The Chronicles of Anúrth, Book 1: Rómorin's Rise

By Simon Dean

The Chronicles of Anúrth take place in the fantastical world of Anúrth. Inhabited by two major races, Man and Elvar, the world is about to be the staging ground for a war unlike anything seen before. Rómorin, of a species unknown to the races of the world, has carved out a kingdom for himself and wages war on his neighbouring countries. The Elfa Lords of the country Tangún border Rómorin directly and it is only by their Magickal might that he is kept at bay.

This first installment follows an exiled advisor to the King of Féhrin, banished for his use of illegal Magicks, on his journey south. The advisor becomes a part of the world's last hope - a group of beings of various races who band together to stop Rómorin. Dánin, the exile, learns more about the Magicks that got him banished in the first place. He is defenseless without them, and a being as powerful as the Lord of Shadow cannot be stopped by conventional means.

The old religion of the world begins to play a part in the fight for civilisation. Once a realm-spanning order, the religion of the Deific Seven died out long ago. No one knows exactly how or why, but when a legendary saint interferes with the struggle for the world the older beings of Anúrth take note.

Rómorin attacks from his fortress land of Móvalith, while also activating his sleeper agents in the most powerful country in the world. All seems lost, and the exiled advisor's party cannot help. It is up to unlikely heroes to defend the realm of Man from the Dark Lord's grasp.

Rómorin has taken an interest in the assembled party, and not for the obvious reasons. What does he want with Dánin, and how does that fit in with his plans to enslave the world? Rómorin wages war on the peoples of Anúrth for his own sinister purpose. If he succeeds civilisation will never be the same. Can Dánin stop the Dark Lord, or will Anúrth fall to darkness?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simon Dean
• Release date: Oct 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9781527202771

Simon Dean

Hi! I'm Simon, creator of the fantastical and Magickal world of Anúrth. I originally started the book in 2012 during a year abroad in Guadeloupe, in the Caribbean (I was studying French, Spanish and German at university at the time). The characters were my companions during my stay there and followed me home, and wouldn't leave me alone until their story was told! I currently work for the financial industry, but the story continues! Book two is currently being drafted and I plan on having a blast while doing it. I know it sounds very cliché, but my main hobby is reading. I love nothing more than loosing myself in a fantasy or sci-fi world. Second to that would be my two dogs; Sootie and Sweep. They keep me hopeful in a world already full of disaster.

Book preview

The Chronicles of ANÚRTH

Book 1: Rómorin’s Rise

The Chronicles of Anúrth

Book 1: Rómorin’s Rise

By Simon Dean

Copyright 2016 Simon Dean

Smashwords Second Edition

978-1-5272-0277-1

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Second Edition:

Mists of worship did rise in Heaven,

Obscuring the coming of the Eighth,

Who would twist and mangle the Deific Seven,

And end the power of the Faith.

Concerning Anúrth

Eyes of starlight blinked, causing blue tongues of flame to lick at the centre of a prepared campfire ringed in stone. The blue light was soothing, casting two Man-shaped shadows. The shadows were attached to one Man and one… something else, each sitting on a dry stump of a dead tree. The Man was young and wide-eyed, with a hairless face and head. The other being was shaped like a Man, and wore Man’s clothes; however those eyes betrayed its inhuman nature.

This tale, my tale, concerns itself largely with the four countries of our world of Anúrth, the being said. Gáron, the Man who listened attentively, decided to think of him as a Man even though he wasn’t sure exactly what he was. Féhrin, a land ruled by a White Throne of Stone and Jâhrin, the Threshold of the Alliance stood strong as the two realms of Men, and to the east of Féhrin and the north of Jâhrin lay the Free Lands of Tangún, where the ageless Elvar lived. Against all this stood Móvalith, the Shadow-Realm, north of Tangún. The Dark Lord never tired, and was restless now that the world’s peoples were weak.

