Oron Amular: The Call of the Mountain by Michael J Harvey
The news goes far and wide. The Keeper of the Mountain has broken his long silence. Oron Amular, home of the fabled League of Wizardry, had been lost to mortal memory, but suddenly the legends are awakening again. Lords and princes, heroes and wanderers, all have felt the call of the Mountain. Curillian, the restless king of Maristonia, receives an invitation that cannot be ignored, knowing that invitations have also gone to his allies and adversaries alike.
A Tournament is to be held, the like of which has never been heard of. The contestants can only guess at the purposes of the Keeper; all they know is that the prize on offer is Power Unimaginable. All are eager to claim the riches of a lost ancient world, but who can even find the Mountain, let alone survive what awaits them there? When the maps are blank and the loremasters at a loss, another way must be found. Such is the hour when a mysterious stranger crosses the threshold of Maristonia’s capital, someone with a call of their own to answer.
Michael J Harvey
Michael J. Harvey is a fantasy novelist with a taste for the epic. Astrom is the world that he has created and Oron Amular is the first of the novels to be set there. Michael loves writing adventure stories and draws his inspiration from history and historical fiction as well as from the world of fantasy. Michael loves to travel and has two degrees in history. Michael lives with his wife and two boys in Cambridgeshire, England.
THIS was the day. Wasn’t it? It must be. The thought kept him going as he climbed the hill during the night. He had been waiting for this day half his life. If his conviction were wrong,
he wasn’t sure he could carry on. He was at the summit in time to see the first hint of dawn colouring the sky behind the mountains in the east. He shivered as the wind blew away the last wisps of mist around him, leaving the view he had come for unimpeded. He was not disappointed. The tranquil violet of the slumbering world was blushed with peach as the sun peeped over the mountains. The light shifted imperceptibly through exquisite shades of rose and vermillion. As it did so, the landscape of tilled fields and little towns gradually took on definition. So too did the poplar-lined road, running east to west through it all. Settling down to wait, he watched the road.
The higher the sun rose, the more his eyes narrowed. Daylight imparted each contour of the land with a subtly unique tint of gold as it advanced westward, but the beauty of it was lost on him. His attention was fixed on the road. He would wait for the sign. He would wait all day if need be – but after that? He wasn’t sure.
Fourscore years had given him patience, half of them spent in waiting. Yet an armist could not live on hopes and dreams forever. He was not yet past his prime, as some armists might view it, but he felt much older. Instead of the excitement and camaraderie which others of his age might have experienced, all he had ever known was sorrow, frustration and delay. He had spent forty years waiting upon a promise, clinging to a hope. His mane of red hair might look aflame in the waxing daylight, but the strength of that hope within was now scarce more than a flicker. He thought that today was the day. Or had he misread the sign? He had spent all his life in the mountains, had stood every night facing east. Hoping. Waiting. Willing. In his dreams, he had seen many times that towering flash of fire searing the mountain sky, so many times that when his waking eyes beheld it, he could not be sure that it had not been another dream after all.
If today was not the day, what would he do?
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