Achil & The Dragon Lord Of Osgaroth

Achil

&

The Dragon Lord of Osgaroth

'The Chronicles of Achil'

Adam David Papa-Adams © 2009 all rights reserved

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank my good friends Lawrence Bolton, Adam Alexander Papa-Adams and Dan Thairs for their encouragement, support and belief. I would also like to say a huge thank you to all those that believe that everything is possible.

'There is no greater burden than a vengeful heart as it tries to destroy everything within and everything without.'

Nishga

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Copyright 2012 Adam David Papa-Adams © all rights reserved

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Table of Contents

Prologue

Achil

Attack of the Muli

The Witches of Haven Forest

Flight

Journey to the Crystal Mountains

The People of the Mist

Duel

The Megaliths of Druidier

The Dragon People of Osgaroth

Rage of the Furies

Arcadia Pyramid of the Mirkoid

The Swamp of Osgaroth

The Mirkoid

Into the Dark

Kingdom of the Underlings

Ruin Mountain

The Hunted

I am Ladon

The Dragon Lord

Prologue

The sound of an electric motor sliced through the air; its droning hum akin to a swarm of locusts descending upon the desert sands. Taut ropes stretched to their limit as they struggled to free the unyielding hard stone that covered the entrance to a chamber that had remained sealed for eons. Slowly, the stone moved, revealing a ramp that led into the depths of a dark recess. Three men dressed in dust-strewn beige overalls, their faces obscured by masks, emerged from the shadows and approached the entrance. In the gloom, they looked like insects, their long shadows stretching out before them as if to guide their way.

This chamber, where ancient secrets from the Library of Alexandria and much more were believed to lie, had finally been breached. It was the chamber of records beneath the Great Sphinx. Each member of the team carried a torch, and as they entered, the sharp beams of light cut through the thick, dark, sunken air, intersecting one another and illuminating the thick canvas of dust that veiled their passage.

In the centre of the chamber stood a cold, hard, uncompromising granite plinth, on which sat a book. One by one, the lights converged on it. Slowly, all three removed their masks and tight-fitting goggles so as to see better. They stood staring at the book in front of them, transfixed for a moment at the discovery they had made.

A hand, shaking with excitement, carefully reached out and took hold of the manuscript. The pages did not crumple at his touch, instead they remained strong, covered in some sort of resin that made them both pliable and resilient to the touch of Father Time.

Eureka! cried the man as he opened the book.

His heart pounding so hard he thought it would explode within his chest. It was the find of the century, of any century. No words could describe what his trembling hands held. A surviving record of something long thought a myth. The language was in three forms: cuneiform, hieroglyphs, and some unknown script, all written in a bound leather book, probably the oldest in existence. Not parchment or some archaic clay tablets, as an archaeologist would expect, but a real book.

The man holding it was an anthropologist, whose expertise was ancient languages. He began to translate, as his colleagues hungrily gathered round to listen. They had become vultures, ready to devour his every word.

These are the words written in the Serpent's tongue, keeper of wisdom and knowledge. I have been told by the Great Pharaoh to make a record of these events. Some time ago, a stranger came to our lands from distant shores. He brought with him tales of a land swept away by the Gods. Where once existed turbulent battles of great destruction between small realms and mighty empires. This man, a descendant of the peoples of this vanquished world, brought with him the knowledge and histories of those lost lands. The wise Pharaoh believes that these tales should be recorded as an example to us and all our descendants.

As the Anthropologist stood in silence, surrounded by his colleagues, he began to weave a tale of intrigue, magic, mystery, beauty, and betrayal. A tale of a forgotten people, from a world older than the great Sphinx.