Gáron blinked. The world now was very different, and he enjoyed stories of the past. It’s important to know about these key places and the peoples who dwelled within, since none are alive today who can tell their own tales. The corner of the being’s mouth twitched slightly at this. The tale which I tell begins in Féhrin, so that is where I will begin. The being seemed to radiate immeasurable power; and Gáron was captivated by his voice. It was laden with knowledge, and spoke as if he had lived for centuries. Even Ages. His black eyes with irises of pure white light seemed fixated on nothing, as if the being was watching the events he was describing unfold right before him.

Féhrin was, in fact, a half-country. The being continued, waving his hand so the fire turned green. "He was ruled by Men and was a one-time part of the old realm of Kóndú, along with his brother half-country Jâhrin. Though his power had greatly diminished, Féhrin was not a country to anger.

You may have already noticed some differences in this, the firsts of explanations, and that is countries and realms in Anúrth were all masculine. The being said, now looking directly at Gáron. That particular fact had changed now. They were all neutral, in deference to the women who died in the War for the World. The script used by Men was called Rúihnâdin, with a likeness in name with the capital of Féhrin and the old capital of Kóndú; Rúihnâd. The language is brash and fluid, like a great river. It is supple enough to change direction at a whim, but powerful enough to decimate homes and break rock. It easily adopts new words from other languages that it comes into contact with, and the Men who use it forced it onto other denizens of Anúrth because of their own lack of linguistic ability. Anúrth itself means ‘of earth’. The word ‘an’ was taken from the language of the Elvar, Imároān.

The storyteller must have noticed Gáron’s inquisitive look, for he smiled and said more on the language of the oldest peoples of Anúrth in the tale. Gáron nodded, and allowed him to continue.

"The huge realm of Kóndú had once been occupied solely by Elvar, as had most of Anúrth. They are a fair and sinewy people who live very long lives and do not breed often. When Man was brought to the world many thousands of years ago, the only logical place for him to live was in this country, for Kóndú occupied over half of the known world, Móvalith was yet untamed and the Elvar guarded Tangún, their birthplace, fiercely.

Soon the quick-breeding race of Man had all but driven out the Elvar who had dwindled in numbers and could not fight the sudden growth in population. The Elfa Lords, he paused again, catching Gáron’s puzzled look. The Elfa Lords are the oldest of the Elvar, and the most powerful. They are the leaders of their society and are the most proficient Magick Wielders in the world. He explained. Gáron nodded his understanding, and the being continued.

"The Elfa Lords sought revenge and found it in the ancient forest of Fellwood, which at that time was still full of small saplings and had not yet grown to divide whole countries.

"The Elvar made a foul deal with the trees there, and now when my tale starts Fellwood forest had kept its promise and grown so large and was so deeply infested with Goblins that it was considered impassable, and separated Man from Man.

"This foul play was not the proudest of Elfa moments, but the Elfa do take pride in claiming that they split the great realm of Kóndú in two, and greatly weakened Man as a result. From this moment onwards there has been a constant and deeply ingrained mistrust amongst the two races, which often turns into violence. Even to this day.

It might be best to now mention that Men, being the one of the most populous of the Peoples of Anúrth, decided at the splitting of their country to begin time anew. Again Gáron showed his confusion, this time by tilting his head. The being smiled. What I mean is that Man decided to change the way they counted their years. Instead of continuing from the Fourth Age to the Fifth Age and so on, a New Age began that very year when the countries splintered, and three hundred and ninety two years later a battle began for the very survival of the world and all the peoples in it.

For in the year two hundred and twenty five word spread of a fair Lord in the mountains that separated Féhrin and Móvalith to the east. Then, the mountain range was simply named ‘Bûl an Kóndú’, meaning ‘the wall of Kóndú’. That changed when tales bizarre enough to pique the interest of King Luín began to arrive in a strange tongue, on the wind no less!

The being knew he had the Man before him entranced in his tale, though little did Gáron know the story being told was the greatest of them all.

