The Eight Walls of Rogar: An Epic Fantasy Adventure Series! (The Lost Kingdoms of Laotswend Trilogy--Book One) (13 page)

That afternoon, in obvious emulation of his teacher, Andaris took to carrying the wooden sword across his back.  When Trilla noticed, she pointed it out to Gaven, her face lit with mirth.  He just shrugged and shook his head, but she could tell he was flattered.

At the beginning of the next session, Gaven surprised Andaris again by producing a second wooden sword.  “Couldn’t very well use my own,” he said as he raised it up and assumed a defensive stance.

Trilla prepared breakfast to the sound of furious clacking and barked out orders.  She glanced up now and again to watch, though tried not to snicker too loudly—she knew how seriously men took such things.  The training seemed to be helping Gaven as much as Andaris.  In fact, when Trilla had slipped off to answer nature’s call last night, she had been pleased to see the big man actually asleep, snoring blissfully, his contented expression suggesting he dreamt of fine feather mattresses and big fluffy pillows.

The nearer they came to Tinar, the more light-hearted they all felt.  By the time they were half a day’s walk from the town gates, Gaven was whistling and singing like his old self.  “I’m hungry!” he declared, eying the midday sun as though it were to blame.  “It’s past time we stop and fill our bellies.”

Within the hour, atop a hill amongst a wandering procession of hills, they spotted one of the largest oak trees that any of them had ever seen.  The day was beautiful and sunny, and warmer than it had been of late.  Birds sang in the branches of the trees.  Squirrels frolicked in the tall grass.  A river shimmered on the horizon.

Seems familiar,
Andaris thought.
  Reminds me of something.  But of what? 
Unfortunately, the more he concentrated, the more the answer eluded him. 
Oh well.
 
Perhaps it will come to me later
.

Deciding this would be as good a place as any to take a break, they walked to the tree, laid out a blanket, and began to divvy up what remained of their food, keeping in reserve only a chunk of bread and few strips of meat.  In front of Andaris’ crossed legs, Trilla set some dried apricots, a handful of walnuts, and a wedge of hard cheese.

As they ate, they talked about the kinds of horses they wanted to buy, going over the weaknesses and strengths of each.  Always the pragmatist, Gaven pointed out that they would have to develop a preference for the inexpensive kind, citing, in lamenting tones, the under-filled state of his coin pouch.

“If there was time, and we weren’t having to lay low,” he said, fingering the hilt of his sword meaningfully, “I’d enter one of the tournaments in Tinar.  I won fifty gold last year, going up against an axe-wielding Nelvinian who smelled nearly as bad as he fought.”  At this, Gaven slapped his knee and burst into hearty, unabashed laughter.  Andaris and Trilla chuckled at the ridiculous expression on his face, shaking their heads at him.  Then, as was inevitable, they started laughing as well.  Jade tilted her head to the side, smiling with her tongue lolling out, a curious longing in her eyes, as if she wished she too could laugh.

Andaris had the strangest feeling as he watched his friends.  It seemed to him that everything he was hearing and seeing had happened before.  Gone were the circles from beneath Gaven’s eyes, and the worry from Trilla’s.  Jade nuzzled Andaris’ hand.  He patted her furry tummy and fed her a piece of—his hair stood on end.

The dream!
he thought suddenly.  Leaping to his feet, he pulled his wooden sword and turned in time to block a saber that would have split Gaven’s skull in two.  The shapeling wielding the saber looked just as it had in the dream, fur standing out like spikes, tongue flicking between dripping fangs, black eyes flashing with hatred.  It howled in rage and its curved weapon descended again, but this time metal met with metal.

“Where’d it come from?” Gaven cried.

Trilla had her back against the trunk of the tree, a knife in each hand.  Andaris scurried to her and released the safety on his crossbow.  No sooner had Gaven run the monster through, than three more came bounding up the hill.

The big man charged out to meet them.  “Protect Trilla!” he yelled.  Gaven attacked the lead shapeling as Jade lunged at the one behind it.  Trilla flung her knives into the third creature’s throat.  Andaris pulled both triggers on the crossbow.  One bolt hit the same shapeling Trilla had hit, catching it in the center of the stomach.  The other missed.

The thing roared and, without even slowing, yanked the bolt from its flesh and threw it back at them.  There was no time to reload, so Andaris dropped his crossbow and picked up his sword.  The shapeling held a rusty axe in its left hand and a long knife in its right.  Snarling and spitting, it alternated between stabbing forward with the knife and swinging diagonally across its body with the axe.

Andaris dodged to the left to avoid the knife, then pivoted sideways and raised his sword to block the axe.  The jagged edge of the axe hacked a deep notch out of the wood, the impact rattling his skeleton, making him take a step back.

