Achil & The Dragon Lord Of Osgaroth Read online

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  Achil stood in the Great Hall before the King, a tall broad shouldered man. His long blond hair flowed down his back, his blue eyes were distant, distracted, his long sword acquiescent at his side. His dark weathered jerkin hung desperately to him; his brown breeches seemed lost within his long worn black leather boots. He had just finished the traditional mourning period for his lost wife and baby and hoped he would be permitted to leave Findolin to make a new life for himself elsewhere. The King leant forward on his high gilded throne, his hands tightly clasped the ornately carved posts, courtiers watched with solemn hearts.

  “Achil I lost a daughter and a granddaughter. Am I to lose you too?" asked the King, his grey braided hair tucked comfortably beneath a jewelled encrusted golden crown. His tunic and gown were of a deep purple, proudly he wore the royal crest of his house. His black breeches comfortably rested over soft brown leather shoes.

  Achil raised his head, the lines under his eyes, a reminder of how sleepless the nights had been and how wearied of the days he had become.

  "My lord I will return one day, but for now I need to be free from all these memories,” said Achil softly. “Free of the places where she stood, of where she laughed, of where she walked."

  "I appreciate that no one can know how you feel,” replied the King, his blue eyes strained and wearied from years of responsibility. “But you are not the first man to lose so much.” The King paused a moment, he could feel the tense uncertain gaze of the court; “I will not let you leave without a purpose. You are to go on a King’s errand. To seek out the Dragon people of Osgaroth, there you shall introduce yourself as my emissary, and tell them that you were sent there to extend a hand of friendship and trade from the Finns. They live far to the west of here; your path will be a lonely difficult one, time to get your mind in order. Just as important is this reason, I am sending you also because in the days to come we will need allies, now that the rumours have been confirmed. That last raid of the Mead into our lands will herald darker times to come for our people I fear. A new power has risen in the east, a dangerous warlike Empire known as the Mandrake. It is believed the Mead intend or are treating with that empire, for what dark purposes we know not."

  Achil stared up at the King imperceptibly he shifted his position to guard against the glare of the sun.

  “As you are aware I am ready to leave,” said Achil. “I will willingly accept what you charge me to do. Seek out the Dragon People of Osgaroth. Build trade and in time forge the alliance you wish for."

  The King smiled with difficulty, as though the smile had been scratched on his face by a child, his blue eyes creased through age could not hide the concern he felt for Achil. Beneath his worn exterior he retained the majesty and dignity of his house. Raising his hand in resignation, he wished Achil good fortune and a safe passage to Osgaroth, he then dismissed him. Achil bowed turned and strode away past the rows of courtiers waiting silently on either wing, whose heads were lowered in respect. He walked out of the hall through the mighty carved thick wooden doors. Down stone steps, out onto a cobbled promenade flanked either side by marbled statues of Gods and Heroes. They stood stoic almost sorrowful, staring down at Achil and watched him perhaps for the last time walk stridently past.

  As he returned to his home to gather up belongings for the long journey ahead, Agoran the Kings councillor was at his door. He had been Achil’s mentor, his hair also greying fell to his shoulders like matted garlands, his skin was toughened and scarred by battles fought both personal and otherwise. His eyes were vibrant and alert a cover to his true age.

  “So you intend going through with it?” asked Agoran, more gruffly than he intended.

  Achil opened the front door and they both entered. The house was barren, a cold forlorn setting. Items were packed away in trunks which were scattered along the floor, linen sheets like death shrouds covered the furniture, and the curtains were tied back which let the sun invade the privacy of someone who still grieved. Dust, heavy in the air, seemed to echo the recent neglect of one 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 it 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 rasped without conviction, 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 so readily to let you go like this.”

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

  “This is what I want,” said Achil. “And understand it is also for the Realm that I do this. Please Agoran just wish me well, and leave it at that.”

  “Have you remembered the things the King gave you to give to the Dragon People,” said Agoran quietly. "And have you enough money for the journey?”

  Achil nodded thoughtfully, he could see the worry on his old friends face.

  Agoran looked at Achil, he knew exactly how important his mission west was and with a sad sigh he took one of Achil’s bags from his heavy grasp and stepped outside.

  They placed the bags 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 the side of the saddle. The two embraced and said their quiet farewells. Achil mounted the horse, pulled his hood over his head and drew his cloak too, he then rode off down the narrow cobbled street and out past the gate house. Three guards playing at cards and being caught unawares quickly stood to attention as they recognised Achil, one of their helmets clattered to the floor unceremoniously as the solitary figure with the royal crest emblazoned on his cloak rode past, and out of Findolin, to descend down the path that led from the top of the plateau onto the open plain, from there with increasing speed Achil moved on into the outlying lands. For a brief moment he looked back thinking of what he had left behind. In the distance could clearly be seen Euclid’s Tower, with its white domed roof reflecting the sun, making it appear like a beacon of light.

  Far off in the distance could be seen the Haven Mountain range, rising up like some ancient leviathan from the earth, and beyond that, in the unknown distance were the Dragon People of Osgaroth. To go over those mountains would be risky, an unnecessary path. The better way, was the Old Road leading to Findolin wood which eventually joined Haven forest, that vast impenetrable choking growth that both straddled and lay beneath the mountains, encompassing land both near and far, both paths held their dangers but Achil knew that one would be less dangerous than the other. It was a choice between large Findol Wolves, or strange hostile Wild Men, and at least he had already traversed the domain of the Wild Men, so better the path where he recognised the enemy he would come across.

