Anãrren Gifted: Legends Reborn

By Christopher C. Dimond

He knows little of the real world except its history. But he never expected his research passion to set him against a dangerous and obsessive king.

 

Hennery Roen has always been fascinated by a fabled lost empire. So he can’t believe his luck when he’s assigned to interview a captive and discovers the man may be one of the last remaining members of the same gifted race of spell casters. But when the man’s friends stage an attack to free him, Hennery finds himself caught in the middle of the fight before taking a crossbow bolt to the chest…

 

Galen Sumãrren is a hunted man. But running from his tragic past has taken him deep into the heart of enemy territory, where the outlaw healer uses his powerful gifts to save his interviewer’s life. But when he realizes his actions have only made the young scholar a target, he has no choice but to bring him along as they all flee toward the ancient lands of the north.

 

While Hennery learns swordsmanship and survival skills from his new companions, he begins to worry that his friend’s troubled past could be used against them. And though Galen’s secret may be impossible to escape, he fears the only way to free himself from its burden forever will lead to a fatal confrontation.

 

Can the young historian and his unexpected companions survive a cruel tyrant’s deadly wrath?

 

Legends Reborn is the action-packed first book in the sweeping Anãrren Gifted sword and sorcery fantasy series. If you like loyal heroes, detailed fight sequences, and redemptive story arcs, then you’ll love Christopher C. Dimond’s character-driven tale.

 

Grab Anãrren Gifted: Legends Reborn to uncover an ancient legacy today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: UDW Publishing
• Release date: Jul 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9781948619257

Book preview

Prologue

EXCERPT FROM ROBERT JOHN LOCKELY’S AN ACCOUNT OF THE FALL

With a great swing of his Anãrren sword, Killian clove straight through the first of his attackers with his typical slip-strike before the blade lodged into the shoulder of another. The man’s scream was lost in the chaos of the battle, even as three others leapt forward to answer their companion’s cry. Killian muttered a curse under his breath as he tugged on his blade, but it refused to dislodge itself from the last victim’s shoulder.

Still maintaining a grip on his hilt, Killian sidestepped a new attack from a simple hand scythe. Then he lunged forward to trap the man’s elbow between his chest and left arm. At the same time, he lashed out with a kick to the attacker’s midsection followed by a stomp to the side of the man’s knee. Finally, with a sharp twist of his torso, Killian hurled the man to the ground with the arm he’d held trapped.

But there was no time for the Anãrren to pause. The next two attackers were only steps away.

Killian spun to face them with his right fist still clutching at the hilt of his sword as he extended his left hand toward them and loosed a great cry. A thick wave of red and purple flames erupted in a rolling fire from his open palm, engulfing those before him. He turned back to the man whose shoulder still trapped his blade and brought his left hand around. With a single uttered word, a force of unseen energy collided with the man, launching him into the fray of fighters nearby and leaving Killian holding his freed Anãrren sword.

Killian’s stomach twisted. Under different circumstance he’d have felt bitter sickness over the terrible carnage he’d inflicted.

But this was a war.

Moreover, they were the aggressors, and he was fighting to defend all he held dear. His wife and daughter were in danger, as were countless other Anãrren lives. This was no small insurrection, and Killian feared its aim was not simple revolution but wholescale genocide.

He glanced about, taking advantage of the momentary reprieve to assess the conditions of his comrades.

Farrah was holding the right, her deceptively delicate laceblade dancing through the air as she held a swarm of foes at bay. Over and over she whipped her enchanted sword at them, and each time it sparkled and glowed with fierce arcs of lightning that tore into her enemies. Their cries were washed away in the noise of the terrible battle.

To Killian’s left, Tolloth held strong as he continued baffling his opponents with invisible barriers while conjuring little con’raies. Armed with square shields that ran from ankle to shoulder and tiny swords the size of daggers, the waist-high figures in gleaming maille armor charged the trapped aggressors with valiant abandon. Within moments the con’raies were battered and beaten by the larger men, but Tolloth simply closed his eyes to summon another band of the tiny con’raies ready to continue their noble sacrifice.