The shapeling howled unexpectedly, its eyes going wide.  It spun around—and there, looking very small and very frightened, stood Trilla, one of her knives buried in its back.  It raised its axe above its head.  She screamed.  Andaris stabbed forward with all his adrenaline-aided strength.  Trilla jumped to the side as the tip of the practice sword poked through the shapeling’s hairy belly.  Blood poured from its peeled back lips.  It swayed, took a final awkward step, and fell.

With a deep scowl, Andaris leaned over and pulled first his sword, and then Trilla’s knife, from its carcass.  The flaps of the second wound fluttered out, glistening red lips briefly animated by the sour stench of lung flatulence.  Andaris gagged, stifling the urge to vomit.

The knives that had been imbedded in the shapeling’s throat were nowhere to be seen. 
Probably either beneath it, or lost in the grass,
he thought.  He hated to even touch the thing.  It smelled like it had been dead for a week, the reek of decay wafting from every opening.

But they needed those knives, so he held his breath, reached his hands beneath its vile carcass, and tried to roll it over.  Its skin was greasy and warm, and grotesquely yielding to his fingers.  Swallowing his disgust, he pushed harder.  The shapeling wouldn’t budge, at least not without applying more force, and if he did that, he feared his fingers might break through.

With a shudder that went all the way from the tips of his toes to the top of his head, Andaris pulled out his hands, wiped them palm first on his pants, stood straight, and turned to Trilla.  “I owe you my life,” he told her, his voice a faint echo of itself.  Repressing another shudder, he reached down, picked up her knife, and handed it to her.

She eyed the bloody steel with vacant eyes, took it from him without comment, and once again backed against the trunk of the tree.  Andaris stared at her a moment longer, using her face to calm himself, as a sort of touchstone to sanity.  It was strange to see such loveliness amidst the carnage, strange but wonderful, like a garden of bright flowers growing atop a mountain of ash.  He felt the pieces of his psyche begin to settle back into place, the tumblers of his mind reengaging.

Bear up,
he told himself. 
We’re alive.  That’s all that matters.  As long as there’s life there’s hope.  All else can be endured.
Somewhat reluctantly, Andaris turned from Trilla’s beauty and reloaded his crossbow, scanning the area for a target.  To their left, Gaven was fighting like a man possessed.  Three shapelings lay dead at his feet, and he still battled a fourth.

“Andaris!” Trilla gasped, pointing to their right.

Andaris turned, alarmed to see more shapelings running up the hill.  “How many knives?” he asked.

“Just two,” she replied.

His heart thundered in his throat. 
What now?
he thought.

As if in answer, Trilla flicked her remaining knives into the first creature’s sword arm.  Andaris leveled his crossbow and shot two bolts into the same shapeling’s neck.  He must have hit an artery, for its life gushed out in a torrent, bathing the foreground in a veritable shower of crimson rain.  The beast staggered and, in mid-stride, dropped.  The other three charged.

Andaris had just enough time to reload the crossbow, throw it to Trilla, and get into a defensive crouch in front of her.

“Gaven!” she screamed.  “We need you!”

Gaven cut his eyes to them, seeing Andaris hunkered in front of Trilla in one of the stances he’d just taught him, facing off three shapelings with nothing more than his courage and a wooden practice sword.  The big man released an enraged bellow, pivoted, and wind-milled his blade back, bringing it up hard enough to cleave through the shapeling’s groin into its abdomen.  Its bowels dropped to the ground, joined, a split second later, by its body.

Andaris braced himself for death.  Terror stole the feeling from his limbs, but no matter what, he would not leave Trilla.  Two of the creatures attacked him at once, swords flailing wildly, wielded with brutal ferocity rather than any great skill.  He dodged one blow that would have taken his arm off, while blocking another intended for his neck.  The shapelings snarled and hissed as they drove him back.

And then Gaven was there, standing beside him, blade seeming to move everywhere at once.  “When I tell you,” he yelled, “stab the one on the left.”  As the shapeling raised its weapon to block, Gaven shouted, “Now!”

Andaris stabbed the thing in the chest as hard as he could, pushing his sword in as far as it would go.  The shapeling turned as he tried to pull it back out, taking a swipe at him.  The weapon twisted from Andaris’ grip.  Claws flashed before his eyes.  He recoiled, slipped, fell, and hit his tailbone on a rock.  Within a few frenzied beats of his heart, he was in a crouch with his knife out, ready to strike.  If he was going to die, he was going to take that blasted thing with him.

