to trade for furs. But no matter how cheerfully they worked, they weren’t happy. By looking into their eyes, you could tell something was wrong. Those eyes always darted back and forth looking for something. The reason they did this was because they did it out of one thing: fear. They feared that their master would punish them for trying to run away.
You might ask, “Who is this master they fear?” Their master was someone of pure evil. This being was so terrifying that when someone looked into his eyes, they would probably go mad with terror. This being was a Dark Lord. But he was no ordinary Dark Lord; he was more evil than the devil himself. No one knows which depth of hell spat him out. All they knew, was when he came, he brought darkness over the land, and most of all: death. He was the Dark Lord of Death: Lord Muerte. Those who served the Dark Lord were outcasts, who became his subordinates and became the cruelest beings on the earth. But none of them were half as evil as him.
The people in the village were working hard to sell their goods at the market. The farmers had their sons working out in the field, mothers were teaching their daughters how to sow beautiful tunics, coats, cloaks, boots, belts, and all sorts of garments fit for a king. The market was a beautiful place; it was full of people hustling and bustling, to get goods for themselves. There were vegetables, fruits, tools, and furniture; there was almost everything you could buy. But it was soon not to last, because everyone heard a noise all too familiar. There was the sound of horse’s hooves in the distance. The sound got louder and one by one, people stopped what they were doing. Soon, the market fell silent as a graveyard. At the distance were soldiers, in full armor, carrying shields with horrible patterns of serpents, skulls, dragons, and all other creatures that represented evil. The riders entered the village with a thunder of hooves, and noises of horses whinnying, snorting, and there were shouts of “Whoa!” and “Get out of the way, peasant!” Stalls were turned over, fresh vegetables and fruits squashed. The villagers ran out of the way, but were too scared to scream, or even utter a whimper. Then, as soon as it began, the terror stopped. The people looked in fear at not at the riders, for they saw them every day. The riders usually made their rounds in the villages. The soldiers consisted of orcs, goblins, trolls, gray dwarves, dark elves, but most of all: undead. There were hundreds of undead soldiers in Lord Muerte’s army, and the sight of them made a persons skin go cold. They were mostly bones, but sometimes, they still had pieces of rotting flesh dangling at their faces, pieces of flesh from when they were alive, but they had one thing in common. The undead all had glowing blood-red eyes. That was the most terrifying thing about them, their eyes seemed to look deep into your body, mind and soul, find your greatest fear, and use it against you. But they were not scared of the soldiers; they were scared of their leader. At the front atop a pitch black horse, with a mane and tale that seemed to look like black fire, rode a figure. This creature, or whatever he was, wore a helmet that consisted of two colors; dark red and black. The helmet part itself was red, the visor was pitch black. His tunic had the same colors, one half red, and the other half black. Toggles down the front, in which the ends resembled serpents, fastened the tunic. His trousers had the same colors as did his boots, but where one side of his clothing was red, the separate clothing had the color black, and vice versa. The cloak he wore was pitch black. Strapped to his back, was a sword, in which the hilt was in the form of dragon’s wings. The handle was covered in a pattern, which resembled snake scales, and at the end of the handle was a ruby skull, with sapphire eyes. The scabbard was a dark blue, with designs of serpents coiling around the scabbard; each individual scale was either gold or silver. This being was the dark lord’s second in command: Deathsword. Deathsword was the most loyal to Lord Muerte, and his sword was not for show. During the undead war he was said to have killed nine hundred Elvin master swordsmen, unaided, and he took them down, one by one. By doing this act of evil he earned the title, The Cursed Swordsman.