Killian heaved a bitter sigh. Perhaps this wasn’t a war after all. It was more akin to a slaughter.

The common folk—a term he used with no connotation of belittlement or condescension but merely as a way to differentiate them from the gifted Anãrrens—had amassed a multinational army. Yet they were untrained and barely armed. Most of the weapons they bore were repurposed farming or lumbering tools. They made rather poor implements of war. And those wielding them were little better. They weren’t intended to be soldiers. Few of them could stand against even the simplest of trained soldiers, let alone the army of Anãrrens, both trained and gifted.

Distracted as he was, Killian nearly jumped when a figure appeared out of the aether right next to him. He whirled, muscles tensing for defense even as his mind began marshaling his gifts. But he relaxed when he recognized Arra.

You’re hurt, she said, ignoring his startled reaction and focusing on the jagged slash across his right thigh.

Killian silently chided himself for his response. After all, none but an Anãrren could have arrived with a quickstep through the aether. I’ll survive, he answered, turning his attention back to the larger battle to search for his next fight.

Without another word, Arra dropped to one knee and grabbed Killian by the thigh, locking one hand across the wound and the other around the back of his leg. He grunted in pain as he shot the sumãrren a gruff look. But she returned his gaze with a neutral expression marred only by the ghost of a smile curling the edge of her lips. An instant later, a warm rush flowed into Killian’s wound, and he glanced away from the disquieting fading of light under her delicate hands as it was absorbed by her healing.

A moment later she stood again. It will still need days to mend, but I stopped the bleeding. You should be able to move on it.

He nodded his thanks, already feeling strength returning to his leg once more. But before he could say anything, Arra turned and vanished again with a quickstep, off to help others.

Killian shook his head and turned back to the battle, where he spotted three men on horseback. The sight of those mounted figures in the distance sent a wave of fear through him, not because of what they could do but because of what their presence might mean.

Had the Kaythen knights joined the fight against the Anãrrens? The Kaythens had sworn neutrality in this war, yet there was no other nation in the known world that bred horses. Finally, reason cut through Killian’s momentary horror. These mounts weren’t Kaythen war horses. They were the smaller geldings the Kaythens gave as diplomatic gestures. Such horses were priceless, given only to kings, and were often watched by the Kaythens afterward. It could only be desperation that brought them to the battlefield. And even as he watched, the three figures wheeled to flee the conflict rather than join it.

With a settling breath, he turned his attention back to the fighting. To his right oblique he spotted a band of commoners more skilled than the rest, perhaps the remnants of a kingdom’s standing army. That’s where he would be needed next.

He leapt forward into a run, grimacing as pain lanced through his leg. But he focused his attention on the contingent before him and took a deep breath to gauge his stamina.

Fatigue is what kills the trained soldier.

He’d heard the words echoed by so many of his teachers in years past and remembered the students he himself had told the same. Already his body was exhausted after hours of fighting, and he could feel the mental fatigue creeping in at the edge of his thoughts like a thin fog hovering at the edge of his awareness. More importantly, though, he could feel his strength waning. The stamina for his gifts was substantial compared to many of his peers, but he was pushing himself too hard. Due to necessity, he had repeatedly drawn upon gifts outside of his proficiency, such as the blast to free his sword. If he used another of those, he would be useless.

Even so, enough energy remained to do some damage, if he managed his timing properly.

Ahead of him, the army remnant spotted his advance. He carefully gauged their reactions, hoping to discern their level of training. Most of the mobs he’d faced so far had either leapt forward with an uneducated enthusiasm or scattered in undisciplined fright.

This group did neither.

Instead, their front ranks smoothly parted to reveal a small squad of longbowmen already standing at the ready.

With a hasty curse, Killion tucked his sword against his chest and dove forward, rolling over his left shoulder to land in a crouch. Large arrows whistled overhead, and he quickly redirected his roll, lest that had not been a full volley he’d just dodged.

Bowmen! he cried, alerting his subordinates. But his warning was unnecessary, as an instant later a pair of daggers landed in quick succession amongst the longbowmen. The first caught one of the taut bowstrings, which snapped and whipped one bowman across his face and thigh, opening each with jagged wounds. The other dagger landed only a few feet away, but it didn’t find a target as it bit into the fertile soil.

