The Eight Walls of Rogar: An Epic Fantasy Adventure Series! (The Lost Kingdoms of Laotswend Trilogy--Book One) (22 page)

Rogar

The day of departure had at last arrived.  It had taken longer than expected to amass the troops and supplies needed for their journey, but after nearly a week of careful preparation, the Sokerrans were finally on their way.  They had yet to hear any word from Rogar, any news of how King Laris and his people fared.  They couldn’t even be certain the walls dividing east from west still stood.  All they could do was hope and pray.

The populace pressed close on either side of the street, cheering and clapping as the Sokerran army rode past, the numerous ranks of which glittered brightly in the morning sunlight.  Green and gold banners snapped in the wind above gleaming armor.  Horses stepped in time to the steady rhythm of beating drums.  Trumpets blared.  Women holding wicker baskets stood on the verandas, filling the air with flower petals and streamers of ribbon.

Prince Palden and his new princess rode at the head of the procession, flanked by several proud-faced officers sitting atop gallant white steeds, most of which had pink eyes and flared nostrils, traits common to the breed.  Trilla had become amazingly popular with the people in the short time since their wedding, her gentle nature and kind face winning them over almost instantly.  All who met her remarked on how unpretentious she seemed.  She was genuine, and that isn’t the sort of thing you can fake.  You either are or you are not.  Well, she was, and for that they adored her.

Andaris and Gaven rode in places of honor behind the officers, feeling rather ordinary by comparison.  To Andaris, Gaven resembled a grizzled old bear within a swarm of colorful butterflies.  They had been offered new horses, but had both refused, choosing to keep the ones they’d purchased from Puck instead.

“I’ve become rather fond of Del,” Andaris had told them.  “He’s a good fellow, and has seen me through this far.  It doesn’t seem right to leave him.  Besides, I’m not sure how well I’d do atop one of those big prancing steeds of yours.  Not that there’s anything wrong with them.  They’re beautiful.  It’s just that I’m accustomed to simpler things.  Del reminds me of the horses we had on my parent’s farm while I was growing up.  It’s a comfort to me, I guess, to have something familiar…something I understand.”

Gaven frowned, shook his head and, leaning towards Andaris said, “These Sokerrans are untried in real combat.  Too many fresh faces.  Not enough veterans.”  The soldiers within earshot looked offended, but held their tongues, too well disciplined to tell Gaven what they thought of his assessment.

Andaris barely heard him.  His attention was fixed on something infinitely more interesting—the back of Trilla’s head.  She surprised him by glancing over her shoulder.  Their gazes locked.  She frowned, forced a sad smile full of regret and, with eyes just beginning to glisten, looked away.  Instead of commenting on the exchange, Gaven just kept muttering about how pretty the army was, sensing, correctly, that Andaris was in no mood to talk.

And so it was, with the sun at their backs and their minds full of uncertainty, that the Sokerrans left their families and homes behind and rode west.  They had been told they were going to Rogar merely in an exploratory capacity, to determine if aid was needed, and if so, what the size and nature of the opposing force was.  But rumor and instinct told them different.

They were going to Rogar, if she still held, to confront an ancient evil, to stem the rising tide before it swept across the land.  They prayed they would prove equal to the task, asking Rodan, their benevolent creator, to make their hearts true and their pace swift, to grace them with both courage and honor during the dark days to come.

On the second morning out, Gaven gave Andaris a metal sword to replace his wooden one.  “Thanks,” Andaris said, turning the blade so it caught the light.  “Hope you didn’t go to any special trouble.”

“Bought it off the cook,” Gaven told him with a wide grin.  “For next to nothing.  I know it doesn’t look like much, but he swore it would hold its edge.  Whoever made it chose not to leave their mark, which normally is a bad sign, yet in this case the steel seems surprisingly good.  Probably was made by an individual rather than a big forge.”

Andaris winced as he ran his thumb along its edge, finding it keen enough to draw blood.  “Any sharper and I’d need a surgeon,” he said, sucking his thumb.

Gaven struggled to keep a straight face.  “I should have gotten you one before we left.  I don’t know why I didn’t.  Guess I was just too distracted by all that was happening.”