"Luín sent out a party to meet this newcomer. ‘Who are you and why are you in the mountains?’ They asked.

"‘I am Rómorin, Lord of the mountains and Sílzul of Anúrth.’ The newcomer had replied, his voice light and hearty, yet there was an undercurrent of intelligence far too complex to comprehend.

"‘The mountains are yours,’ said the men from Rúihnâd, for their King was wise and knew that it was better to have an enemy in the mountains than in his own country. ‘But tell us! What is a Sílzul? We have not heard of this title before.’

But Rómorin would not answer that question, and sent them away down the mountains and back to the capital. The being before Gáron seemed to falter as he said ‘Rómorin’, and Gáron filed the name away for further investigation later. It must have been important.

"Rómorin stayed there and did not venture down, not even for food. From then on the mountain range was named ‘The Seat of The Sílzul’ and years went by without contact from the mysterious being. Crowned Prince Lórin was not as trusting as his father, and when he ascended to the White Throne of Stone he sent men to spy on the Power in the Mountains. Perfectly preserved bodies returned, dumped on the Palace floor by the valiant Knights of Féhrin and the White Throne of Stone.

Lórin died many years later from unusual circumstances, all of which are told in this; the greatest of tales! The being said, arms open wide as if to invite Gáron into the story that he was telling.

Now when my tale begins, the Power in the Mountain was stirring in Móvalith, poised to take the world by its throat, and an advisor bared witness to the beginning of the end for the peoples of Anúrth.

Chapter 1: Prologue

The Shadows of Móvalith were spreading southwards with each passing day. Each sunrise, the Dark Lord became stronger, and the Shadow ensured his minions were at their strongest. The entire land was covered with black, stormy clouds that spat orange lightening at the Dark Lord’s strongholds, bathing the ash fields in an eerie light. In this hellish land there were two strongholds: Mórǯul was The Mighty City and seat of the Dark Lord’s rule, and Móranoth, which was the would-be house of his Military Might.

Onáck was walking through the halls of The Mighty City. It was completely enclosed and topped in a fearsome tower where the Dark Lord resided. The halls had buttresses made of black iron, stronger than steel, which provided the sharpest of edges. It was immovable and impervious to the arms of Man and Magick. The denizens of the City called it Bákchamba; Black Iron. The entire City structure was made out of it. The Dark Lord liked black.

Onáck was a Man in the service of the Unnamed. He had received disturbing news, and had to take it to the Tower.

But he didn’t like the Tower. It jutted up out of the City for nearly a mile. Up and up it went until it ended in the Sanctum of the Dark Lord, which was a ball at the top of the spire with windows that eyes could perceive, but sunlight couldn’t. It made the Sanctum as black and as solid as the rest of the stronghold, though the Dark Lord could peer out of it for leagues and leagues. No one knew how. The interior was, unlike the black, buttressed halls and rooms of the City, rather huge. Onáck didn’t like going up there. But he had to, to deliver the message.

He had no idea what the Dark Lord might be doing, but the message couldn’t wait. It was of grave importance.

There were no windows in the City, for the Dark Lord considered them a weak spot. Instead, light came in a red-tinted form from ornate stone fountains at the end of each corridor or in each room. To the normal eye it looked like water, but Onáck reasoned that it must be much more than water if it illuminated corridors with its eerie, red emissions.

Onáck used these fountains to see by as he meandered through the corridors towards Ascension. That was the room that linked directly to the Sanctum. The City was not planned out in any logical way, and was meant to confuse and disorientate attackers. It certainly had a way of disorientating Onáck.

Onáck was originally a Druid, a Man of Magicks from Jâhrin. Most of the Dark Lord’s servants had former masters. Onáck himself used to be well known for writing books on Magicks and their uses, but that life was long gone now. He often thought what his current life would be like had he not devoted himself to the one true ruler of Anúrth, and he did not like what he imagined. Though, the constant fear of death through reprisal can be distracting. Just a little.