Recognizing Farrah’s enchanted blades, Killian heaved himself into a backward roll and covered his face just as the first of the daggers expanded into a radiant fireball of crackling energy. A moment later, the second detonated, adding silver lightning to the vibrant flame, and a sharp wall of heat washed over him. After the intensity subsided, Killian glanced up to take stock of their position.

The longbowmen were in complete chaos, and the army remnant surrounding them was in disarray. Most of the soldiers were injured or worse, and the few still standing staggered with the awkward gaits of those blinded or stunned.

A glance at Farrah revealed she was still engaged with her earlier mob but had found the time to deal with the looming threat of the longbowmen. Between two arcing swings of her dancing laceblade, their eyes locked, and he gave her a thankful nod. A smile played across her lips and then the movement of her swing carried her gaze away and back to the crowd still surrounding her.

Killian turned back to the soldiers closest him. Some of the scattered remnant had regained their feet, and they held themselves with a defiance that said they would not give in to the superior gifts of the Anãrrens they faced.

Killian growled at the stupidity of this pointless war they had brought against his people. This was not what the Anãrrens wanted.

He shifted his concentration again to his left hand and began gathering energy for another fiery barrage. As the power grew, he began shaping it with his own skill, preparing to unleash his gifts. Then he looked toward those he was about to engulf in flame.

Suddenly his entire world collapsed.

His gifts were gone.

Killian staggered as the full impact of the loss struck deep within.

Not dissipated. Not diminished. Simply gone.

It was as though an essential piece of himself was suddenly not there—like a swordsman who had lost both arms. A self-defining piece of his soul had been torn away, leaving him not only unable to use his gifted abilities, but also plunged into an all-encompassing turmoil.

He dropped to one knee with a gasp and then struggled to stand. But he was unable to manage the physical coordination the simple act required. Around him, his companions and fellow Anãrrens were in similar states. Meanwhile, the common army simply watched in surprise as every gifted warrior on the battlefield toppled.

Within moments, the entire Anãrren army was literally on its knees.

Killian fought against waves of nausea and managed a final surge to regain his feet for one last stand.

The scene around him was horrendous.

What remained of the trained bowman unit was advancing. Yet even as they moved past the paralyzed Anãrrens on the field, they remained cautious. These people feared him and his kind. But as they drew closer, Killian also saw their hatred.

He managed to raise his sword once before the nausea finally overtook him, and he pitched forward, landing roughly on his side while his enemies slowly advanced around him.

They hate us, he thought. But why? What cause have we given them to despise us so desperately as to be worth the lives of all they’d lost on this field? He had no answer, nor did he expect one soon.

His fading thoughts were of his wife and children and how he had failed them and the rest of the Anãrrens he had sworn to protect. And then the world around him vanished into a haze of thick nothingness and—

Chapter 1

The Anãrren

And then the world around him vanished into a haze of thick nothingness and—

R oen? a voice called from the library entrance.

Hennery’s head snapped up at his name, pulling his attention away from Lockely’s Account of the Fall and almost dislodging his glasses in the process. He brushed a bit of his tussled brown hair aside and resettled his spectacles before glancing past the rows of books surround him.

Maybe if he didn’t answer they would just—

Hennery Roen! the voice repeated with a note of aggravation. I know you’re in here somewhere.

Hennery sighed at the distraction dragging him from his work. One moment. He gently closed An Account of the Fall, tucking one finger in to mark his place, and started toward the entry. I’m here, he said as he stepped free of the giant stacks bowed with ancient books and scrolls and found Lord Kyle, the royal chamberlain secretary, standing impatiently in the doorway.

The steward has sent for you, Lord Kyle announced as soon as he spotted Hennery. He would have come himself, but he’s taken ill.

Hennery frowned at the news, not because his mentor and the prime scholar of the Cethor Kingdom had sent for him, but rather because he was ill.

Come, Lord Kyle said as he turned and started down the stone corridor beyond the library’s doorway, leading Hennery to the large wing that had served as the late king’s quarters. Hennery already knew the way, of course. He’d been raised in these halls from a young age.

