The Eight Walls of Rogar: An Epic Fantasy Adventure Series! (The Lost Kingdoms of Laotswend Trilogy--Book One) (25 page)

Ironshield’s eyes turned hard.  “Onoaken said it was difficult to say.  Said the way they moved made a count all but impossible.  He spoke of a shimmering silver curtain that his spyglass could not pierce.  He tried to hide it, but I could tell he was deeply disturbed by what he
had
seen, by the shapelings walking out in front.  He said they were like insects, scurrying across the land, every shape and size—”

“I’ve heard the descriptions,” Laris cut in, “what I need is a number.”

“Kindere apparently had the best overall view, my King.  He told Onoaken that he was on a sand dune overlooking a valley when he spotted them.  The shapeling army reportedly advances beneath the cloak of a terrible storm—dark billowing clouds full of malice, the curtain stretching from the bottom of the clouds to the ground, wreathed in silver mist, hiding the vile beasts from god and man alike.  At first Kindere was no luckier than Onoaken, but then, in a flash of lightning, the army became visible.  In that moment, he was able to see a multitude of silhouetted shapes swarming across the floor of the valley, heading straight for Rogar, more and more pouring in from the other side.

“How many?” Laris asked.  “Stop trying to cushion it for me, dammit.  Just come out and say it.”

“When Onoaken asked Kindere for a number….  Well…he told him it was like trying to count the stars.”

“I see,” snapped the king.  “That’ll be all.  You may go now.”

Looking askance at Laris’ pale face, Ironshield hesitated.  “But there is more, your Highness.  Onoaken also spoke of demons that fly through the air, and great lumbering creatures that could trample entire houses with a single foot.

“Leave me!” Laris ordered.  “Brief the others and report back.  We’ll discuss it at the next meeting.  Now go!”

Ironshield frowned, obviously hurt, then gave him a half bow and hurried out.

Laris sat down heavily in his chair, already sorry for his harsh words.  In spite of his behavior, he was very grateful to have Ironshield by his side, benefiting immeasurably from his sound judgment, strength of will, and good character.  He couldn’t imagine what he’d do without him, for even though he was no longer being poisoned, and even though his dreams were again his own, he was still an old man with the weight of the realm on his shoulders.

He would have to apologize to him later.  Ironshield had been right to withhold the news until after the meeting.  If he’d sprung it on him in front of the others, Laris would have had a difficult time keeping up appearances.  No, it wasn’t Ironshield he was angry with—it was the situation.  Those men out there, they were Rogarians, his people, and he could do nothing to save them. 
Their deaths shall not go unpunished,
he thought.

The next day was filled with bustling preparation, something for which everyone was grateful.  The busier they kept, the less time they had to think about what they were preparing for.  The cannon were primed and loaded.  The catapults and ballistae were fitted with new cord.  The civilian volunteers were briefed and given old, mismatched pieces of armor.  Laris was disturbed to see boys and even a few women amongst their number, but was heartened by how smoothly things were progressing.  It was amazing how much could be accomplished with everyone united towards a single goal.

Laris stood in the center of the Eighth wall as the sun crept behind the horizon, shoulder to shoulder with his men.  Hands on the battlements, he gazed out over the featureless landscape to the west, towards the Great Waste, the cause of countless sleepless nights and troubled dreams.

The banners snapped in the wind.  Newly formed regiments trained at the base of the wall.  All around stood his countrymen, his brothers in arms, ready to sacrifice life and limb for their kingdom.  He felt a tremendous surge of pride.  As king, he’d learned to live with a certain level of anonymity from those around him.  In fact, he’d lived with it for so long, that he scarcely recognized the feeling of companionship swelling his chest now.

From this point forward, he would either be on the wall or resting at its base.  The attack could come at any time, in the light of day or under the cover of darkness.  His sole comfort was that they were ready, at least as ready as they could be.

Bring them,
he thought. 
Let them break their
backs against this wall and feel our steel in their bellies.
  He looked to his left and to his right.  The men stared out as he did, with set jaws and stoic resolve. 
Yes, bring them
.

For twelve long hours they peered into the night, squinting their eyes for any movement in the shadows; but no alarm was raised and no arrow was fired.  It was said that shapelings could see better at night than during the day, so that’s when many assumed the attack would come.  Of course, for that very reason, it might not.

