The Eight Walls of Rogar: An Epic Fantasy Adventure Series! (The Lost Kingdoms of Laotswend Trilogy--Book One) (2 page)

Shelter from the Storm

The following morning, Andaris stretched like a cat, opening his mouth in a slow yawn…forgetting, for a moment, that he wasn’t in his own bed.  It had taken him some time to drift off, but once under he’d slept the night through without disturbance.  The forest, despite his misgivings the night before, had been transformed by the dawn.  The air was a crisp and bright, patches of blue sky peeking through what he’d thought to be a solid canopy.  He grinned at himself, feeling foolish, and then laughed as a puffy-tailed squirrel chattered down at another from a different limb in the same tree.

A fat black crow cawed obnoxiously and swooped in to break up their fun.  The squirrels scampered around the tree trunk as the crow landed between them and, with an impressive show of agility, jumped to the ground and scurried into a thicket.  The crow cawed once more, spread out its glistening wings, and flew away.  Andaris shook his head at the commotion, gathered his things and, following a meager breakfast of linberries and pine nuts, crawled back out of the bushes.

After taking a moment to brush the leaves from the front of his clothes, he turned towards the mountains and began to walk.  Spring, which had been approaching for weeks now, looked to have exploded to life while he’d slept.  The picturesque scene worked like a sedative on his mind, soothing away his worry and doubt.

Adjusting his pack to prevent the straps from digging into his shoulders, Andaris breathed deep of the rich, pollen-scented air.  He was thankful he’d had the courage to spend the night in the forest, for that which thrives in darkness recedes before the dawn.  He saw now that, truly, there was nothing to fear.  It had only been his imagination inflamed by all the old tales.  How foolish everyone back home seemed to him now, normally reasonable grown men talking in hushed tones about the great evil living within Fingar.

Spotting a bed of vibrant yellow flowers spreading from the base of a large oak tree, he came to a halt. 
How
idyllic,
he thought, watching as several young blue jays began to sing from atop one of the higher branches.  Soon they would be ready to leave home and venture into the wide world, just as he had, to take the next step of the journey.

Standing there, staring up at the nest of twigs and grass, something clicked in his mind.  All living things were linked, tied together by their struggle in the great cycle of life.  This was not something he had learned in any classroom or book, but rather a truth he felt deep in his bones, a truth that was everywhere—in each rock and blade of grass, in the ground and the sky.

A gentle breeze moved the leaves of the trees, whispering softly from one to the next.  A rabbit hopped through an area of tall reeds, pausing here and there to nibble on their prickly stalks.  A rust-colored lizard, no bigger than Andaris’ little finger, crept to within a few feet of him, stretched out on a flat rock, and began to sun itself.

There’s no evil here,
he decided.  To think otherwise was absurd.  It was then, surrounded by nature’s benevolent majesty, that he understood what he must do.  He, Andaris Rocaren, would explore the many long-hidden copses and dales of Fingar Forest, hiking over hill and stream, delving into every secret nook and hidden cranny between here and the other side of the Tertanians.
  Ah
,
to see what’s on the backside of those mountains
, he thought. 
To gaze upon land that no one else has seen.  Now that is a worthy endeavor.

Afterward, when his adventuring was done, he would return home and share what he had discovered with his people.  He felt a flutter of excitement.  Because of him, they would no longer have to fear what lay beyond the borders of Fairhaven.  He would be a hero, respected by all—including his father and brothers.

Andaris had known he had to leave, but now that he had a definite goal in mind, a quest with a beginning and an end, he could scarcely contain his eagerness.  He felt like a character out of one of his beloved books, like Argolath of the Silver Circle, racing against time to save the kingdom of Nore from destruction.  He had never felt so splendid, so utterly alive.  In part because of this, and in part because the trail finally began to straighten out, he traveled the remainder of the morning with a light step and a sense of brimming confidence, delighting in all that he saw.

Until, that is, his stomach began to rumble. 
Even heroes have to eat
, he thought.  All this walking had given him quite an appetite.  Not one to ignore his hunger for long, Andaris began searching for a suitable place to stop and have a picnic lunch.

Sometime around midday, he came across a nice sunny clearing full of green grass and little blue flowers.  In the exact center of the clearing, as though placed there by the hand of a giant, was a large boulder covered with moss.  He walked to the boulder with a look of childlike wonder on his face, poked at the moss with his thumb, then took off his pack and had a seat.

Many of the trees in this part of the forest were already in full bloom, most notably the ones with the white trunks and gold-tipped leaves.  Once he’d finished his meal of cheese and nuts, he lay back upon the blanket of moss and watched as cottony seeds floated into and out of the light.  The wind sighed through the branches of the taller trees, creaking them gently to and fro.  Feeling the warmth of the sunshine against his skin, he closed his eyes and began to doze

.

* * *

Andaris was not an especially handsome young man, at least not on the outside.  His father had always told him that he could tell an honest man by his face.  Generally speaking, the plainer the face, the more honest the man.  If so, then Andaris supposed he must be one of the more honest men around.  It wasn’t that he was ugly, just that a person had to look extra close to see anything of note about him, good or bad.

Why go to all the trouble when it was so much easier to love and admire his two elder brothers—Jorden for his blue eyes and bright smile, and Blakeland for his square jaw and level head?  Andaris possessed none of these qualities.  He was the dreamer who couldn’t seem to keep his mind on all those pesky details of everyday life that, for some reason, everyone else found so blasted important.

The ground had been free of snow for more than a month now, and it was getting warmer every day, something for which Andaris was truly grateful.  He was weighted down enough as it was.  In order to lug all his winter things, he’d need a pack mule.