Geoffrey, the new steward, had been the one to show them to him.

They soon arrived at the elegant door to the small room Geoffrey had been working from since the king and prince had died, leaving a power void in Cruith, Cethor’s capitol city, that Geoffrey had been struggling to fill as temporary steward. The door swung open at Hennery’s touch, and he stepped into the brightly lit room, framed by windows on the opposite wall. In the center sat a large desk, and behind it sat Geoffrey.

Hennery couldn’t help but notice his mentor’s pale skin and flushed cheeks, while around his normally sharp eyes hung a tired fatigue, suggesting he’d had far too little sleep of late. He was only a shadow of the man who had cared for Hennery since he was a boy, the man who’d always appeared old but never seemed worn.

Now he seemed quite worn indeed.

Hennery, Geoffrey greeted with his typically warm, if now wearied, smile. Come in, please. You needn’t stare at me like that.

How are you feeling? Hennery asked with concern.

Beside him, Lord Kyle made an indignant cough as he bowed, reminding Hennery that technically his old mentor was now king steward and thus required a formal greeting. Hennery quickly fumbled into a low bow, but Geoffrey scoffed at the gesture.

Oh, not you too! I’ve already given up trying to beat it out of our Lord Kyle, here, but I won’t have him corrupting you as well.

Lord Kyle stiffened. I assure you I am only following proper etiquette.

And proper etiquette should extend to following my instructions, should it not?

Lord Kyle hesitated a moment, and Geoffrey laughed. Carry on, if you must, just as long as you agree to stop this foolishness after the Council of Nobles has chosen our new sovereign. He gave Hennery a wry wink. I have no intention of keeping this position for long. I’d rather be back in the library.

Hennery grinned, but Lord Kyle simply bowed once more. I shall remain close should you require me. As he backed out the door, he shot Hennery a pointed glare. Pray, do not keep him longer than necessary. He needs more rest.

Geoffrey scoffed again as the door closed. If you believed our good chamberlain and the king’s doctor, you’d think I may not survive two days.

Hennery’s eyes widened in concern, but Geoffrey just waved it off. Lord Kyle means well, but the physician he’s found is a man barely fit to tend cattle in a pasture. And after this latest prognosis, I wonder if even that is beyond his skill. Geoffrey sighed. Nevertheless, I do have far more work before me than I am capable of managing. I was hoping I might ask you to assume one of these onerous tasks.

Hennery took an eager step forward. You know you have but to ask.

Geoffrey nodded. It seems our prince left orders before he died to search for a fugitive wanted in the Ahun Kingdom for heinous crimes against the royal crown. Beyond that I know little other than the fact our northern guard captured this man a few days ago.

Hennery frowned. The north of Cethor was a long way from the eastern border they shared with the much larger Ahun Kingdom.

Apparently, King Alahun has already sent a troop to reclaim him. So, I was hoping you’d to see to the paperwork and conduct a brief interview with the man before King Alahun’s troop arrives.

It seemed a simple, if distasteful, task. But that was exactly what made Hennery suspicious. There were, after all, plenty of castle guards better suited to such a chore. Before Hennery could question him, however, his old mentor preempted him.

What were you reading this time? Geoffrey asked with a wry gleam of amusement in his eyes.

Hennery frowned, momentarily caught off guard. What do you mean?

Geoffrey broke into a smile as he nodded to the book in Hennery’s hand. It was a game they’d played often, and one Geoffrey always won. You know well what I mean, Geoffrey pressed. I expect your finger’s been tucked in that volume since you were rudely interrupted by Lord Kyle. So, what is it? A tale of the Kaythen knights? More research on Beraisia’s border disputes?

Hennery glanced away and shook his head, suddenly fascinated by a simple pattern on the floor.

Then it must be some tale of the Anãrrens. The smile Geoffrey wore suggested he’d known all along. But then he paused and gave an exaggerated sigh. "It’s An Account of the Fall, isn’t it?"

Hennery nodded, still feigning interest in the floor’s detailing as he tried to hide the offending book behind one leg.