“This will do fine,” Andaris insisted, holding it up and slashing it through the air.  “It’s even about the right weight.”

Del shook his head and laid his ears flat.

“We’ll practice extra hard this week,” Gaven promised, eying his demonstration with equal concern.  “Until you’re more comfortable with it.”

Andaris nodded and buckled the sword to his belt.

Gaven chuckled at the proud as a peacock expression on his face.  “Just don’t let it go to your head,” he warned.  “The moment you get cocky is the moment you die.”

Andaris rolled his eyes, but did, after a rebellious pause, deflate his chest a bit.

“There!” one of the officers yelled.  “In the ditch!  Do you see it?”

Gaven strained to sit taller, yet still couldn’t determine what had the man so excited.  Prince Palden raised his hand and ordered the column to a halt.  Spurring their mounts around the others, Gaven and Andaris went to investigate.  Many of the Sokerrans eyed them wistfully, no doubt wishing they could break ranks and follow.

“I know that man,” Gaven said as they cantered up, his voice flat and unreadable.

The prince and his officers stood around a mutilated body that they’d just finished dragging from the shoulder to the center of the road.

Gaven dismounted and walked over to them.  “His name is Belfar Dunarin,” he announced.  “He was a scout major in the Rogarian infantry, a thrice decorated member of the Whitehawks…a loving husband…a good man…and a scrappy fighter.  It would have taken a lot to do this to him.”

Belfar had several black-shafted arrows in his back, and a dozen or so slashes across his well-muscled chest.  The wound that had killed him, however, was a deep gash running the breadth of his belly.

“Looks like an axe did this,” Gaven said, his face as unreadable as his voice, “and a damned big one at that.”

“His horse was shot out from beneath him,” said the prince’s second in command, a stocky man with a narrow black line for a moustache.  “It’s in the ditch over there.”

Gaven looked to where the man was pointing, seeing the mangled, half eaten remains of a large white stallion. 
Starfire,
he whispered, recalling that it had been the major’s favorite and fastest horse.  “Looks like he was on the run,” he said, brows drawing together.  “At a full gallop, judging by those hoof marks.  That’s not like him.  He would have stood his ground.  Unless….”  Realization donned on his face.  “Ordered not to.”  Gaven squatted and searched Belfar’s pockets.  “Were there any papers found?” he asked.

A thin, nervous young man with a ratty beard shook his head.  “There were no papers,” he answered, trying to clear the anxiety from his throat.  “There was nothing.”

Gaven glared at him and nodded, obviously skeptical, suspecting the lad’s rank was bought rather than earned.  When he’d finished searching Belfar’s pockets and pouches, he stood and faced the prince.  “No disrespect intended, your Highness, but do you mind if I examine the area where he fell myself?”

“I assure you,” the nervous young man protested, squaring off in front of Gaven, “there is no—”

“Do you presume to speak for me?” snapped the prince.  “Step aside, Jerid.  We do not have time to coddle your precious pride.  The house of Enovay, powerful as it is, holds no sway out here.”

Jerid’s face turned livid as he swallowed what he was about to say.  If his eyes had been swords, Gaven would have been dead.  “Go ahead,” Jerid directed, sounding like a petulant child.  “But you won’t find anything.”

Kneeling over the spot, Gaven spent several minutes examining the ground, appearing to scrutinize every mark and blade of grass.  “There were six of them,” he said as he stood back up.  “Six of the
shapeless ones
.”  His mouth turned down, as though the words tasted foul on his tongue.  “I can still smell the stench of their blood…if it can be called that.  Belfar gave them a real go of it—the tough old dog.  I count four trails where they dragged off their dead.  Against these monsters, four out of six is a damned respectable tally, especially for a man his age.  It was a good death.”

The prince rubbed the back of his neck, visibly troubled.  “Did you find anything else,” he asked, “any clue as to what Belfar’s orders were?”

Gaven shook his head.  “Nothing,” he admitted.  “Jerid here did a good job.  The area was clean.”