Listen well, for I shall now relate a sad story, recorded for posterity, he read, his voice filled with reverence. The civilization of which I speak predates even the last ice age, and existed on a continent beyond Europa and Africa, known in Greek as Atlantis, but to its inhabitants, Suberia. It was a land of vibrant life and powerful magic, where myths and legends walked among the people, and sorcery and alchemy were commonplace. Unfortunately this tale recounts a darker time, the bloodiest and most brutal era of Suberia. It begins in the City of Findolin, also known as Findolin the Fare. A once-great citadel that stood as a watchtower, protecting the western lands from the peoples of the central plains. Its turrets, like crowned princes, were imposing and resolute. Within the walls of Findolin lay a thriving city, home to a civilization that had stood for millennia. There was the majestic Capital House of a thousand colonnades, which served as both the city's library and administrative centre. At the end of the concourse stood Euclid's Tower, built by Euclid the Mighty, where the sun's rays were captured and reflected, proclaiming Findolin's might to all who beheld it. And just beyond lay the Palace of the Kings and the Temple Rise, built above the crypt of sages.

The Anthropologist paused, taking a deep breath and brushing aside the dust from the pages of the manuscript he was reading.

This civilization was destroyed by a catastrophic event eons ago. But its memory lives on through this tale.

He looked up to his colleagues, the reddish marks around his eyes widening in disbelief, a hint of a smile on his lips.

Are you ready to hear more?

They nodded excitedly, and so taking in a deep breath he continued.

Deep within the heart of the kingdom stood the grand 'House of a Thousand Forges', where smiths toiled endlessly to ensure the safety of the realm. Here, swords were honed to deadly sharpness, bows were strung with unyielding strength, and shields were crafted with unbreakable fortitude. Not only was this city a bastion of strength, it also housed the Great Hall, adorned with frescoes depicting both victorious and failed battles, a solemn tribute to those who had fallen in service to the Crown. Our tale of those days begins, with its Champion, Achil, having forsaken his duty; at a time when the kingdom was facing an uncertain future.

Chapter I

Achil

Achil knelt beside her bed, she was motionless, silent; a stark contrast to the cries and struggles that had filled the chamber moments before. His head hung low, prostrated before the lifeless figure that had once been the reason for his existence. She lay there, unmoving, with a new-born cradled in her arms, its first and last breath already taken.

The King stood by his side, watching the scene with grief and disbelief etched on his face. His hand rested heavily on Achil's shoulder as he mourned a death that would be felt not just by him; the entire Kingdom of Findolin would feel such a loss. The King's hair had greyed, his once bright blue eyes now dulled with sadness. The midwife attempted to right an upturned table; she was prevented from doing so and was ushered out by an attendant, along with the blood-soaked coverings. Another courtier gently draped a linen shroud, bearing the royal crest of a hawk hovering above a golden crown, over the lifeless bodies on the bed. Achil raised his head, his eyes empty and unfocused.

We should move her away from here, he said, his voice trembled in shock. She'll be more comfortable at home.

The King nodded mournfully, tears welling in his eyes.

I should ready the house for her arrival, Achil said. She loved primroses in spring, did you know that?

The King nodded slowly, still barely containing his own grief.

Whatever happens, Achil said, his voice barely above a whisper. I've sworn to protect her. No harm will come to her. I am the King's champion, after all. Isn't that what people call me, a champion?

The King nodded sullenly, unable to find the words to express the depth of his sorrow.

You are the King's Champion, he spoke softly, placing his hand upon Achil's shoulder.

Where has my Marissa gone? Achil said, still in disbelief at the scene before him.

She remains your wife, the King spoke with a heavy heart. She will always be your wife, be strong son, we need to accept her spirit has moved on to a higher realm.

Moved on, Achil repeated, his voice trembling with emotion.

She is in a better place than we know, the King attempted to reassure him, gesturing to an attendant who stood silently in the doorway. At the King's command, the attendant stepped forward and took Achil by the arm, leading him away.

Achil's feet dragged heavily upon the stone floor as he paused, blankly staring at the Sword of Champions hanging upon the wall. It held no meaning for him now, no longer did it have the value and pride it was named for. He looked wearily down at the floor.

