The Eight Walls of Rogar: An Epic Fantasy Adventure Series! (The Lost Kingdoms of Laotswend Trilogy--Book One) (24 page)

At this, the crowd erupted with cheering, seeming to funnel all their pent emotion into it.  Laris grinned as wave after wave of applause crashed over him, the thunderous force of it vibrating the stage.   
How glorious,
he thought, pleased beyond measure by the cathartic effect it was having. 
It’s working!  I’m reaching them.  An inspired army feels no fear.  A fearless army can do miracles.

“Rogar shall not fall so long as she has steel and blood to protect her!” he shouted, getting caught up in their enthusiasm.  “What we do here will be sung about!  What we do here will live forever in the annals of Rogarian history!”  He fanned his arm from left to right.  “I see a whole sea of my countrymen standing before me, an ocean of my brothers!  But what I see most clearly is a wall of steel and blood!  A wall of heroes!”

The applause, which had continued unabated, now swelled, picking up momentum, the whole becoming greater than the sum of its parts.  It was surprising, especially considering the tentative mood when the speech began.  When Laris had first stepped onto the stage, he’d seen far too many downcast eyes and slumped shoulders.  “Will Rogar weather this storm like she’s weathered all others?” their eyes had asked.  “Will our children live to have children of their own?  Will the Alderi Shune heed the call and cleanse the shapeling blight from the Holy Land?”

He had answered them with a resounding “Yes!”  And now their faces were lit with passion.  He had taken their fear and replaced it with courage, and for that they loved him.

He soaked in the adulation, feeling a curious lightening of spirit, the long years of sorrow, so well tended by him, beginning to fade into distant memory.  This had gone better than planned—much better.  He had hoped he would reach them, but did not expect a response like this, and certainly did not expect them to, in turn, have such a pronounced effect on him.  If only he could hold on to this feeling, he could accomplish anything.

His advisors had wanted him to deliver a twenty minute long speech full of political double talk, which naturally they’d been kind enough to write for him, outlining in nauseating detail every aspect of Rogar’s military strategy.  They had strongly cautioned him against going onto that stage without having something written down.  But Laris had gone against their council and burned their
play
in his hearth.

Clearly, he’d made the right decision.  He had known basically what he wanted to say.  It was much more effective to just come out and say it without sounding rehearsed—a strong, short message that got right to the point, distilling the issue down to its brass tacks.

Look at them,
he thought, chest bursting with pride.
  Why, if the Lost One attacked at this very moment, he’d be shocked by our zealous defense. 
Deciding to end on a high note, Laris sheathed Onoray, gave a final wave and, feeling nearly as invincible as they thought him to be, slipped back through the curtains.

“Well,” the king asked Ironshield, “how did I do?”

The general averted his glassy eyes.  “You are my King,” he replied humbly, “and I am your servant.”

From the other side of the curtain, thousands of fervent voices rose as one, “Rogar!  Rogar!  Rogar!”  He had done it.  He had inspired them.  Now they would battle with their hearts as well as their swords, and maybe, if they were very lucky, help would reach them in time.

An Ill Omen

T
hat evening around the fire, Gaven and Andaris danced with their swords until their bodies were spent.  Their schedule no longer allowed them the
luxury
of practicing in the mornings.  If they wanted to train, this, the brief period between supper and sleep, was their only recourse—while other people were sitting and talking after a long day’s ride.  It was either now, or not at all.

Most of the Sokerrans looked on with appreciation, admiring their tenacious spirit.  A few, of course, peered at them with contempt, no doubt believing Andaris and Gaven were showing off, flaunting their stamina for all to see, their superior Rogarian ancestry. 
Can’t please everyone,
Andaris thought. 
Some people can find fault in a room full of gold.
  “There’s always a sour egg or two in the basket,” his grandmother often said, “and no matter what ya do, how well you season 'em, they won’t be fit for company.”

Trilla watched them practice from the front of the main tent at the center of camp.  This time, however, she did not snicker.  This time, her eyes held respect.  She’d first seen Andaris with his shirt off the night he’d stumbled into their camp, carrying Jade.  After all they’d been through since, it seemed a lifetime ago.  Beneath his blood soaked shirt and scaled armor, his body had been soft and pale.  But now his newly defined muscles glistened in the firelight.  She felt a tingle down her spine as she remembered how she’d felt the morning they’d kissed.  Her heart had been beating so fast, and every hair on her body had been standing on end. 
Have to stop having these thoughts,
she told herself. 
I’m a married woman now.

