The Eight Walls of Rogar: An Epic Fantasy Adventure Series! (The Lost Kingdoms of Laotswend Trilogy--Book One) (23 page)

Trilla stared at the prince with wonder as he talked, her eyes smiling with growing appreciation.  This man before her was a far cry from the selfish brat she remembered.  In fact, at the moment, he reminded her strongly of her father.

“Is that understood, Colonel?”

Tolvine saluted crisply.  “Yes, my liege.  It will be done.”

“Lieutenant Mudan,” the prince yelled.  “To my side!”  Mudan had short gray hair and a clean-shaven jaw.  Given the ardor with which he had been summoned, he walked to the prince with remarkable calm, with the sort of solemn dignity usually reserved for priests.

“Lieutenant, send two runners to Rogar to notify them of our position and intent.  Tell them to stand firm and to not lose hope.  Sokerra has heard their plea for help and we are coming.  We have not forgotten the debt of blood we owe our Rogarian neighbors, and the valor of the Alderi Shune.  This time they will not be made to stand alone.

Mudan’s eyes burned with pride.  He held his salute longer than Tolvine, then turned with impeccable timing and marched away.  The prince knew his orders would be carried out to the letter.  Tolvine and Mudan were as good as they came.  And that, considering the elite force to which they belonged, was saying a great deal.  After Palden had finished penning the memorandum, Trilla whispered something in his ear that made his eyes smile, too.

“It’s the least I can do, my dear,” he told her, oozing charm.  Trilla nodded as he leaned in and, with a smile that managed to be impish without belittling the gravity of the situation, kissed her ever so gently on the lips.  He was one of those rare people who seemed to be able to do or say anything he wanted without it being taken ill.  He had an easy sort of way about him, a soothing touch, like a stream winding through sleepy hills lost in mist, or a tree creaking to and fro in a warm breeze.

Trilla saw Andaris turn away, saw the pain on his face—the pain she’d put there.  She felt terrible.  The last thing she wanted was to hurt him.  If only there had been some other way.  Sokerra would have eventually acted, whether she had married the prince or not.  The question was, would it have been in time?  She had been unwilling to take that chance, and now, to save Rogar, she had sacrificed not only her future, but also her friend’s heart.  If he had been conscious, she would have spoken to him before the wedding, to try and make him understand, to tell him that even though she was marrying another, she loved him.

But he had not been conscious.  He had been in a comatose state, from which some believed he would never wake.  Then he’d surprised them all by showing up just before the ceremony began, looking so ridiculous with his uncombed hair and frumpy robe, so wonderfully ridiculous.  Seeing him there, with his heart so full of anguish, she had nearly called the whole thing off.  And now, feeling powerless to bridge the broadening gulf between them, a part of her wished she had.

Andaris kept his head high and shoulders back as he climbed onto Del and returned to his place in line, falling into step beside Gaven.  Trilla watched him go with regret, hoping she could think of some way to make amends.  The prince observed her observing him, his face expressionless.

Gaven rode beside Andaris with a set jaw and steely eyes, as if he could see all the way to Rogar.  The prince raised his arm and the trumpeter signaled the column forward.  The mood was grim, for their darkest hour was at hand.  They were off to war.

The Speech

The king had spent the early hours before dawn alone in his room, polishing his armor.  The suit of plated mail had hung on a rack in the corner beside his bed for the better part of two decades, unused and collecting dust.  Now, however, it gleamed with past glory.  He’d buffed the metal to a high luster, until each piece reflected as well as a mirror.
He grinned into the breastplate.
I look almost like my old self
, he thought.

Indeed, with each passing day he was growing stronger.  If thing’s kept on as they were going, instead of just a figurehead behind the lines, he’d be at the fore, leading his people into glorious battle, the proud commander of the Alderi Shune, the tip of the spear from which all enemies would flee.

But before he could become a hero, he first had to get into his armor, and at the moment that was proving to be quite a challenge.  Back in the day, he’d had servants to help him.  Now he remembered why.  The confounded thing had more straps than a woman’s corset, straps that he had to either adjust in or out to accommodate where his body had either shrunk or grown.  He’d considered summoning his guards to help, but ultimately had opted to go it alone.  After all, he didn’t want to ruin the surprise.

Following nearly an hour of grunting and cursing, he put on the plumed helm and stepped over to the full-length mirror. 
Hmm, not too bad,
he thought.  His codpiece was a bit cockeyed, but other than that he looked pretty imposing—if he did say so himself.

The armor was shaped to make its wearer appear muscular, which, considering the somewhat less than robust condition of his body, he thought just as well.  Already, he was finding the weight too much to bear…though knew, no matter how cumbersome, he would have to bear it.  The armor had been in his family for nine generations, and in that time had never failed to bring victory.  Just the sight of it would be an inspiration to his people, a symbol of strength behind which the Alderi Shune would unite.