Geoffrey scoffed and shook his head. Why you take such an interest in that whimsical fiction is beyond my fathoming.

Hennery’s head came up as he prepared to defend his research passion, but Geoffrey held up a weary hand to postpone the retort.

You know I refer to that volume alone, Hennery, he explained with a gentle smile. I have no qualm with the subject matter it claims to address. But there are scores of other works with more accurate accounts of the Anãrrens and their long-ago era. I dare suggest that this particular treatise is little more than fiction wrapped in a loose veil of historic fact. I should very much doubt even half of what Lockely said about the Anãrren gifts were true. Surely you must see that after all you’ve read on the subject?

Hennery nodded. I suppose I do. And you’re right, but… His eyes were drawn to the window, seeking words to describe why he continued returning to the book he knew could not be real. Lockely paints the history in a way the others don’t. His words bring life to that time long past. The others, even if more accurate, are too dry to convey the vitality of that past world.

Geoffrey smiled, his expression softening as though he understood from personal experience. But Hennery, you know as well as I that those battlefields had been silent for more than a hundred years before Lockely was even born. I agree he weaves an alluring tale, but that’s all it is, a fiction of history. Besides, even a scholar can’t spend his life buried in the past. There is the present too, my boy! And if you can find and experience the vibrancy of our present, then you’ll be able to apply it yourself to those dry historical accountings. Geoffrey’s smile widened. You will do great things when your time comes, my boy. Then Geoffrey settled back in his chair as though content he had just won their argument. And this new responsibility for you is just the first step. Remember the things I taught you, and you’ll do fine. An amused gleam returned to his mentor’s eyes. You might even decide to thank me.

Hennery frowned, but before he could say more, Geoffrey waved his hand, gesturing to the door. Off with you, now, before Lord Kyle returns to give us another lecture. I’m not sure I’m fit enough to handle more of his extended oration. Then Geoffrey gave Hennery a wink.

Hennery bowed once more and started to back through the door when Geoffrey offered one last parting comment.

I shall look forward to your report on the Anãrren!

Hennery was still trying to decipher his mentor’s strange parting comment when he reached the corridor holding the prisoner.

A bored looking guard straightened next to the doorway. His name is Galen Somaran, the guard answered when Hennery asked what he knew of the man. "I hear it means death incarnate in some barbaric tongue."

If Galen heard from within the small bedchamber that served as his prison cell, he didn’t seem to care. He was stretched out on the floor with his eyes closed and his hands resting behind a head of dirty-blond hair. From the look of it, the man stood more than six feet tall, with a lean and muscular form.

Can you please open the door for me? Hennery asked the guard.

The man stiffened and cast a hesitant glance toward the prone figure before moving to unlock the door. Then he placed a hand on Hennery’s arm. You’d best be careful. I don’t rightly know why he’s here, but I’ve heard the stories from those that captured him.

What kinds of stories? Hennery asked carefully. He knew better than to trust any fiction that came from an idle soldier’s mouth, but he also knew that some of those stories were based in truth.

They said he committed a murder so terrible the blood lay thick in the grass for weeks.

Hennery frowned and wished for a moment that his imagination wasn’t quite so vivid as he tried to push the horrible image away. Then he nodded to the guard. I’ll be careful.

The guard grunted as he pulled the door open for Hennery and then placed a hand on his sheathed sword as he stood watching from the doorway after Hennery entered.

For a moment Hennery stood awkwardly just inside the little room. Hello, he finally said in a hesitant voice. My name is Hennery Roen. How are you feeling this morning?

Galen slowly cracked one eye open. How might you think? he answered in a low tone that carried a hint of amusement.

Ohh, I-I mean, I suppose… Hennery knew he was stammering, but he couldn’t help it. From the moment Galen had opened that eye, Hennery could barely think straight.

It really was as Geoffrey had said.

The predominant shade of Galen’s eye was a crystal blue that complemented the man’s hair, but it was a blue that almost seemed to shimmer and swirl as Hennery stared at it. Surrounding that striking blue iris was a thin jet-black band, resulting in a piercing gaze and an unmistakable pattern for anyone versed in their history.

