The most cliched fantasy story ever.

The miles flashed by as the dark assassin plunged on, his riding beast snorting as it fought for control. Drawn by the pull of the mythical crystal, he focused on his goal, and about what he would do when he finally found the boy...
 
Pe'tir admired the magnificent sword lying across his knees. It was way too big for him and he didn't have a clue how to weild it.

"But what am I supposed to do with it, giant, bearlike, booming voiced man?"

"It is not for me to say. The sword belongs to you, you will know what to do when the time comes. It is your destiny!"

"But I can't even use it. Will you not teach me?"

The giant, bearlike, booming voiced man stroked his beard as he looked intently at the boy sat before him.
 
"I always swore I'd never weild a sword again after.." Dormaren paused a look of pain flitting across his features "I slew my own brother." he whispered. "But maybe you being sent to me is a sign. I was once the mightiest swordsman the land has ever known. Maybe it is time for me to pass on what I know if you are willing to learn."
 
Dormaren paused as a foul stench pervaded the air, Pe'tir, fought back bile, "What is that ?"
"Riding-beast, used only by the Dark Lord's most trusted servants. The time has indeed come, My Lord, but too soon."
 
Suddenly Pe'tir heard a whispering, over the overpowering stench.
"Let me help you!"

Pe'tir tightens his grip on the sword and almost drops it when he notices the blue glow and the elven face shining from within.

"I am the sword, become one with me and I will help you defeat the Dark rider. You are no match for it now"
 
Pe'tir was shocked. "Dormaren, can you see it, too?" he asked the bearlike man.
"I can see that the sword is shining, but nothing untoward. It always used to do that," Dormaren shrugged, before going to the back of the hut, where he kept his other weapons.
"You can help me?" Pe'tir asked the elven face within the sword. "And do you know anything about this?" He held up the pendant, which was now glowing darkly red.
"I will tell you everything later," the voice replied, "but for now, we must concentrate on defeating the Dark Rider. You know what you must do."
 
Pe'tir felt the wind pick up, as though it were a spirit all its own, and he felt something inside him change. It was as though he were connected to a soul greater than himself. He heard the words, "You are my ancestor," blowing in the wind, then it said, "You must fulfill your path, though you are so young."
Pe'tir cried out to the sky, "What is my path?"
The voice on the wind answered, "You must bring peace to these lands once more."
Pe'tir heard the sound of menacing hooves coming closer, closer, and a cold fear gripped his heart.
 
The dark rider suddenly appeared over the top of a small rise nearby. He wore a great, black cloak with a hood over his head, in which nothing could be seen except a pair of burning red eyes. On top of his head was a cruelly pointed crown, which seemed to be made of iron. In his hand he carried........
 
...the legendary Black Sword! Said to be able to taint that which it touched with darkness, the Dark Rider brandished it as though it weighed nothing, even though it looked extremely heavy. Grinning coldly, the Dark Rider swung down from his riding beast and stood in front of Pe'tir, dropping easily into a combat stance.
 
As the black sword swung, Pe'tir's shining blade rose of its own accord. The shock of the impact nearly broke his arm, but the dark blade shattered. As Pe'tir's sword fell from his nerveless hand, the assassin drew the evil dagger from his boot;
"Nice try boy, but you cannot face me and live."
 
The shining elven face peers out at him accusingly, as the sword lies fallen on the ground.
"Why do I always have to do this myself?"

With those words the sword flies into the air towards the dark rider. Shocked, the Assassin growls. "Your magic tricks won't stop me boy!"
 
The Dark Rider waved his hand, and a shield of dark magic surrounded him. The sword bounced right off it and buried itself up to the hilt in a nearby tree. "Would you like to try anything else?"

Pe'tir looked around, frantically wondering what to do. Where was Dormaren, and why was he taking so long? Would the elven spirit within the sword be able to help him? Moreover, why was the pendant hung around his neck burning so fiercely?
 
Suddenly the door to the hut behind him crashed open, and a great roaring filled the night. Dormaren burst from the hut, but it was more than Dormaren. The great bearlike, booming voiced man had changed! He was even more bearlike, and the war cry booming from his throat had the whispering of a bear's cry behind it. Dormaren rushed to Pe'tir's side, hefting a great mace, ready to swing at the Dark Rider's head.
 
Back in the candlemaker's workshop, the young woman sat alone in the corner, hidden away from view of her stepmother, crying as though her heart would break. It shouldn't be like this! she thought bitterly. Why do I have to endure this?

It had been a hard day, and her stepmother had been cruelly disapproving of her efforts at work, even going so far as to prevent her from eating the main meal. A beating had only been avoided by her promise to work into the evening, to rectify the nonexistent mistakes. Now, however, she was at the ends of her endurance. Lyria got up, a determined glint in her eye, knowing exactly what she would do.

Come on, Lyria, she thought, if you don't get out of here, then who knows what will happen. I don't care what I have to put up with on the road. It's got to be better than here!
 
Lyria had a vision. Not really a vision, like the sages had, but a hopeful vision, like a dream. She hoped once more for a way out of this dreary existence. She could simply go, just go out of this land and find herself a new life. Could she really do it?

She could avoid bandits; she knew the roads out of her homeland easily enough. She stood, then crouched like a bandit herself, and creeped out of her hometown.
 
As the evil stepmother clumped up the stairs on her wooden leg, Dorothy paused to look longingly out the window beyond the pig sty to see a glimmer of a rainbow rising dully above the distant dark tower of Dormor brooding upon the horizon.

"If i only had a way to find long lost cousin Pe'tir -- things would just be all right!" she sighed, as she gathered her tallows.
 
But she knew that she would never see her dear Pe'tir again. For hadn't her stepmother told her time and agian how Pe'tir had died in the Howling Pestilence that had fallen on the lands immediately before the Dark Lord's forces of darkness had issued forth from the dark Tower to envelop the world in darkness? The dark forces ahd been driven back - just- but everyone knew they had only been checked and not defeated.

This was no time to dwell on the past or on things that she, a mere tallow girl, could not possibly affect. After all, it wasn't like she had hidden magical powers and a strange ability to predict future events in a sluighty vague and ambiguous way, was it?

She shook her pretty head, her impossibly blonde tresses catching the glint of the sunlight and bathing her face in an almost mystical aura.

But she couldn't leave without saying goodbye to Plogwyn, her favourite donkey......
 
Plogwyn hee-hawed in fear at the unexpected click-click of Dorothy's heels as she entered the stable. Wide eyed and legless, Plogwyn tugged sharply at the rain-soaked noose around her neck, but try as she might, she couldn't roll away. Dorothy gulped down the sour bile that erupted in her throat when she saw the unfortunate animal, and recalled that fateful day when Plogwyn had been chased by the neighbours dog, Fang, into the sawmill. She would live out the rest of her life as a wonkey, never again standing upright; never again would her ass be exposed to the joys of a romp in the fields.

Despair enveloped Dorothy's heart, a darkness greater than any she had felt before. "Goodby Plogwyn," she sobbed, grabbing the small pack of dried carrots and heading out into the rain. Ahead of her the road of yellow bricks disappeared into darkness.
 
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