He turned left, entered a Portal Room and waited. A Portal Room was a chamber with many doors. It was octagonal with one door on every wall, each the same shape, size and colour. The only way you could get through one was to let the room know your intention. It would then pick your path by opening a door. You could take that door or starve, as the Portal Room would close the door behind you and would not open it again. One of the Dark Lord’s many designs which showed his aptitude with Magick.

Onáck waited impatiently for a few minutes as he brought the message to the forefront of his mind, and stared at the door that always opened for him. The Portal Rooms were illuminated by the same fountains as in the corridors. There were eight, each next to a door.

The Room seemed to take longer for Onáck than for anyone else, but eventually the door he had been staring at creaked and swung inward. Onáck stepped out into another corridor.

The journey to Ascension contained three more Portal Rooms. Each one seemed to have a personality. One, like the first, made Onáck wait. Another opened three doors at once, obviously playing its own devilish game. Since he had made the journey many times over the last five decades, he knew which one to take. The very last one seemed to be irritated by Onáck’s presence so much so that as soon as he placed a foot over the threshold, a door swung inward with such force that it banged off of the wall with a loud clang. Onáck left that room quickly.

He was a few corridors from Ascension when he saw another Man, like him, approaching. Onáck, he said in a low voice by way of greeting. Like Onáck, this other was quite high up in the Dark Lord’s City. He was a Druid. Well, an ex-Druid, who had enough potential in Magicks to become one of the Dark Lord’s chief lieutenants in the early schemes.

Dórnoth, Onáck greeted him with a snarl. There were no such things as friends in the Mighty City, and Rómorin’s servants had to be constantly on the watch for betrayal. Outright hostility was easier than false friendship. Dórnoth was no true Druid’s name, just as Onáck was not a normal Man’s name. Servants renamed themselves if they came into the Dark Lord’s service, however Onáck had been going by his current name long before he had joined the legions of Móvalith. The Druid was tall, with matted brown hair and steel-green eyes. He had gone a few days without grooming, with at least a few days’ worth of hair sprouting upon his cleft chin.

Look what I brought the Dark Lord! Dórnoth spat, and nodded behind him with his head. Onáck peered behind him to see two more Men, hulky and menacing, dragging a prone and naked form across the floor. As it drew closer, Onáck saw it was quite large, naked, and for all basic appearances a Man. On closer inspection he saw pale skin tainted with blue where the veins showed, and its eyes were deathly red, without pupils.

You found it?! Onáck said in disbelief. The Wight? The pride on Dórnoth’s face made him regret his words.

Dórnoth nodded. "It made a mighty gift for the Dark Lord. We’re taking it down to the Screamer; that should drill some sense into it!" Emphasis was deliberately placed on drill, a distasteful play on words. The great big Men that carried the prone figure chuckled at the simple play on words. Onáck didn’t chuckle.

But he couldn’t help but grimace. The Screamer was aptly named; a torture chair that had seen, and stole, too many souls. Sometimes needlessly, to fulfil the insatiable lusts of the lieutenant that operated it: Lérath. Lérath was an Elfa Lord of a ridiculous age. The darkness of the City and the Shadow of the Dark Lord did strange things to Elvar that it didn’t do to Men. His skin was taught and pale and his eyes were slowly turning a yellow-red colour. It was unnerving to say the least.

Onáck let Dórnoth and his new toy pass. He was already late. The Dark Lord did not abide tardiness, for all his evil flaws.

Passing through the remaining corridors, Onáck came to Ascension. It was, in fact, a Portal Room, but without doors and only one destination. It was decorated differently to the rest of the City. The same Black Iron was used here, and spiked buttresses also adorned the high domed walls. The fountains of Ascension did not glow red but blue. It gave the room a radiance that Onáck found quite calming. He didn’t know whether it was intentional or not, but it did the trick of relaxing someone before they were to see the Dark Lord.