  The journey would be long, but for the time being he was sure, Findolin that most impenetrable of walled cities would be safe. He kept on without stopping wishing to put as many leagues between him and the memories he had wished to leave behind. As he had taken a longer, more safe route across the plain, it was evening some days later when he finally past its borders. Soon the wearied traveller reached the edge of Findolin wood. Achil found a good place to rest for the night; it was a small clearing by the side of the road. The first part of his journey was over and it had ended without incident. Setting up camp and lighting a small fire was the next task, afterward he produced from his bag, wrapped in vine leaves something to eat. Achil began to chew on the tough unyielding meat, whilst staring 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 gave out a groan. Lifting the blanket he could see 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 soothingly, Achil then slowly lay back down. That was much better, placing his hands behind his head, he stared up at the myriad of dots in the sky. Reaching up he began joining them together with his finger, there was Athrilla God of the Underworld, and next to him was Hecata his wife. Achil soon grew tired his mind drifting wearily away. He could see himself fighting in foreign places, against the tribes from the central plains. The Mead would often venture west raiding the outlying settlements of Findolin. It was because of one such raid that he had come to such prominence, with the King's previous champion slain, Achil had seized his sword and fought the very same Mead Cavalier, who was almost twice his size. Fortune had favoured him that day, as the Cavalier thrust his sword forward he had slipped and fallen onto Achil’s sword. The other raiders subsequently were driven back across the border.

  Then recently while he was still in mourning, from seemingly out of nowhere there chanced a raid of over twenty thousand Mead warriors. They rampaged through the sleeping lands of the Finns, burning and pillaging as they went. For the first time in their history the disparate tribes of the Mead had united, it was now thought that such unity, if it truly existed, could only have occurred with the support of that mysterious eastern empire known as the Mandrake Imperium. What had deeply concerned the Finns was neither the raid nor the number who had participated in it, but the manner of it. Tribal raids often occurred to the outlying settlements, and at times bands of brigands would reach even further a field. Such things were expected and that is why there were fortifications along the border with Mead. This last raid had been different, it had been well organised, unlike the usual chaotic marauding of the Mead. It was as though they had ventured to see how quickly the army of Findolin could muster. Not only that; once the Finns had massed to meet them, they had retreated across the border without so much as an arrow being fired at them, and the raid had not been followed by subsequent raids; in fact there had been an unusual ominous silence coming out of the lands of the Mead, since then. That had led the King to send emissaries eastward, that had not returned. After a short time spies had then been dispatched to discover the whereabouts of their kin, they were better equipped and were charged to uncover what was occurring in the lands of the Central Plain. They had not underestimated the task ahead nor had they expected the Mead to be easily deceived by their disguises. News soon arrived back to Findolin, reports that had filled the Finns with dread. The bodies of the previous emissaries from Findolin had been found. Skinned and nailed to posts with signs hanging from their necks, ‘All enemies are punished thus.’ They had been gnawed upon by the only creatures willing to keep them company; the crows. Never before had the Kings agents been treated with such harsh disregard, so on discovering what fate had befallen them, the Finns realised that the rumours were surely true. A knew menace had risen in the Central Plains, so they had decided to hasten their preparations, should their worst fears be realised.

  As these thoughts forced there way into Achil’s weary mind; he was suddenly shaken out of his lethargy by a loud booming sound. Above him the sky seemed aflame. Achil sat up watching fascinated. A fireball lit up the night as if thrown from a great ballista of the gods, streaking overhead, it arched as it descended, and smashed into the ground. There was a loud thud as earth and dust were hurled into the air some leagues off. Achil rose to investigate, leaving his belongings behind, and urged on by the wonder of what it could be.

  He raced excitedly through the wood, the soft light given off by the young slip of a moon filtered through the branches, landing at his feet, as if to guide him along the way. He had not felt such freedom since he was a child, reminding him of how the chains of responsibility had gilded his youth. There was a time when he and his friends would go off into the wilds seeking adventure, away from the drudgery of city life, when life had been more carefree; they would hunt, sleep beneath the stars, and jump naked into icy rivers, which instead of freezing the body, invigorated it. Achil came upon a clearing, and at its centre was a rather large crater. The surrounding trees and outlying vegetation had been flattened seared and burnt, and in the heart of this newly formed basin, a small jet black rock. Carefully Achil made his way down into the midst of the crater, he desperately tried not to slide on its shear face, nor disturb the ash and debris as he went, until with a short leap onto firmer ground he reached its base, and made his way over to where something from the heavens had landed. Achil hastily bent down to pick up the strange rock that lay at his feet, foolishly, and not realising in his excitement how hot it was, he quickly dropped it, then shook his hands vigorously as if such an act would free them from the rocks scolding touch. He took off his tunic and wrapped it round the small boulder; time would tell whether it was more than what it appeared. Then the hairs on the back of his neck seemed to stiffen as though he were being watched. Achil spun round but there was nothing there. Perhaps the thick night air and the unearthly crater were playing tricks on him.

  He made his way back to camp, the clear crystal stars that were cut out of the dark veil of night shone a path for him; the night was cool, a sharp contrast to the heat given off by his heavenly gift; before resting, once more Achil threw some kindling onto the fire to reawaken the sleepy embers. He slowly closed his eyes and drifted off. Achil’s dreams were troubled that night, disturbed by something unnatural, something that made his hands grip the blanket so tightly that they turned white. A noxious fume appeared floating above him, it seemed to coalesce becoming in shape and form the image of a beautiful woman whose flowing gown was like shards of well-cut glass. Her eyes were impenetrable, unfeeling. She took hold of Achil‘s arms so as to draw him closer to her, Achil remained still, almost lifeless, as if he were completely unaware of what was happening. Her lips hovered over his, as if to touch them, as she moved close, some ghostly vapour rose from his mouth to hers, and gradually her body took on a more defined aspect.