"You—you’re Anãrren!" Hennery finally managed. He could scarcely believe he was speaking with one who bore a lineage to the legendary race. Anãrrens of old had possessed great skill in arcane gifts, feats that others would consider magic, though the few Anãrrens that remained possessed but a fraction of their ancestors’ once mighty gifts.

The majority of them, that is.

Every so often one would hear stories of an Anãrren descendant who possessed powers that equaled those Anãrrens of old. Of course, one could never know if such stories were true or mere tales of fantasy.

Galen smiled as he opened his other eye. "Aye. Galen Sumãrren, if that means anything to you, he added, cutting a glance toward the guard who had slaughtered the pronunciation. Then, with a quick motion, Galen sat up, draping shackled hands across his knees as his piercing gaze focused on Hennery. You seem a well-educated lad. He cocked his head to one side. So, how did I warrant your interest? Particularly if you didn’t know I was Anãrren before you arrived."

Hennery suddenly felt nervous even with the castle guard standing nearby.

Well. You see, I-I’ve been asked to interview you before… Hennery let the sentence fade, unsure how to finish it as he struggled to maintain as calm a demeanor as possible—which, in all truth, was not calm at all.

Galen nodded, one corner of his lips twisting in amusement. You mean before Alahun’s soldiers come to collect me.

Hennery managed an awkward nod, and the nearby guard glared at him as though he’d just divulged a dire secret.

With another quick motion, Galen rose to his feet with a wide grin. Oh, no need for that. It didn’t take much to guess. Alahun’s been after me for many years now. So, I expect your King Andrews is hoping for quite a little reward.

King Andrews is dead, the guard growled, slapping the bars to the cell with a gloved fist. As is Prince Andrews on whose orders we collected you.

Galen frowned, apparently surprised by the news. Then he shrugged, focusing again on Hennery. I suppose it makes little difference. As long as Alahun knows I’m here, you have little choice. He wouldn’t hesitate to send an entire army after me, and it wouldn’t be the first time. Galen took a couple of steps back and leaned against the wall. So, Hennery Roen, what is it you wanted to ask me before my doom?

Hennery settled himself at the tiny desk the guard had moved into the room for him and shuffled his parchments as he tried not to let the prisoner’s piercing gaze unnerve him.

Well, Galen Sumãrren, Hennery started, saving the boring formalities for later so he could focus on more interesting questions. Would it be accurate to assume your family name is derived from elements of the Anãrren tongue?

Galen nodded from where he sat on the opposite side of the room so the guard could keep an eye on him. Aye. Does that mean anything to you? Though his expression remained neutral, his playful tone suggested a challenge.

Hennery’s eyes lit with excitement. "Of course, it does! The stem, arren, is a reference to Ãrrén or The Light. He shrugged, remembering the varied connotations of the long-dead tongue. Or life, depending on the translation. The literal translation would be giver of light. But it’s often stylized when discussing Anãrren gifts to mean giver of life."

Galen broke into a grin, nodding his approval.

Hennery grinned too. The Anãrren gifts were one of the most tantalizing qualities of the ancient race and were often a subject of legend. Most of the histories described four main clades to categorize the Anãrren gifts. A few even claimed that identifying an Anãrren’s gifts could reveal a great deal about the skills, and even personality, of the individual.

"So then, Galen, Giver of Life, Hennery continued. Is your surname also an indication of your gift as a healer?"

Galen’s expression faded from the polite, if amused, air and took on a darker cast. A flicker of something bitter and tormented crossed his expression, and with a shiver Hennery couldn’t help but recall the guard’s words, and that terrible image of blood flowing through Ahun’s royal garden. Heinous crimes against the noble crown, Geoffrey had called it. But what was this prisoner really capable of?

Then Galen took a sharp breath and released it quickly, allowing his eyes to focus once more on Hennery as he returned to the present. I was a healer, as was my mother.

Hennery nodded, momentarily unnerved by the experience, even if it wasn’t the first time his imagination had—

Hennery frowned. "Wait, you said was. Why the past tense? Do you mean