Dark blood spewed over Andaris’ head as a crossbow bolt pierced the shapeling’s left eye.  The thing wailed in agony, swatting at its eye with one of its wide paws.  Seeing his chance, Andaris sprung from his crouch and—went rigid as something hit him in the small of the back.  He heard Trilla exclaim from behind, and though the pain was overwhelming, shoved his knife to the hilt into the belly of the beast.  The monster’s good eye rolled up into its head as Andaris dropped to his knees.

“Andaris!” Gaven cried.

Jade leaped onto the shapeling’s chest, knocking it back.  Andaris remained conscious, but saw everything as if looking through a wavy pane of glass, and heard everything as if sitting at the bottom of a well.

Jade jumped from the shapeling she’d just knocked over onto the back of another, sunk her teeth into the side of its neck, and started shaking her head violently from side to side, ripping out large chunks of fur and flesh.  The shapeling howled in surprise and, with mighty, multi-jointed arms, flung her several feet past where Andaris lay.  She landed with a yelp, tumbled sideways into a tree, and then went silent.  Andaris prayed she still lived.

Gaven’s swings grew sluggish as Trilla frantically searched the downed shapelings for a weapon she could use.  A sound like ocean surf filled Andaris’ ears.  Gaven stumbled back, blow-by-blow, until soon he was standing directly over Andaris, exhausted, each parry harder than the last.

As though in slow motion, Andaris saw a crossbow bolt fly into the neck of the shapeling closest to Gaven.  With a roar, the big man plunged his blade into the same shapeling’s stomach.  As he was yanking it free, the other shapeling swung its hammer towards his head.  He ducked in time to avoid most of it, yet still received a glancing blow across his left temple.  He staggered, fell, started to rise, and then fell again.

Instead of finishing Gaven off, the shapeling ran towards Trilla.  Andaris tried to help, tried with all his will, but as in the dream, his legs wouldn’t work.  Trilla screamed and sprinted away.  The shapeling caught her after only a few steps, scooping her up with its long shaggy arms.  She shrieked and beat her little fists against its chest, limbs thrashing about in a panic.  Seeming either not to notice or not to care, it changed direction, leaned forward, and loped away to the west.

Catacombs

D
amn,
the king thought, squinting his eyes against the light. 
I’ve slept the night through.
Laris sat up, ran his fingers through his hair, and focused his eyes on his bedroom doors, visualizing the guards who stood on the other side. 
They’ll be bringing my breakfast soon,
he realized. 
What to do?  What to do?  Can’t very well wait a whole
‘
nother day.

With a groan, the king got out of bed, shuffled stiffly to the doors, cleared his throat, and knocked.  “Hello, Sergeant Strumbald,” he called in a raspy voice, “are you there?”

“Uh, yes, your Majesty, I’m here,” came the anxious reply.  “We tried to wake you several times.  Your doctor was with you most of the day and much of the night.  He didn’t leave your side until after your fever broke.”

“I’ve been asleep for two nights and a day?” Laris asked.

“I’m afraid so, your Grace.  Shall I summon Doctor Terrell?  He told me to send for him the moment you woke.”

“No…I don’t believe that will be necessary,” said the king, struggling to come up with some excuse.  “I’m feeling better now.  I think what I really need is a few more hours of rest.  Perhaps another day in bed will do the trick.  In fact, yes, I’m sure of it.  So…be a good man and clear my schedule, and make certain that I am not disturbed.”

“I would be glad to, my Liege, but if you’ll pardon my asking, what about your breakfast?  You haven’t eaten since the day before yesterday.  Doctor Terrell said you should try to eat even if you don’t feel hungry.”

Blast the man,
Laris thought. 
Doctor Terrell this, Doctor Terrell that.
  “No, as I said, I do not wish to be disturbed.  Not for the royal physician, not for meals, not for anything, until I say otherwise.  Now…is that clear?”

“Why yes, of course it is, my King.  I will take care of it personally.  Is there anything else I can do for you?  Anything at all?”

“No, Sergeant, that should suffice, now goodnight to you, or rather good day.  Oh, and please tell the good doctor not to worry.  I have some bread and fruit in here.  I’ll eat a few bites of each before I go back to sleep.  That should appease him.”

“I will, your Majesty.  Rest easy.  You have my word…you will not be disturbed.”

Word or no word, Laris locked the doors, just in case Doctor Terrell—the stubborn old mule that he was—tried to force his way past the guards.  Shaking his head, the king turned and walked to the center of the room, bent down and, for the first time in years, rolled up the rug which lay there, handling it as delicately as he would a priceless heirloom.

