Below is the prologue for my book: The Spirit of the Keeper... Enjoy!

A small group of men began to climb a nearby hill. The sun was uninterrupted by clouds that day, and the faint sounds of crackling fire could be heard. To the north of the group, a thick, grey column of smoke stood as a testament to the destruction the War had caused. It was the Season of Wind. A strong gale blew making the blades of grass sway as if they were alive. In the sea of grass, the leader of the group brushed his long grey matted hair aside, and stopped moving to close his eyes. The others knew what he was doing. He was listening to the Wind. He said that it told him things.
The men around him shuffled with unease. They began to fumble with the swords that hung from their belts, or checked their bows to ensure they were tightly strung. He snapped from his trance when a large shadow swiftly cast over the men, and over the hill towards the target. He drew a deep breath, and continued to climb as if nothing had happened.
Once they had reached the top, a once-glorious village came into view. Many small houses could be seen, and a large farm on the opposite side seemed to be the village’s source of food. The courtyard in the centre of the village was a testament to the hard work and labour the villagers put into it. The leader of the mercenary group felt sorrow when he saw the poor shape that the village was in. A large amount of movement could be seen among the fire that ravaged the small town, although they were not the originals inhabitants’. The leader of the group knew what needed to be done. The village must be purged…
He drew another deep breath, grouped his thoughts, and gave his orders. “Charge!” he cried, running toward the village. “We must stop them from desecrating this land!”
The small army that followed the man steeled themselves. They knew what they ran towards…the King of the Army that had been destroying the land for the last three years. He was rumoured to be inhumanly powerful. Those who meet him, meet their death. Raising their weaponry, and praying to their gods, they stormed the village.
As they charged down the hill, the raiding army reacted to their presence. Enflamed Arrows pierced the air with incredible speed. The mercenaries struck each arrow that threatened them with equal speed. They knew, and so did the army, that they were too good to die from Arrows. The mercenary group was a very famous and powerful one, with over one hundred highly skilled warriors in it. To some, they were called the Mighty, to others they were known simply as the Dragon Clan.
“Valomir! He’s over there! By the farm! Rayne went ahead! Go! Help him! We’ll hold these monsters off!”
With the slightest of nods Valomir Bridge passed his friend, and made his way to the small farm on the outskirts of the village. He could already see the evidence that Rayne had confronted the King on his own. There was little ground left unscorched.
When he reached the farm, he saw that Rayne was being held down by a large number of enemy soldiers. He also heard a large scream of pain coming from the village square. He knew what had happened. His friends must have been overrun. They had failed to hold the opposing army. He shed a tear as he realised that his life-long friend had fallen.
I will avenge your death, my friend. The King will pay. Dearly.
Bridge ran towards the King and raised his weapon, as he saw Rayne fall. It was an ambush. He faltered. Rayne would never have lost against them had it been an honest battle. Very few could say they have slayed a Dragon…