Laris pulled his sword from its ornately etched scabbard.  It was called Onoray, which in the ancient tongue meant shadow—the shadow of Rodan cast from above by the eternal light of truth, all seeing, all knowing, ever burning with holy retribution in defense of the realm.  Onoray had been in Laris’ family as long as the armor had, made by the same smiths, born in the same forge, meticulously crafted by the finest artisans of the time using a technique that involved folding magic into the metal of the blade.

Magic had once been so plentiful in the world that mage guilds had been organized to both develop and control its use.  Unfortunately, as the centuries passed, fewer and fewer children were born with the gift, and of those few, only a handful possessed any real power.  Lacking the members necessary to sustain them, the guilds were eventually forced to disband, leaving the world vulnerable to the maniacal maneuverings of renegade magicians.

Laris doubted that even Elkar could make a sword to match Onoray.  The process was said to be quite involved, requiring the talents of six or more mages.  As far as he knew, there weren’t that many left in the entire kingdom.  While Onoray had still been red hot from the forge, every inch of its surface had been covered with runes.  In this way, the enchantments placed upon it were sealed in forever, merged irreversibly with the metal.

Onoray would never tarnish nor need to be sharpened.  It was light, unbreakable, perfectly balanced and, best of all, at least as far as Laris was concerned, gave anyone with Danodren blood a certain level of resistance to hostile magic.  If a spell were being cast against him while he held the sword, the runes would glow red, and the magic locked deep within the metal would attempt to shield him.  The stronger the spell, the more brightly the runes would glow.

Laris felt a shiver up his back.  There was no escaping his duty.  The die was cast.  What mattered now was that he carried the burden with pride and honor.  No matter what the coming weeks brought, he would not betray the sacred pact he had made with his people.

Many years ago, as the crown had been placed upon his head, he had sworn an oath to defend the sanctity of the realm with his life.  To die on the battlefield upholding the values and principles that had made Rogar great was his duty, and perhaps even his destiny.  He would not shirk it now just because he was old.

Laris’ eyes sharpened.  Yes, he was old, but he was no longer the doddering invalid that everyone had come to expect. 
I’m going to show them,
he thought
, that I remember what it means to be king. 
For the sake of his people, he was going to have to put Fenton’s betrayal behind him—for now anyway.  Later, if he survived, he would decide how to reward his friend’s treachery, when the kingdom was once again safe.  He straightened his spine and held up his head.  In his ancestral hall, before the eyes of Rodan, he’d been named king of Rogar.  It was time he started acting like it.

Turning from the mirror, Laris stepped clanking over to his bedroom doors, took a deep breath and, with as much gusto as he could manage, swung them wide.  His guards jumped back, then kneeled, hands on sword hilts, mouths agape.  He cut quite the striking figure as he walked past—bold and impressive, swaggering down the marble hall with fire in his eyes and vengeance in his heart.

A few minutes and several hallways later, the king stopped before a heavy oak door, its surface adorned with leaf-shaped hinges and a tarnished copper kick plate.  After taking a moment to collect his thoughts, he raised his armored fist and knocked.  He heard shuffling footsteps from the other side, followed by the sound of a metal bar being pulled from its slot.  He lowered the visor of his helm as the door, bottom scraping across the stone floor, began to open.

“Have to get that fixed,” Ironshield grumbled.  “I thought I told you to be here at—oh…my King!”  Displaying surprising agility for his age, the general dropped to his knees and bowed his head.  Ironshield was, as always, immaculately groomed.  He wore a dark blue long coat with ivory buttons and a heavily embroidered collar.  His thick mustache and broad shoulders gave him a solid, unyielding look.

“Stand up, man,” Laris urged.

Ironshield regarded him with open amazement as he regained his feet.  “But how did…I mean…how may I serve?” he asked.

Laris smiled and, with a twinkle in his eyes said, “I want to, shall we say…pay a surprise visit on the troops…a surprise inspection, if you will.”

“Is there anything wrong,” Ironshield asked.  “I mean, other than the obvious?”

“Most certainly,” the king replied.  “It is very wrong that I have not talked to the men before now, to assure them that their king is ready and able to lead them into battle, ready to do whatever is necessary to guarantee victory.”

Ironshield was speechless.  Somehow, Laris had managed to rally himself for the coming war, to make his failing old body stand strong once more.  Perhaps there was hope after all.

“So,” Laris asked, “what do you think?”

Ironshield cleared his throat before responding.  “I think that Rodan is smiling on us,” he said, giving the king a spirited salute.  “And I think the Lost One is going to have a fight on his hands!”

Laris saluted back.  The hair raised on the nape of Ironshield’s neck.  This was a moment he would never forget.

After getting Ironshield into his armor, the two men went clattering down the hall to the castle’s interior barracks.  As they approached the entrance to the barracks, they slowed to have a word with the two cadets standing guard.

They must have made quite the pair in their full-plated mail, for the cadet on the left, the shorter of the two, puffed out his chest and cried, “Identify yourselves.  Now!”

Laris chuckled, lifted his visor, and motioned for Ironshield to do the same.

Recognition widened the boy’s eyes.

