A few years ago, I wrote this pulp fantasy story purely out of boredom, heavily inspired by the works of authors such as Robert E. Howard, H.P. Lovecraft, and Clark Ashton Smith. I didn't really have anywhere to share it, so I figured why not here? This is a tale of one of my OCs: Valyn Gathrik, the last living drow. Hope you like it. If you do, I'll post more chapters.
Prologue: Dreams of the Dead
A voice—ancient, cracked like parched earth—whispers a prophecy, or a dream, or perhaps just the mutterings of a dead god.
“When the Eye opens, time shall bleed... and Amun-Kar shall breathe again.”
Chapter 1: Blood and Grit
The two of them crested a hill, staring down a vast, arid expanse.
Barren plateaus stretched across the horizon, broken by scattered ruins and the skeletal remains of old fortresses. Dry wind carried the sting of dust and sand across brittle plains of golden grass and flowering cacti.
Behind them came hoofbeats. Men shouting, the ring of steel, and thirst–driven hatred.
Valyn ran.
His shirt clung with sweat beneath a sun-darkened leather jerkin. The desert stole his breath like a thief. His boots churned through shifting dunes—each step a burden.
Beside him, Braila stumbled—one pale arm cradling her ribs, the other still pulsing faintly with residual arcane fire. Red hair shimmered like flames in the heat, framing a soft, freckled face now streaked with dust. A green tunic—low-necked and sleeveless- was girdled by a simple leather belt—emphasizing rather than concealing her lithe figure.
“Faster!” Valyn growled, gripping her wrist and hauling her forward.
“I am going faster!” She snapped, her voice trembling.
A bolt screamed past, burying itself in the sand inches from her heel. Another whizzed by Valyn’s gray head. He turned, eyes flashing silver beneath his sweat-streaked brow.
Six riders crested the dune, clad in red cloth and mismatched armor—Slavers.
One let out a high-pitched war cry and charged.
Valyn’s face hardened. He drew his sword with a practiced motion—the steel long and battered, nicked with age, the fuller crusted with dried blood. It glinted like a shard of death.
“Get behind me,” He barked.
The first rider bore down on them, axe raised. His rusted mail caught the sunlight in shards of fire.
Valyn lunged with a roar.
Steel screamed. The sword severed the horse’s leg, and the beast toppled with a shriek, flinging its rider headfirst into the sand. Valyn followed–driving the blade into the man’s spine and twisting.
The second rider swung wide, waving his scimitar overhead. The third raised a crossbow.
Braila spun, raising a hand. Words spilled from her lips–not human.
A flare of heat erupted from her palm. The bolt struck glass where sand had fused. The man screamed, flames licking his robes. He flailed from the saddle, rolling as his flesh melted.
The next man came at Valyn, bellowing. Valyn sidestepped and parried cleanly, driving his blade through the man’s sternum. Blood sprayed. The body slumped.
Valyn ripped his sword free, shouting, “Braila—run!”
She hesitated—just long enough for two riders to peel away in pursuit. She turned and sprinted, barefoot across the scorched sand, the heat biting into her soles.
Behind her, hooves thundered closer. A rope whistled through the air.
It caught her ankle, yanking her off her feet. Her vision flashed white as her head struck the earth.
Rough hands seized her. One yanked her up by the hair. Another sneered, reaching for her tunic.
“Let go of me!” she shrieked.
She kicked hard—her heel landing in one man’s groin. He crumpled, moaning.
“You little bitch!” spat the other, lunging again.
Braila’s hand closed around a fistful of hot sand. Her lips shaped at the beginning of a spell. With a cry, she flung the sand into his eyes.
He howled, stumbling back, cursing and clawing at his face.
She crawled away, panting.
Valyn yanked his blade from a fresh corpse and spun.
“Braila!”
The last slaver charged, blade drawn. Valyn met him with steel. Their swords clashed once, twice—then Valyn ducked under a wild swing and drove his shoulder into the man’s gut, toppling him from the saddle. He finished him quickly.
Silence fell.
Braila dropped to her knees, coughing. Her skin was pallid, her eyes too wide.
Valyn wiped blood from his sword on a dead man’s cloak. “That won’t be the last of them.”
“No,” she said, voice hollow. “They’ll send more.”
She looked up— green eyes hardening. “Why did you come for me, Valyn?”
He sheathed his sword. “Didn’t like the way they handled you.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I don’t owe one.” He turned, scanning the horizon. “We need water. Shade. If we make the canyon ridge by nightfall–”
Valyn paused, running a hand through his silver hair. “Of course,” he muttered with a laugh. “We don’t have any horses.”
Braila stepped beside him. Her eyes narrowed as she stared outward. Far in the distance, the jagged silhouette of canyons loomed, clawing at the sky like a bird’s talon. But something else stole her breath.
“Valyn,” she called. “Look!”
He followed her gaze.
A great plume of dust raced across the valley, carried on the wind like a stormfront. Within the red haze, shapes began to emerge—over a dozen men thundering forward on black, snarling steeds. The ground trembled with the growing rhythm of their approach.
Braila’s breath caught. “Those aren’t slavers.”
“No,” Valyn said, drawing his sword again. “They’re worse.”
Trumpets blared as banners snapped in the wind.
The first rider crested the hill, his armor gleaming. Their bronze breastplates were adorned with crimson sigils, and savage, horned helms sat atop their heads.
The riders fanned out, circling the two like wolves. Their mounts snorted and stomped, foam frothing from their mouths.
From the center of the formation rode a man clad in silks, his helm shaped like a jackal’s skull. He lifted one gloved hand. Spears leveled.
“You–surrender now.” He called, his voice low and guttural. “Lay down your weapon and come with us. Or be taken in chains.”
Valyn didn’t flinch. His sword remained firm in his grip, his jaw clenched like iron.
He glanced at Braila, “Friends of yours?”
She shook her head—the look in her eyes said enough.
“We won’t tell you again, drow.” The lead rider snarled.
Valyn narrowed his eyes. “Who sent you?”
The rider laughed, cold and mirthless, drawing a curved blade from his hip. “You’ll find out soon enough. Seize them!”
The spears dropped. The riders surged.
Valyn roared, meeting them head-on with steel. His blade flashed once—twice—then disappeared beneath the tide.
Braila screamed his name—before the butt of a spear cracked across her temple.
Darkness took them.