Agoran, the King's trusted counsellor, watched helplessly as the scene played out before him. A tall and proud man, hardened by years of conflict, his face softened at the sight of his young friend's despair. He placed a consoling hand upon Achil's shoulder as he passed. Agoran had waited anxiously at the door, unable to intervene as the drama unfolded. His sad, aged eyes met Achil's, acknowledging his loss, before he entered the room to stand by the King's side.

This is a desperate sorrow indeed, Agoran whispered, his dark tunic and breeches matching the sombre mood. After today, Achil was to take over leadership of the border guards. He cannot be allowed to do so now.

The King nodded.

My son will take Achil's place in that regard, the King said.

And what of Achil? Do you think he will recover? Agoran asked, concern etched on his face. They were inseparable, those two. He often referred to her as his life.

He must recover, the King replied firmly. He must also have time to grieve, as must we all.

What time do we have? Agoran questioned. You know of the rumours of an empire in the east, ready to treat with the Mead. If they haven't already done so.

Agoran, they are just rumours, the King shook his head dismissively. They mean nothing.

Yes, and when they cease to be rumours, Agoran warned. It may be too late for us to act.

People speak of a vast empire, said the King, his voice heavy with scepticism. And yet how can it truly be vast if we have only heard rumours of its existence?

Indeed, agreed Agoran, his tone grave. And I apologize for bringing this matter to your attention now, we must ensure that our first encounter with this empire is not our last.

The King turned from the empty bed that stood before him, his gaze fixed on his advisor.

What are you suggesting?

The Mead have long been a thorn in our side, said Agoran, his voice bitter. They strike at our border settlements and flee before we can respond. There is only one solution I can think of; let us strike at them, and strike hard. We need to give them a lesson so bloody that they will never dare to cross into our lands again.

The King felt a knot of unease in his stomach. He knew the Mead well, and how disparate they were as a people. Yet grief hardened his resolve.

Such an assault would take careful planning, he said.

Then let us begin planning at once, said Agoran eagerly.

The King gave a long, heavy sigh. If we need to prepare for war, and that is a big if; first you will have to ascertain who our new adversary exactly is. I would not want to provoke a hornet's nest and bring a swarm down upon us.

Agoran nodded gravely and left the King's side. The King turned his gaze back to the empty bed, his eyes shining with a silent grim determination.

***

Achil stood tall and broad-shouldered before the king, his flaxen hair flowed down his back and his blue eyes were distant and distracted. His long sword strapped to his side; its hilt worn from use. His dark, weathered jerkin hung on his frame, and his brown breeches were tucked into his long-worn black leather boots. He had just completed the traditional mourning period for his lost wife and baby and now sought the king's permission to leave Findolin and make a new life for himself, far from the hard memories and dark thoughts that haunted him there.

The king, seated upon his high gilded throne, leaned forward, his hands tightly clasping the ornately carved posts. Courtiers watched with solemn hearts as the king spoke.

Achil, I have already lost a daughter and a granddaughter. Must I lose you too?

The king's grey braided hair was tucked comfortably beneath a jewel-encrusted golden crown. He was garbed in a tunic and gown of deep purple, wrapped tightly around his body, yet it provided no warmth or comfort. With pride, he wore the royal crest of his house. The king's dark breeches showed off his thinning frame, revealing what else worry had taken away. Soft brown leather shoes, burnished to a sheen, peeped out from beneath the hem, all as duty required. Achil raised his head, the lines under his eyes a reminder of the sleepless nights he had endured, and how the weight of weariness had settled upon him.

My lord, I will return one day, Achil spoke softly. For now, I need to be free from all these memories. Free from the places where she stood, where she laughed, where she walked.