“Trilla,” the prince called from inside the tent, “are you coming to bed, my dear?”  She sighed and stood.  “Coming,” she answered.

Gaven grunted, spun, and slapped the flat of his blade across his friend’s bare back.

“Hey!” Andaris exclaimed, “that’s gonna leave a bruise.”

“An enemy would leave more than that,” Gaven panted.  “Besides, I had to do something.  You were wearing me out!”  The big man wiped his face on his shirtsleeve.  “You’re getting better,” he praised.  “A couple of times you nearly got past me.”

“Luck,” Andaris assured him, lips parting in a quirky smile.

Gaven shook his head, suddenly serious.  “No.  Luck is for children and fools.  A
man
makes his own luck.”

Smile buckling beneath the weight of reason, Andaris nodded.

“Now why don’t you go get some sleep,” Gaven suggested in a more diplomatic tone.  “Something tells me tomorrow’s going to be another long day.”

Sheathing his sword, Andaris walked to the fire and laid out his bedroll.  Just as he was drifting off, Jade scampered over and plopped down beside him.

***

Andaris dreamt of a spunky young girl who bore a striking resemblance to the waitress from the Loyal Subject.  She had curly red hair, flashing green eyes, and a face full of freckles.  He had never seen this girl before, yet knew he knew her from somewhere.  It was disconcerting, so he turned around and walked away…only to realize, with growing uneasiness, that she was following.  No matter how fast or how far he went, she was always there, right behind him.

Who are you? he demanded, spinning around.

Her lips moved, but no words came out.  Looking frustrated, she opened her mouth and pointed to the red stump wagging within.

***

Andaris jerked awake.  Jade snored softly beside him, front paws twitching as though she dreamt of running.  He shook his head at the idiosyncratic turnings of his mind, then turned over and went back to sleep.

The day after, as Gaven had predicted, proved long and arduous, as did the days to follow.  They marched hard from dawn till dusk, ate hurried meals of flatbread and salted meat, falling into lonely bedrolls at night, exhausted, only to begin the process over the next morning.

Difficult as it was, things were going surprisingly well—for the most part anyway.  At one point, while traversing some rocky terrain, one of the supply wagons lost a wheel, but no one was injured and the repairs took less than an hour to complete.  If that were the only bump in the road, so to speak, between here and Rogar, they’d count themselves very lucky.

The nearer they came to Rogar, the more time Trilla spent alone in her carriage.  Andaris supposed she was having trouble adjusting to all that had happened.  He couldn’t really blame her.  He felt much the same.  If only he could talk with her, he knew he could make everything all right.  The trouble was, she was never truly alone.  Escorts followed her wherever she went, walking beside her carriage during the day, standing guard outside her tent at night.  All Andaris could do was watch and wait.

On their fourth day out, the landscape began to change, flat grasslands gradually giving way to rising hills, their gentle slopes spotted with oak and pine.  Rolling into the distance, these hills became progressively steeper, until eventually they turned into the Onarri Mountains, a sweeping range of majestic peaks looming large on the horizon.  Unlike their balding neighbors to the east, the Onarris wore a full beard of evergreens—ancient, red barked giants that creaked in the wind, a deep forest of mist-shrouded trunks and drooping, moss-laden limbs.

Andaris was struck by how familiar it seemed, the mountains, the forest, the sea of grass.  It all reminded him of home.
Home,
he thought.  He’d been so preoccupied with simply staying alive that he hadn’t had much time to reflect.

Now, however, the memories came flooding in on him, making him yearn for that which he had always taken for granted.  He had not realized just how important his family was to him.  What of his mother and father?  Were they well?  What must they be thinking?  Did they believe him dead?  He pictured his mother sitting in her high-backed rocking chair, staring at the front door, waiting for him to walk through it, her kind face drawn with worry.

If only I could get back
, he thought.
 
He had been certain that adventure would cure all his ills—the intoxicating pull of distant lands, the promise of a new life full of wondrous things.  It had been such a romantic notion….  But now he saw what a fool he’d been.  He had wasted so much time being unhappy, while all along he’d had everything he’d needed right there in front of him.  If he had just opened his eyes, he would have seen it. 
One day I’ll return
, he promised himself,
no matter how long it takes.

“I don’t like the looks of those clouds,” said Gaven, squinting up at the sky.