Fenton often teased him about the old rug, with its faded green stripes and missing tassels.  Laris smiled at the memory.  “You hold the highest office in the land,” he would say, “and yet decorate your chambers with rubbish not fit for a pauper’s cottage.  Take that rug, for example.  Sure, it was nice thirty years ago, but now it’s so threadbare that it’s on the verge of disappearing entirely.  Why, if you held it up to the light, you could see right through it.  That is, if it didn’t fall apart first.  Little more than dust holds it together.”

Despite his friend’s ribbing, Laris had no intention of replacing the rug, or anything else for that matter.  He was a creature of habit.  He liked things to stay the same—it was comforting to him.  And besides, Abigail had picked the rug out.  It reminded him of her, which meant it was one of his most cherished belongings, and always would be.

The lock on the trap door was old and stiff. 
Like me,
he thought.  It took a little jiggling, but after a moment the key turned and the lock popped open.  He oiled the hinges before swinging open the door so as not to alert his guards.  To his relief, the oil did its job and the door rose in silence.

Laris stared down the narrow passage, at the stairs falling into darkness.  Musty air wafted from below, smelling of damp stone and rotting wood. 
It’s been a long time,
he thought, taking a step. 
A very long time.

After closing the door behind him, he activated, with a clockwise twist, his daystone.  When in the off position, the daystone looked like an ordinary rock.  Yet simply rotate the top half to the right and,
presto,
it lit as brightly as any torch, bathing whoever carried it in a soft green light.  He held the stone at arms length and peered down the steps, straining to see into the gloom below.  All was as he remembered, except now thick cobwebs hung from the ceiling and walls.  He swept his hand through one of the webs, took a deep breath, and continued his descent, counting steps as he went.  When he reached one hundred, he would be at the bottom.

He was careful with his footing, for much of the stair had become slick with moss.  About halfway down he heard, echoing on a draft of cool air, the sound of dripping water. 
Too old for this foolishness
, he thought, drawing his cloak tighter about his shoulders.  But he was smiling, truly smiling, for the first time in years.  Not a faint curving of the mouth covering despair, mind you—an honest-to-goodness grin complete with twinkling eyes and a light heart.

When he reached the bottom, he stared at his choices.  Four passageways burrowed through the stone.  The tunnels in the middle went straight and level.  The one to the left slanted down.  The one to the right curved up.  When he was a boy, he’d had the route to the tombs memorized.  He hoped, after all the years, he could remember.

A moment later, he stepped into the passage to his left.  He was surprised, as he made turn after turn, how well it all came back to him.  It was almost like he was young again, tromping through the catacombs, exploring the warren of passageways when he should have been studying.  To this day, no one knew how deeply Rogar’s builders had delved.  So many sections had been sealed off and built over that no map in existence was entirely accurate.  “Those were the times,” he said to himself, thinking back with fondness on all the adventures he’d had.

Laris knew, as he approached the two iron doors, that his memory had served him well.  He knew this because there, in the center of each, stamped in bold relief, was the Danodren crest—a griffin holding a flaming sword on a round shield amidst a sea of twisting vines.

A draft moved the material of his cloak, producing a faint whisper.  As a boy, he’d heard many stories regarding the restless spirits that roamed the catacombs, forever lost.  It was said that the souls of those executed in the castle were doomed to wander the passages below until the day of judgment, at which time they would rise up through the floor to exact their revenge on the royalty who had sent them there.

Once, when the king was fifteen, he’d heard coarse laughter down one of the corridors.  Being a headstrong youth, he’d run to investigate, catching sight of a gaunt figure wearing a tattered gray coat, limping away from him.  “Excuse me, sir,” he had called.  But instead of answering, the man had turned around the next corner and passed out of sight.  When the king dashed around the same corner to catch up, the man was gone…vanished without a trace.  Laris had spent hours searching the catacombs, finding no sign of the fellow, not so much as a footprint in the dust.

Chills ran through him as he inserted the key into the door lock. 
Steady
, he thought. 
You’re not a child any more.
  Naturally, his mind began to fill with the faces of all the people he’d executed over the years—nameless wretches, some young, some old, enough people to fill the hall in which he stood.  From the scattered fragments, one memory came to the fore.

Twenty years ago, the king executed a man for the murder and rape of two young girls.  The night after the hanging, a loud pounding against the trapdoor startled him and his beloved wife, Abigail, awake.  The king jumped out of bed with sword in hand and bounded to the center of the room.  After flinging the trapdoor up, however, he just stood there, gaping, for the passage below was empty.  He searched for days and, like before, found only trackless dust and vacant tunnels.

Laris chuckled at himself, dragged open one of the iron doors, and went inside.  For the first time in years, he was having fun.