That thought made Onáck press on. He walked across the heavily-decorated floor. All sorts of signs and symbols glowed red underneath him. In what language and for what purpose, Onáck did not know. The Portal stood before him. It was a large, circular slab of black stone which itself was carved, but with purple runes instead of red, and sparks seemed to leap of the surface and float casually to the ceiling. Onáck held his breath, and stepped onto the slab.

Ascension always gave him vertigo when he used it to enter the Sanctum. He stepped off the slab and into the Sanctum, holding his stomach and his head, and resolved to steady himself before he saw the Dark Lord.

The Portal Room of Ascension was a magical tunnel between the otherwise closed Sanctum and the Mighty City. It was the only way in or out, or as all the denizens and loyal subjects of the Dark Lord believed.

The Sanctum shared some designs with the Portal Room that led to it: the first floor was engraved with glowing red designs, and the fountains also glowed blue. There were no buttresses to be found here, though, and on the rounded walls every few meters hung a horrifying-looking hook. More often than not, the hook had dried, dark blood on its tip.

Onáck grinned. Though he thought the Screamer barbaric, he completely approved of the Dark Lord impaling his victims on those hooks, forced to look at each other and kept alive by the Dark Lord’s Magicks. It was a much better way to get information out of them. Besides, it was amazing what a few bloodied and mutilated corpses could do to spruce up a place.

There were two sets of stairs, seemingly supported by thin air, which led up to the second floor. That floor was smaller than the Portal one, and was mostly unadorned save a Black Iron pedestal in the centre. It was ornately carved and had nine sharp ridges that followed an hour-glass shape until the apex, which was flattened and unmarked. Atop sat a large black ball with an inner red glow. Onáck always felt a presence within the sphere there, but he never went near it. He had never even guessed what it was made out of. He heard his Lord and Master talk of a Flét when near it, so he assumed the ball was one.

Here he moved straight to another set of stairs which led him to the third floor, even smaller than the previous, and occupied by much more than one pedestal and a ball.

This was where the Dark Lord spent most of his time in the Sanctum. The walls were completely smooth and shiny, as if they were made out of some black glass which would let no light through. There were Black Iron benches under the windows which held many a manuscript. Some were written in the Elfa tongue of Imároān but most were in a script that Onáck had never seen before. It seemed impossibly complicated when he had stolen a look in one of the open volumes.

The Dark Lord himself was sat in a Black Iron throne in the centre of the room, raised on a dais. The Black Throne’s back was facing the stairs, so no one got to see the Dark Lord without the Dark Lord seeing them.

Almost immediately the air went frighteningly cold, and a voice hissed all around. It sounded like it was both vocal and telepathic. Yesss, my sservant? it hissed. It did not sound like a Man, though it spoke Rúihnâdin without fault. Onáck had long ago given up guessing what race on Anúrth the Dark Lord came from.

My L-Lord, sounded the quiet reply. It was always like this. However many times he would be in the Dark Lord’s presence, his fear would not diminish. Survival instincts he thought miserably. I have n-news.

Newsss? it hissed again. What newss? Doess it concccern my plansss?

Onáck nodded viciously, but realised the Dark Lord could not see him. Yes, m-my Lord. I came as s-soon as I h-heard.

Thisss newss, do you remember it?

Onáck seemed puzzled, which sent some of the fear away in mild confusion. Why y-yes, my Lord. Of c-course. That’s why I have c-come.

Then tell me thisss newss, and with hassste. I grow weary of your presenccce.

Onáck nodded once again, though this time it was to force himself to go on; to reassure that everything would be okay.

My Lord, it’s t-the Símalan. He’s on the m-move.

There was a pause, and what sounded like armoured fingers tapping on the Black Iron arm of the throne. Where? it finally said.

Rúihnâd, My L-Lord.

There was a silence that seemed to stretch for eternity.It beginssss! was all the Dark Lord hissed. After several more minutes of silence, where Onáck could hear only his own