Andaris turned to his friend, grateful for the distraction.

“Looks like snow clouds if I’ve ever seen ‘em.  If it starts to storm while we’re up in those mountains, things could get pretty rough.”

“Like how rough?” Andaris asked.

Gaven shot him a look.  “We’d have to turn around and march to the sea, which would take at least a week.”

“The sea?” Andaris echoed.

“And from there we’d have to charter a ship around the Dragon’s Tooth, and march another week through the badlands.”

“How long if we cross?” Andaris asked, pursing his lips.

Gaven took a moment to consider.  “Oh, probably only a few more days,” he said.  “Rogar’s just on the other side.”

Feeling a gust of frigid air, Andaris shivered.  It seemed to be getting colder by the second.

Gaven frowned.  “This weather’s strange,” he said, pulling his cloak together.

“How so?” Andaris asked, not liking the ominous tone in his voice.  “I know it’s cold, but— ” 

“I don’t know.  Everything just feels…off.  Winter shouldn’t even be threatening for another month, and yet suddenly, here it is.”  Gaven looked back up at the sky.  “There’s something else, though.  Can’t you sense it?”

Andaris shrugged, not really sure to what he was referring.

“I can smell it,” Gaven said, sniffing the air.  “Something’s wrong.  I mean, think about it.  How long since you heard a bird chirp, or seen a squirrel, or anything else?”  Noting the confusion on his friend’s face, Gaven nodded.  “Exactly.  You can’t remember, can you?”

“No,” Andaris admitted, becoming concerned, “I can’t.  Maybe not since we left Sokerra.  Maybe before.  What does it mean?”

Gaven’s eyebrows drew together.  “I don’t know, but it’s not good, whatever it is.”

Neither spoke for several minutes, Gaven’s words hanging in the air like prophecy, the creaking of their saddles and light jingling of their gear filling the silence.

“Even if we make it through,” Andaris finally asked, “what about our reinforcements?”

Gaven grimaced beneath heavy black stubble.  “Let’s just hope the pass stays clear.”

Braced for the Attack

R
ogar keep was over two hundred feet tall, set deep into the base of the Onarri Mountains.  Its six towers rose even higher, slender spears stabbing skyward, tops often lost in the clouds.  The castle as a whole was one of the most imposing structures in the world, dwarfed only by the mountain into which it was carved.  It had been built to be defensible, and defensible it was.  In front of the keep stood eight stone walls, the fabled
Eight Walls of Rogar.

Spanning the width of the pass, these walls were fifty feet tall, and twenty feet thick, spaced a hundred yards apart from one another.  The field between was sectioned off by deadfalls and low wooden barricades—a real killing ground.

Despite the distance, because of the slope upon which they were built, even the cannon atop the innermost wall could fire to the valley below.  This, along with the steadfast effort of its defenders, is why the castle had never known defeat, not in the thousand years since its construction.  No enemy had ever breached the third wall.

The Onarri Mountains stretched the length of the continent from sea to sea, separating east from west.  Through those sheer, icy peaks, there was but one safe pass, and it was blocked by Rogar castle.  Those living in the wet fertile lands to the east called the Rogarians the
Alderi Shune,
which in the ancient tongue simply meant
Guardians of the East.
  The Alderi Shune had not been called to war since the Battle of the Reckoning, more than two hundred years ago.  Since that time, as generations came and went, the fear of another war had faded, as had the purity of their already diminished bloodlines.

The Alderi Shune were descendents of the kings of old.  Once, long before the Battle of the Reckoning, they had been considered gods among men, but were now mere shadows of their former selves, shadows cast from the brilliance of a bygone era.  It had generally been assumed that the Lost One, if not entirely destroyed, had retreated back from whence he came, to some dark hole in the heart of the Great Waste, never to test their resolve again.

This assumption had been reinforced by more than two centuries of peace, during which time they had become so complacent that they had begun to take their preeminence for granted.  No enemy would dare attack.  This was Rogar, and
they
were the Alderi Shune.

And so, as the years passed, fewer and fewer young men joined the elite ranks of the Rogarian army, focusing instead on planting crops, building houses, and raising families.  They had thought they were safe, free to finally concentrate on the business of living.  They had thought wrong.  While they’d grown fat off the fruits of their domestic labors, the Lost One had been raising his shapeling hordes anew, training them relentlessly for the day of his revenge—a day which would soon arrive, a day when, once again, he would reach his mighty arms across the desert and beat against their gates.  History, it seemed, had finally caught up to the Alderi Shune.