Jerid tilted his head to the side, taken off guard by the compliment.  He wasn’t prepared to stop being angry altogether, but some of the fire left his eyes, and his face no longer seethed as if someone were shoving bamboo shoots beneath his nails.  Now, if Jerid’s eyes were swords, the big man would merely be wounded, not dead.

Unable to restrain herself any longer, Trilla ignored protocol and went to Gaven, putting her hand against his broad back.  “I’m sorry,” she said.  “I wish it wasn’t him.  When I realized…well…it’s just not fair, is it?”

Gaven nodded to her and, with a stricken expression, looked quickly away.

Trilla took his arm and turned to the prince.  “Gaven and Belfar were family,” she explained, speaking loud enough that everyone gathered round could hear.  “Belfar,” she continued, “was like a father to him after his own died, taking him in and raising him as his son.”

“He was the best man I ever knew,” Gaven said quietly.  “He deserved better than this.”  All present stared at the big man with new respect, even Jerid, admiring his composure in the face of such tragedy.

“Andaris,” Gaven abruptly called, his voice husky with pent sorrow, “would you get the razor out of my saddlebags?  It should be in one of the side pockets.”

Andaris dismounted and, after rooting around a bit, brought him the bone-handled straight edge, a skin of water, and a bar of lye soap.  Gaven took the razor, wetted its well-honed blade, and carefully began to shave Belfar’s head.  The hair was barely knuckle length, offering little resistance.

What’s he up to,
Andaris wondered, watching the razor move back and forth in slow, somehow seductive strokes.  He found the process entrancing.  The steady scraping, the glint of wet steel, the silver hair being rinsed away like sin, revealing baby smooth skin beneath, baby smooth…but cold…and dead.  Scrape, scrape.  Rinse.  Scrape, scrape.  Rinse.  Scrape, scrape.  Rinse.

“There it is,” Gaven said.  “Look.  I was right.”  Above his thumb, tattooed into Belfar’s now bare scalp, was Rogar’s royal seal—the shield, the crossed swords, the crown, the hawk, and the sacred eye.  Beneath the seal were several lines of blocky letters.  “I suspected when I saw his hair,” Gaven explained.  “He always wore it long.  It was his one vanity.”

Palden nodded.  “They must have assumed he would encounter trouble.  Papers can be stolen, but this….  This is…ingenious.”

Gaven squinted at the letters, then up at Jerid.  “Too small for me.  How ‘bout someone with better eyes?”

Several of the officers smiled at the gesture.

Jerid complied without argument, squatting next to Gaven like they were old friends.  He read first to himself, chewing his lower lip, then cleared his throat and spoke aloud.  “It’s not good news, he told them.  It reads…urgent…siege eminent…Lost One awake…shapeling army advancing…badly outnumbered…cannot hold border…send aid or all is lost.”

There was now no doubt.  The rumors were true.  Rogar was under attack.  Gaven’s eyes sparked with anger.  Trilla’s filled with tears.  Andaris took an instinctive step towards her, and then stopped himself, remembering his place.  Prince Palden, also aware of Trilla’s distress, put his arm around her.  Andaris felt a rush of jealousy, but immediately condemned himself for it.  How could he be so selfish?  She had simply done what she had to for her home.  Would he have done any less?

“If Rogar falls,” the prince said, voice becoming impassioned, “so does Sokerra.  An attack on Rogar’s soil is an attack on the sovereignty of all the kingdoms.  We must reach them in time.”  He paused, pursed his thin lips, and called out, “Colonel Tolvine!”

A tall man with intelligent eyes put his right fist to his chest in salute and stepped forward.  “Yes, sir, how may I serve?”

“You and a company of your choice are to return home at best speed.  Apprise the king of Rogar’s situation.  Tell him we need every man he can spare, and tell him to send runners to Mindere and Nelvin.  They will have to put their petty differences aside and come together to fight this common foe.”  He turned to one of his retainers.  “Bring me a quill and ink,” he said.  “Colonel Tolvine, I will give you a memorandum to deliver to the king, outlining the situation in better detail.  This is likely the greatest threat we have faced in more than two centuries.  You must not fail.”