“I am General Ironshield, Keeper of the Holy Flame, and the Seven Scrolls of Kolera.  And this,” he continued, gesturing with flourish to the king, “is your lord and protector, King Laris IX.”

The color drained from the young man’s face and, in unison, the cadets fell to their knees and kissed the marble floor.  “For…forgive us, your Highness,” stuttered the boy.  “I…we—”

“There is nothing to forgive,” the king interrupted.  “You were only doing your duty, as is proper.  I haven’t worn this armor since before you were born.  Why should you recognize it?  Now rise, and go fetch your Captain.”

Anxious to please, the young man sprung to his feet and dashed through the doorway.

“Their captain is a good soldier,” Ironshield told the king.  “His name is Grendan Browning.  He served under me for a time, shortly before I retired from active duty and became your military advisor.  He’s loyal to a fault, and tough as old boot leather.  He has a nasty temper, but you’ll not find a man more patriotic.”  Laris nodded, trying to remember if he’d ever met the good captain.

They heard him before they saw him, his gravelly voice echoing from inside the barracks.  “What’d they say this was about?” he asked.

“They didn’t, sir.”

“As if I don’t have enough to worry with already.”

A moment later, he appeared in the doorway, gave them a shallow bow, and said, “Captain Browning at your service, my Lord.”  Browning was a gruff man with deep worry lines around his eyes and mouth.  His broad face scrunched when he saw the king, the worry lines becoming more pronounced.  This was not the befuddled old man he’d been expecting—no, far from it.  This man was strong and composed, radiating authority.  As if suddenly remembering at whom he was gaping, Browning averted his eyes and, this time, bowed low. 

“I need to have a talk with the men,” Laris began.  “They need to know that I am with them, ready to lead them into battle.”

At first, Browning neither moved nor spoke.  Then, with an exaggerated nod of his head, he straightened and stood at attention.  “Yes, sir!” he spouted heartily.  “It would mean the world to the men, and to the officers, too.  I will gather them in the main square, if that pleases you.”

Laris smiled at his enthusiasm.  “That will be fine,” he assured him.  “How long do you need?”

Browning’s mouth turned down as he considered the question.  “I can have them assembled by five o’clock,” he replied.

“Then you have until four,” Laris said.

Browning saluted.  “Yes, sir!  Thank you, sir!”

Laris saluted back.  “Oh, and one more thing, Captain.”

Browning’s eyes shone with devotion.  “Anything, Lord.”

“How is morale with the coming threat?  That is to say, how are the men at heart?”

Browning paused, looking somewhat uncomfortable with the question.  “They are well,” he replied carefully, “but I know they fear for their families.  They have no illusions about the road ahead.  That is why this will mean so much to them.  With you to rally behind, they will become twice as strong.”

“I thank you,” Laris said, “for your conviction.  With help from you, and others like you, the coming siege will be our finest hour.  Our efforts will ring out in story and song for generations to come.”  They exchanged another heartfelt salute.  Then the king turned, clacked his heels together and, in perfect step with Ironshield, marched back down the hall.

The central square of Rogar castle was filled as never before as thousands awaited the arrival of their king.  The rumors of his renewed health had spread through the populace like wildfire, the transformation being touted a miracle, a sign that they would not perish in the coming war.

Laris stood with Ironshield and a few others, waiting anxiously for the church bells to announce the hour.  It had been over a year since he had last addressed his people, and that had been only a brief speech regarding the summer solstice, nothing so dire as this.  He had never been very good at writing down his thoughts, but didn’t want to come across as disingenuous by letting someone else do it for him, so had decided to forego the paperwork altogether and just speak from the heart, without polish or pretense.

The bells rang out so abruptly they made him jump. 
It’s time,
he thought.

The crowd quieted, all eyes going to the empty stage.  As Laris stepped from behind the curtains into the bright sunlight, he was greeted by steady, respectful applause.  He saw, amongst the sea of faces, nearly as many civilians as soldiers—men, women, and children of all ages, looking to him for answers.

They were everywhere.  On the sloping lawn in front of him, sitting atop the walls, leaning from the windows—everywhere.  It seemed all of Rogar had shown up for his speech.  He had planned to address the civilians separately, but supposed two birds with one stone was just as well.

Laris raised his hand, and there was instant silence.  The square, in spite of its name, was a giant amphitheater, designed with the aid of magic so that all within its walls could hear whomever spoke upon the stage.

“My people,” he began, his voice sounding much more impressive than it actually was, almost godlike.  “I have gathered you together on this day to discuss the coming war, and to assure you that your king is ready and able to lead Rogar to victory.  Proud blood flows through your veins, the blood of our ancestors, the blood of the Alderi Shune.  During times of darkness, it has always seen us through…and will again.  I want each of you to know that I am with you.”  He drew his sword and raised it high above his head.  “Onoray and I will join you in what I have no doubt will be our most triumphant hour!  We will wage a war that will strike terror into the hearts of our enemies!  You are Rogar’s finest, her sons and daughters, born of her soil.  Together, we will do more than just delay the Lost One.  We will defeat him!”