It was written, in the tomes of Agaloth, that the Lost One had once been a man of unmatched faith, blessed with both wisdom and intelligence, a mage of great renown, ever walking in the light.

His faith, however, had not been enough to sustain him after the loss of his wife and daughter.  An infectious disease had taken them from him, killing them within weeks of one another.  With all his power and knowledge, he had been unable to stop it, for against death, the great equalizer, he had been as helpless as a child.

His grief had overwhelmed him, until something deep inside of him had snapped.  He had gone mad.  Denouncing Rodan, he had turned to the black arts, desperate to find a way to bring them back.  But it was no use.  No matter what he’d tried, no matter what demons he’d employed, he had not been able to retrieve their souls.  They were beyond his reach, destined to spend eternity in the fertile lands of Kolera, beneath Rodan’s loving gaze.

From that point forward, he had become obsessed with immortality, determined to prolong his life by whatever means necessary.  Until he was as powerful as a god—until he was a god.  With each passing year, his heart became more twisted with evil.  And as his power grew, so did his insanity, until almost nothing remained of the man he’d once been.

None of the entries in any of the forty-six tomes of Agaloth agreed on how old he was.  Some said old enough to have seen the fall of one civilization and the birth of another.  Others claimed he’d been one of the original architects of Rogar, helping to construct that which he would one day try to destroy.  Whichever the case, one thing remained irrefutable—the darkness had seared away his humanity, turning him into that which he had most despised, a cruel beast that hated all who walked in the light.  Now, not even his wife and daughter would recognize him, for truly, he was lost.

***

“They’re so young,” King Laris said with regret.

Ironshield peered across at him from his chair at the opposite end of the war table.

The other top ranking officers sat between them with straight backs and stern faces, listening.  Fenton’s chair remained conspicuously empty.

“They are merely untried in war,” Ironshield replied.  “A few battles and they’ll be seasoned enough.”

Laris eyed his military advisor with appreciation. 
What would I do without him?
he wondered.  “Each of you,” he said, making eye contact with his men, “has the responsibility of preparing them.  I am counting on you to elevate those serving beneath you to the challenge, to fill their hearts with hope and determination.”

This was met with stoic nods and half-hearted salutes.

Laris pointed to the map carved into the tabletop.  “I know the situation looks dire,” he said.  “I know we are out-manned, but look at these walls.  They are strong walls, guarded by strong men.  No enemy has ever made it past this point.”  His fingertip touched the third wall.  “This castle was designed so that a handful of dedicated soldiers could hold back an army.  And now that is precisely what we must do.  General Ironshield,” he asked, “what is our exact complement?”

“Twenty thousand swords,” Ironshield answered, “four thousand archers, and two thousand heavy horse.”

Laris glanced quickly to the map.  How had they allowed themselves to become so weak?  What had seemed adequate during peacetime was now almost laughable.  When he spoke again, he made certain to keep his voice strong.  “We’ll arm the eighth wall with as many men as it will hold, keeping the remainder of our forces in reserve on the ground.  We’ll place the ballistae here, between the cannon and archers, and put the catapults here.”

“But my King,” one of the more grizzled officers asked, “begging your pardon, sir, but won’t that reveal how weak we are?  If they see only the eighth wall manned, they’ll think we’re defending a house of cards, and they’ll be right.”

“That is why,” Laris said with a gleam in his eyes, “we are going to suit up a decoy force to sit atop the other seven walls.”

***

Fleeing the Lost One’s army, entire communities were abandoning their farms for the relative safety of the city.  The west road into Rogar was clogged with wagons, livestock, and people.  This morning, Laris had seen a long line of peasants with the haunted eyes of those who didn’t expect to see their homes again, young men carrying their grandfathers’ swords, pregnant women holding hands with their children, old men hobbling along with their canes.

It had been a painful sight, but one that he had needed to see.  These were his people, coming to him for refuge.  And though he might have trouble feeding and housing them all, he could not turn even one away.  Many within the city walls were opening their doors and hearts to the refugees.  Signs of patriotism were everywhere.  Blue and white flags waved up and down the streets.  Rogar’s anthem was being sung in the taverns.  The daily post was full of inspirational headlines, praising the brave young soldiers who would be on the fron
t lines to defend their kingdom:

“The Alderi Shune Rise Again!”

“A Wall of Steel and Blood!”