The king, his blue eyes strained through years of responsibility, replied, I understand that no one can truly know how you feel. Nevertheless, you are not the first man to lose so much. He paused for a moment, feeling the tense and uncertain gaze of the court upon him. I will not let you leave without purpose. You are to go on a King's errand. Seek out the Dragon People of Osgaroth, and introduce yourself as my emissary. Tell them that you have been sent to extend a hand of friendship and trade from the Finns. They live far to the west of here; your journey will be a lonely and difficult one, I hope it will give you time to find the peace you need.

Achil nodded sadly, It will.

The King continued, Even so there is another reason why I am sending you. In the days to come, we will need allies. The recent raid by the Mead into our lands was bold, and I fear it heralds darker times to come for our people. A powerful force beyond our eastern borders, known as the Mandrake Imperium, has grown rapidly, and it is believed that the Mead intend to, or have already formed alliances with them. We still do not know their true intentions.

Achil's gaze met the king's; and he shifted imperceptibly to shield himself from the sun's glare.

As you are aware, I am ready to leave, he said. I will willingly accept your charge and seek out the Dragon People of Osgaroth, with the hope of building trade and, in time, a lasting alliance.

The king smiled with difficulty, as though the effort had been scratched upon his face by a child. Despite the concern and hurt that lay behind his eyes, the majesty and dignity of his house shone through. He raised his hand in resignation and bid Achil good fortune and a safe journey to Osgaroth.

With a bow, Achil turned and strode away, past the rows of courtiers who lowered their heads in respect. He walked out of the hall, through the mighty carved wooden doors, and descended the stone steps onto the cobbled promenade, flanked by marble statues of gods and heroes. They stood stoically, almost sorrowfully staring down at him as he passed them by, perhaps for the last time. As he returned to his home to gather belongings for the long journey ahead, Agoran, the King's counsellor, was waiting at his door. Agoran had been Achil's mentor, his hair greying and falling to his shoulders like matted garlands, his skin toughened and scarred by battles fought both personal and otherwise. His eyes were vibrant and alert, a cover for his true age.

So you intend to go through with it? Agoran asked gruffly.

Achil opened the front door and they both entered. The house was barren, a cold and forlorn setting. Items were packed away in trunks scattered along the floor, linen sheets like death shrouds covered the furniture, and the curtains were tied back, letting the sun invade the privacy of one who still grieved. Dust, heavy in the air, echoed the recent neglect of a person who had forgotten to care for his home. The walls stood sullen and grey, an apparent reaction to the bitter affections of the now cold hearth.

Achil walked over to an old leather bag, in which he had packed away the only possessions he cared to take on his journey.

You know my answer, this is something I have to do, his voice was quiet, as though he were talking to someone that was not there.

Agoran took down a cloak, it caught on the hook as he pulled it away from the wall, as if it too did not wish for Achil to leave.

I still think you haven't thought this through, said Agoran. You're still grieving. The King should not have agreed to this.

The undisguised frustration in his voice betrayed the feeling that his suggestion for Achil to delay his mission west until he became less crestfallen should not have gone unheeded.

This is what I want, said Achil. And understand it is also for the Realm that I do this, if there is something occurring in the east, as you suspect; we will need friends to stay off what is to come. Please Agoran, just wish me well and leave it at that.

Agoran quietly sighed, Have you remembered the gifts the King gave you to give to the Dragon People? And have you enough money for the journey?

Achil nodded thoughtfully, he could see the worry on his old friend's face. Agoran looked back at him, he knew exactly how important his mission west was. He mournfully took one of Achil's bags from his heavy grasp and stepped outside.

They placed them atop his horse; his shield was strapped to the rear of the saddle and rested comfortably near its rump. His bow lay across it, while his sword was in a sheath tied to its side. The two embraced and said their subdued farewells. Achil mounted the horse, pulled his hood over his head and drew his cloak too, and then rode off down the narrow cobbled street and out passed the gatehouse. Three guards, caught unawares in a game of cards, quickly stood to attention as they recognized Achil, one of their own. One of the soldiers clumsily knocked his helmet over, which clattered to the floor unceremoniously. The solitary figure, adorned with the royal crest emblazoned on his cloak, rode out of Findolin and down the path leading from the plateau and onto the open plain. With increasing speed, Achil journeyed on into the outlying lands.