Presently, he wore only a homespun cotton shirt, a pair of scuffed leather boots, deerskin pants, and a wide belt to which he had strapped his thin-bladed hunting knife.  His pack, which he usually kept slung over his left shoulder, contained strips of smoked meat, nuts, dried fruit, the mead, the block of sharp yellow cheese and, most importantly, some of his mother’s ginger spice cookies.  In addition to food, it held the woolen cloak—the nights still got chilly enough to warrant it, especially in the high country—two blankets, flint and steel for starting fires, and a small hand axe with a hickory root handle for chopping woods. 
Any more weight and I’d buckle,
he thought.

Most would call it reckless to venture alone into the uncharted wilderness.  Indeed, some might say that you’d have to be touched in the head to even consider such a thing.  Fortunately, Andaris didn’t care what most people thought.

Besides, there was more to him than met the eye.  No one would know, for instance, that his pants had been treated with the fat from a deepwater hollarcan fish, the dark oil making the already supple leather waterproof and virtually impossible to tear, not unlike the skin of an eel.

Andaris’ father had been lucky enough to hook one of the spike-tailed creatures off the west shore of Lake Shelladock.  The hollarcan had put up a valiant struggle, but in the end had proved no match for his father who, like Blakeland, was a bull of a man, strong and steadfast, not one to allow a mere fish to get the better of him—even if it did weigh close to a hundred pounds.

After catching the hollarcan, his father had spent the next few days at his forge, hammer ringing against the anvil late into the night.  On the dawn of the fourth day, he had emerged, holding in his hands a sleeveless shirt of armor, the pale-green scales of which he had pounded flat and painstakingly linked together.  “It’s as strong as steel, yet much lighter,” his father had said when he’d handed it to him.

For as long as Andaris could remember that’s how things had been between them, his father always doing more for him than his brothers, trying to make up for what he perceived as shortcomings in his son—Andaris’ small build and introverted manner, his lack of skill in fighting and hunting.  It was difficult for a strapping man of the earth like his father, a man of sweat and toil and straightforward thoughts, to understand.

Andaris knew he meant well, knew that he did what he did out of love.  He just wished his limitations weren’t so glaring as to require preferential treatment.  He felt the gift was too good for him, as out of place on him as a sword on his hip, or even a crown on his head.  Perhaps on his journey he would prove to himself, to his father and to everyone, that he
was
good enough to wear it.

According to the Shallae, an ancient tome containing the town’s oldest written records, Andaris’ ancestors had once relied on armor and weaponry for their very survival.  After making their way across the endless expanses, fending off famine and foe, they had finally come to rest in what they had later named the Valley of Plenty.

Aptly named, the valley seemed curiously set apart from the rest of the world, a land where the animal and plant life were as unique as the climate.  Between the mild winters, long fertile summers, and absence of invaders, they had discovered a veritable paradise.

As the centuries came and went, their tumultuous beginnings were largely forgotten.  Things like the scale mail shirt that Andaris wore had become scant more than decorative reminders of a distant past.  Only a few, like his father, had had the knowledge of how to make such things passed down to them.

The truth was, most of what they had once been was now lost.  Even the Shallae, with over half its crumbling yellow pages either missing or damaged beyond recognition, was incomplete.  The history keepers still retained a handful of remnants from that period, corroded pieces of armor and heavy, unwieldy blades.  But these artifacts, sacred as they were, did little to complete the puzzle of their past.

The names and descriptions of the places from which his ancestors hailed had long been clouded in mystery, covered over by the shifting sands of time until the lands beyond the valley had become as shapeless as a dream.  The few references the book made to actual towns read like fantasy, speaking of magical creatures and fantastic locales that stretched belief.

* * *

Andaris opened his eyes and sat up, feeling refreshed and ready to be on his way.  Hoping to make some more notable progress before dark, he spent the remainder of the afternoon walking.  A couple of hours before sundown, he reached the foothills.

The forest had thinned considerably, and now, rising before him, he could see the full grandeur of the Tertanian range. 
Breathtaking,
he thought.  He’d had a glimpse here and there along the way, but to see it all at once, so close up and complete, was almost overwhelming.  Had his beliefs been more traditional, he would have been on the ground groveling, desperate to pay homage to the Watcher within the Stone.  As it was, he stood—head held high, shoulders back, the damp ground seeming to validate his lack of faith. 
A bit muddy for groveling
, he decided with a pragmatic half-smile.

He knew he should stop and make camp.  That would be the prudent thing to do.  There probably wasn’t enough time to climb to the top of even the first rise before dark.  But it was such a relief to be out in the open again, where he could breathe, that he felt he could do anything.
Imagine,
he thought,
how glorious it would be to sleep up there tonight.  It’s not that big—just a hill really.  Bet I could make it if I set my mind to it.

Unfortunately, the small, tree-dotted slope turned out to be a good deal more challenging than it had appeared.  In order to keep his pack from throwing him off balance, he had to lean far forward as he climbed.  He was glad Blakeland wasn’t there to see.  “Come, little brother,” he would have laughed, “Grandfather Rocaren can climb faster than you.”  But then his eldest brother seldom had trouble with anything.

Determined not to allow his shortcomings to conquer him, Andaris grabbed onto branches and tree roots, clinging to whatever he could find, feet scrabbling for purchase.  One wrong step would send him tumbling.  He had known he wasn’t in peak condition, that his legs were skinny and weak.  He had known he would have an adjustment period.  He just hadn’t counted on it being quite so…grueling.

To make matters worse, the weather was beginning to shift, and not for the better.  The wind now howled out of the north, marring the perfect day with dark billowing clouds and a plummeting temperature.  Andaris eyed the rising plumes with apprehension, at which time a peal of thunder, low and deep, rumbled across the sky.  A raindrop hit him square on the nose.  One drop followed the next and, in no time, he found himself in the midst of a steady downpour.