“Rogar Stands Firm!”

“Victory for The Faithful!”

Just about every able-bodied man who entered the city volunteered to aid in its defense.  The trouble was, most of them were farmers and ranchers more accustomed to swinging a hoe than a sword, and there just wasn’t enough time to train them all.

***

“Do we have enough armor to make it believable?” Laris asked.

Ironshield nodded and, with a shrewd look in his eyes said, “And if we are short, we can have the blacksmiths fashion more helmets and breastplates.  That is all the enemy will see anyway.”

“This decoy force,” Laris explained, his eyebrows rising to two snowy peaks, “will be comprised primarily of civilians.”

The officers began muttering amongst themselves.  “Civilians?  “On the walls?”  “Unthinkable.”

Laris raised his hand.  “Calm yourselves,” he said.  “They will only be for show.  If things go as planned, they will not have to so much as lift a sword.”

All present, except for Ironshield, regarded him with open puzzlement.  Now that he had their attention, he picked up his pointer stick.  “If we lose the eighth wall, we will fall back to the seventh.  The fresh reserves and cannon will cover our retreat, allowing us the time we need to close the gate.  There will be archers spread amongst the civilians to aid in this.  The civilians will fall back to the sixth wall as the soldiers take their places.  We’ll keep on like this, sleeping in shifts, the reserve force relieving the wall force, as long as is necessary.  We’ll utilize every advantage, and turn disadvantage to our favor.  Additional deadfalls are being dug as we speak.  The battlements are being equipped with spikes that can be extended out twice as far as the old ones.”

Laris stood and thwacked his pointer stick against the table, giving a couple of the senior officers a start.  “We
will
be ready for them!” he shouted.  “If they expect us to roll over as they crush our realm to dust, they are sadly mistaken.  If they want a war, we will give them a war!”

The officers stood and, with choreographed precision, saluted him.  “For king and country!” they said, and to a man their eyes were shining.

“You have done it once again,” Ironshield told Laris after they filed out.  “You have given them hope.”

“They cannot give to the men what they do not first possess themselves, but I have done nothing yet…except perhaps buy us some time.  Time will be my judge.”

Ironshield nodded, sobered by his words.

“Anything from the scouts?” the king asked.

“I was about to brief you,” Ironshield answered.  “One rode in an hour ago.  The other is still out, and from what I’ve been told, probably dead.”

“And?” Laris asked.

“And,” said Ironshield, “they are closer than we thought.  There wasn’t time to tell you before the meeting, and I didn’t want to surprise you with it in front of the others.  The scout that returned, Onoaken Branchwood, said there is a sizeable advance force that has already made it as far as our western outpost.

“Bendolli’s post,” Laris whispered.

“As you know,” Ironshield continued, “we sent orders to Bendolli instructing him to pull his men back to the castle after evacuating the rural communities between here and there.  Unfortunately, by the time this was achieved, the enemy was already marching on his position.  That’s why Kindere Muldune, the other scout, didn’t return.  Bendolli is his uncle, so he opted to stay and fight with him.

“How many men at that post?” the king asked.

“Almost five hundred,” Ironshield replied, “only half of whom are mounted.  Seems Bendolli wasn’t willing to leave half his men behind to be slaughtered while he and the others rode to safety, not to mention the hundred or so civilians still in his care.  Ironshield pulled a folded piece of paper from his coat pocket and handed it to Laris.  “He has sent an urgent request for reinforcements.”

Laris unfolded the paper, shaking his head at the hastily scrawled words, his face flushing with emotion.  “But there’s nothing we can do for them,” he said.  “It grieves me more than I can express, but…even if we sent the entire cavalry to their rescue, and even if we reached them before they were all dead, it wouldn’t be enough.  Facing the shapeling army in the open field is folly.  We wouldn’t last a day against a force that size, and our defeat would only further weaken our position here.”

“That was my assessment of the situation, as well, Your Grace.  I don’t see how it could be otherwise.  Though I will say this.  If anybody could find a way out of that spot it would be Bendolli.  The man is a cunning strategist, and always struck me as being too mule-headed to die.  We tried to promote him to Colonel years ago, but he turned us down flat, saying that he didn’t want to become so respectable that he no longer recognized himself in the mirror.”

Laris ran his fingers through his hair, wearier than he pretended.  “What of their numbers?” he asked.  “How many of those damned things are out there?  The last
official
estimate put them at around a hundred thousand.  Is that current?”