For a brief moment, he looked back, reflecting on what he had left behind. Euclid's Tower, with its white domed roof shining in the sun, stood out like a beacon of light in the distance. Far off, the Haven Mountain range rose up like an ancient leviathan from the earth, and beyond that, lay the wilds of Osgaroth and the Dragon People. To cross those mountains would be risky, an unnecessary path. The better way was the Old Road, leading to Findolin Wood and eventually Haven Forest, a vast and impenetrable growth that straddled around those mountains. Both paths held their dangers, nevertheless Achil knew that one would be less treacherous than the other.

It was a choice between facing large Findol Wolves, encountering rogues, and brigands; even maybe raiders, or meeting hostile Freemen. At least he had already traversed the domain of the Freemen, so the path where he recognized the foe was the better choice. The journey’s end and his objective were a long way off, even so for the time being, he was sure that Findolin, the most impenetrable of walled cities, would be safe. He continued on without stopping, wishing to put as many leagues between him and the memories he had wished to leave behind.

As he took a longer, safer route across the plain, it was evening some days later before he finally crossed the border into more unrecognisable lands. Tired from his travels, Achil reached the edge of Findolin Wood and found a small clearing by the side of the road to rest for the night. The first part of his travels was over and had ended without incident.

He set up camp, lighting a small fire and producing from his bag something to eat. Wrapped in vine leaves, the tough unyielding meat still kept to its flavour, though it was like old leather, that needed to be chewed long and hard before it softened; he stared into the fire, his only company the crackle of burning twigs and the sounds that echoed from the wood. He lay back on the hard ground, given a little comfort by a thin worn blanket that had some grasses and twigs packed beneath it.

Turning over and leaning on his arm, Achil let out a groan. Lifting the blanket, he saw his attacker: a few malcontent thorns that had desired to make their presence known and were protruding through the cloth. The marks on his forearm were like some archaic tattooed message. Achil picked out the thorns and threw them to one side, before rubbing his arm in the hope of soothing the pain he felt. He slowly and carefully lay back down, the next day he would be ready for the next leg of his journey. With a contented sigh, Achil settled, his hands behind his head gazing up at the sparkling crystal firmament. Tracing the constellations with his finger, he identified Athrilla, God of the Underworld, and his wife Addrarda. Although his mind soon drifted, as memories of battles fought flooded his mind.

It was a raid on the outlying settlements of Findolin that had brought him to prominence. He had seized the sword of the King's previous champion and defeated a Mead cavalier twice his size. Yet the recent raid on the Finns had been unlike any other. A force of over five thousand Mead warriors had united and rampaged through sleeping lands, burning and pillaging as they went. The Finns suspected the involvement of the mysterious eastern empire known as the Mandrake Imperium. His people had been deeply concerned by the well-organized nature of the raid and the fact that the Mead had retreated across the border without a fight. And since then, there had been an eerie silence coming out of the lands of the Mead. The King had sent emissaries eastward to discover the truth of what was going on there, and to treat with the peoples of those lands, none had returned. Spies were sent in their place, to discover their fate, only to find their bodies hanging in cages, as they were left to the torment of crows. Eyes plucked out, flesh stabbed at, and eaten. A gruesome despicable affair.

As Achil drifted off to sleep, the ominous silence of the Mead weighed heavily on his mind. He couldn't shake off the feeling that something terrible was brewing in the Central Plains, and that it would soon threaten the peace of Findolin. Never before had the King's agents been treated with such disdain, and so upon discovering their fate, the Finns knew that the rumours were true. A new menace had risen in the east, and they hastened their preparations to meet the threat. As these thoughts consumed Achil's weary mind, he was jolted awake by a loud booming