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
Copyright 2012 Adam David Papa-Adams © all rights reserved
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Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter I - Achil
Chapter II - Attack of the Muli
Chapter III - The Witches of Haven Forest
Chapter IV - Flight
Chapter V - Journey to the Crystal Mountains
Chapter VI - The People of the Mist
Chapter VII - Duel
Chapter VIII - The Megaliths of Druidier
Chapter IX - The Dragon People of Osgaroth
Chapter X - Rage of the Furies
Chapter XI - Arcadia Pyramid of the Mirkoid
Chapter XII - The Swamp of Osgaroth
Chapter XIII - The Mirkoid
Chapter XIV - Into the Dark
Chapter XV - Kingdom of the Underlings
Chapter XVI - Ruin Mountain
Chapter XVII - The Hunted
Chapter XVIII - I am Ladon
Chapter XIX - The Dragon Lord
Prologue
The sound of an electric motor filled the air, its droning hummed as though a swarm of locusts were descending. Taut ropes stretched to their limit, struggled to free what was an unyielding hard stone. It was the cover of an entrance to a chamber that had remained hidden for many an age. Slowly the stone moved and was hauled back revealing a ramp that led into a deep dark recess. Three men wearing dust strewn beige overalls, stood with masks covering their faces making them appear in the gloom insect like. Slowly they entered the chamber, their long shadows stretched out before them as if to guide their way. This place, where it was thought lay so many ancient secrets from the Library of Alexandria, and much more besides, had finally been breached. This was the chamber of records beneath the Great Sphinx. Each member of the team carried a torch, the sharp beams of light sliced through the thick dark sunken air, intersecting one another, and illuminating the thick canvas of dust that lay there. And in the centre of the chamber 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, apprehensively they let them fall onto the wearisome stone slab floor. They stood staring at the book in front of them transfixed for a moment at what they had found. A hand shaking with excitement reached out and took hold of the manuscript.
“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 Serpents tongue, keeper of wisdom and knowledge. I have been told by 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 descendent of the peoples of this vanquished world brought with him the journals and histories of those lost lands which wise Pharaoh believes should be recorded as an example to us and all our descendants. I will now relay for posterity a sad tale of intrigue, magic, mystery, beauty and betrayal. The story I shall weave revolves around the tribulations of a forgotten people and the world I speak of is older than that of our great Sphinx. After a brief narrative it shall be recorded in the manner that befits such a tale, as though it were a living story.’ The Anthropologist caught his breath, the reddish marks around his eyes widened in disbelief, giving him the comical appearance of a clown.
“That must mean,” he stammered, brushing aside the dusty veil that guarded the pages being read. “The civilisation referred to in this book could be almost seventeen thousand years old, or even older than that. Perhaps it actually predates the last ice age.”
Urged on by his colleagues, he stared back down at the book; the sharp beam of his torch fixed on its cold inflexible pages, and resumed reading the manuscript.
“It was a continent beyond what we know today as Europa and Africa. A land washed away in one climatic catastrophic day eons ago. In the Civilised tongue of the Greeks it would be known as Atlantis, but to the inhabitants of this land it was called Suberia. It was a far off world where people had strong and vibrant lives, and where our myths and legends lived, where long understood practises of sorcery and alchemy were part of their natural order. It was a colourful beautiful land, made up of diverse peoples and varied customs.
In this world lived the remnants of a forgotten age. It was a place where the last monsters roamed and where heroes walked. Unfortunately this tale records its bloodiest and most brutal era. The story begins in the City of Findolin. To outsiders it was called Findolin the Fare, a once great city that had grown up over many years unblemished by foreign assault and intrigue. Findolin the bards sung; that Mighty Citadel of Western Suberia, stood upon a plateau, as a watchtower. A proud guard against the Central Plains peoples of Mead. Its turrets from a distance looked like so many crowned princes, protectors all, forbidding, resolute and steadfast. In addition, within those walls lay a thriving city, home to a civilization that had stood long before even our Isis was born. There was the majestic ‘Capital House’ of a thousand colonnades, which was raised high above the city and extended along a thoroughfare of mighty statues. This was both the Library and the Administrative centre of Findolin; at the end of the concourse was a Grand Domed tower, pristine and white. It had been built many years before by Euclid the Mighty, also called Euclid’s Tower; where the sun's rays were captured and reflected, proclaiming to all near and far, that there stood Findolin. And just beyond was The Palace of the Kings, the Temple Rise, built above the crypt of Sages. There was the 'House of a Thousand Forges' where smithies worked night and day for the security of the city, where sword was tempered, bow strung, and shield made. In addition, there was the Great Hall, internally adorned with frescos of battles both won and lost, built in memoriam to the fallen. And according to the one who brought to us these recorded histories, I am to begin as befits such an era, at it approached its most desperate age. It was a time when the Kings Champion, a man by the name of Achil, had turned away from his duty to t
he realm.”