Deathsword looked around the village, his eyes surveying the disgusting villagers who feared him and his lord. The sight of the village just made him want to vomit at the sight of it. Deathsword then turned to his men and shouted, “You know what to do! Search the village for every young man in the village. Go!” The soldiers then dismounted their horses, and began to go on what seemed like a rampage through the village. The villagers ran away from the soldiers, screaming and knocking over people who got in their way. But no matter how hard they tried, whether they locked their doors, or hid in secret compartments, the soldiers got what they wanted. All the while, Deathsword sat in his saddle watching his soldiers do their dirty work. By just watching them do this act of evil gave him happiness, and he kept to himself, a small chuckle of joy. In just a few minutes, the soldiers had gathered a group of boys, and young men, all surrounded by horrifying soldiers. All the villagers had now gathered at the soldiers and were trying desperately to get their sons back. Death Sword had to order some of his men to line up and keep the villagers back with their shields. There were shouts of “You can’t do this!” “Give me back my son!” “We need our boy!” “You dirty thieves!” and “You cruel monsters!” The shouting of protests was starting to get on Deathsword’s nerves. He couldn’t stand all the shouting of these people, saying that they had no right to do this. But they were wrong; by establishing control over this area they had every right. He finally couldn’t stand it any longer, and with a voice that sounded like thunder, he shouted, “SILENCE!”
The villagers then went quiet, not one person moving. Deathsword looked around and said, “You all had better stay silent, or I’ll burn this village to the ground! The dark lord has provided protection to you and this is how you repay him? The young man who is said to destroy the dark lord has to be found and destroyed. I expect no interference from a bunch of second rate squabbling peasants.”
There were some shouts from the villagers such as, “We don’t care about the dark lord!” and “Damn him to darkness!” All around there were shouts of angry villagers. The hell spawned horde of the dark lord, had trouble keeping them back. Deathsword then unsheathed his sword, raised it high in the air, and let loose dark magic. The magic then took form and at first it was barely recognizable. Then what seemed to be a head formed from the magical energy. A long serpentine neck, connected to this stream of magic formed, and let out a blood-curdling hiss. The eyes and tongue glowed like wild fire. It arched its long body and showed poisonous fangs. Then, as soon as it began, it stopped. Deathsword sheathed his sword back into its sheath. After a few moments of silence he said, “If you don’t want to fall by my blade, and have my friends have a little fun with you,” the undead soldiers seemed to smile at the mention of this thought. Deathsword resumed, “I suggest you keep quiet! We’ve already had enough trouble with another village. The last thing I want is a whole village of two-bit peasants showing their anger at me.” The villagers, at this remark, backed away. They knew better than to arouse Deathsword’s wrath. He once burned down an entire city because someone insulted the Dark Lord. Then Deathsword said in a mocking voice, “Have a nice market day. We’ll be enlisting your sons into the Dark Lord’s army, if you don’t mind.” Then he turned his horse and galloped away with the rest of the battalion behind him. The villagers stared with worry and fear. They looked like this because they knew that they would never see their sons again. All they could do was pray that someone would save them from this evil.


Chapter 2: The Journey.

The ride to the Dark Lord’s fortress was a long and painful journey. Through, forests, mountains, deserts, and almost any harsh conditions you could think of they went through. They didn’t stop to rest, or eat; they just kept walking on and on. Every time a prisoner got out of line he received ten lashes of the whip, with a nail attached to the end. Sometimes when the whip landed, the nail dug in and ripped off pieces of flesh. It was agony to have it rip, so the prisoners did their best to try and keep in line. Some of them collapsed, died, or starved to death, many of them went for days without water. When one of them died, the undead soldiers did nothing but trample over the dead corpse. On one occasion, one of the prisoners collapsed, tired and hungry. He whispered so low that you could barely hear him. “Water…please give…me w-water…” his voice was filled with pain and suffering. But instead of granting his request, the guards did nothing but whip him to get him up. Soon it caught the attention of Deathsword who asked, “What’s going on here?” One of the undead replied, “This man collapsed sir, and he’s begging for water.” The Cursed Swordsman looked down at the poor soul, the man begging for just a tiny sip of water. Behind the helmet, there was nothing. But then there came a chuckle. It wasn’t very pleasant; it was the kind of chuckle that would come from someone who was thinking something evil. After the chuckle Death Sword replied, “Of course he can have water, give him this.” He threw a leather water pouch at the man’s feet. The man weakly reached out, unscrewed the cap, and drank. He drank in big gulps, but then he quickly spat it out. His mouth spat out a disgusting brown hot liquid. “It’s hot MUD! You said I