The following morning was grim and cloudy, as was the disposition of the men.  Laris cursed the weather, knowing full well how it could either bolster or sap an army’s morale.  A bit of sunshine would have gone a long way just then, but none came.  If anything, as the day progressed, the sky grew even blacker—unnaturally so, making some whisper that it was the work of the Lost One.

A profound restlessness settled over the men.  Many of the soldiers on the wall were barely old enough to be kissing girls.  Some, even within the ranks of the Rogarian regulars, had seen only fifteen or sixteen summers, boys trying to make their fathers proud.  Brothers stood with brothers.  Fathers stood with sons.  Three generations were on that wall, guarding that which was most dear to them, their homes and families, their way of life.

Ironshield watched with admiration as Laris took to walking the wall, doling out encouragement and inspiration as naturally as other men said hello.  He knew the king hadn’t slept much for days.  None of them had.  How long, he wondered, could someone his age endure the strain?  He hoped for all their sakes the attack came soon.

Another breathless night gave way to a steel gray dawn, and still there was no hint of the enemy.  Their nerves, even with the king’s efforts, had become as taut as drawn bows.  Arguments broke out as tempers flared.  It was inevitable.  No matter how balanced, one can stand poised on the point of a sword for only so long.

And then they heard it, from the window of the northwest tower, a trumpet sounding clear and true.  The lookout had apparently spotted something…noteworthy.  The trumpet brayed again and again, and then others joined in with it, their calls filling the morning air with a sense of urgency.

A chill shot up Laris’ back.  The men were instantly alert, hands on sword hilts, eyes focused straight ahead.  The king pulled his spyglass from his belt and peered through, searching the terrain as bowstrings stretched around him.

Within the sphere of his vision, he saw a single horse and rider moving fast. 
No wait,
he thought,
there is a second man…sitting behind him.
  Kindere whipped his horse for more speed and thrust his hand, palm forward, into the air.  On the center of his palm was a tattoo of a single eye, the ancient symbol of the scouts.

An instant later, a surging press of grotesqueness crested over the hill into view.  Creatures of every shape and size lurched after the two men, gaining on them with each stride.  It was a ghastly sight; enough to make even the stoutest of hearts tremble.

“Rodan protect us!” one man exclaimed.

“What…are they?” asked another.

“Glad the wife ain’t alive to see,” said a third.

They had read about shapelings in their history books, the pages containing detailed descriptions made by those who’d actually been at the Battle of the Reckoning.  These descriptions, however, were so far-fetched that most assumed they had been, to some degree or another, exaggerated.  What they had expected, no one could really say, but certainly not this.  To them it was a nightmare come to life, something their mothers had threatened them with to scare them into behaving.  “You’d better do as I tell ya,” many a Rogarian mother had said, “else the shapelings will come and get ya!”

Kindere peered frantically behind him, pressed his horn to his lips, which hung by a tether around his neck, and blew two short blasts followed by one long one—the universal call for help.  He repeated the call, and again thrust his palm into the air, holding it up as high as it would go.

“It’s two of ours!” Laris yelled. 
Going to be close
, he thought.  Without taking his eye from the scope, he made his decision.  “Open the gate five clicks!” he cried.

The gate, with all its ponderous weight, began to slowly grind open.  When Kindere saw what was happening, his face became a mask of determination.  Leaning low in the saddle, he whipped his horse repeatedly.

Come on, damn you
, the king thought. 
Ride!

And then the unthinkable happened.  The horse stumbled and fell, pitching the two men forward.  Kindere rolled and came up running.  The other man, who looked to have twisted his ankle in the fall, limped after him.  Kindere glanced over his shoulder, saw that he was in trouble, and turned to go back for him.

“I think the one with the limp is Bendolli,” Laris said.  “He has red hair and a scar across his left cheek.”

Ironshield adjusted his scope.  “Yeah,” he replied, shaking his head in admiration, “I was just thinking the same thing.  I told you, didn’t I?  If there was a way, he’d find it.  The old goat.”

Bendolli motioned emphatically for the scout to keep going, saluted the men on the wall, then turned and drew his sword.  It was the bravest, noblest thing the king had ever seen—one man standing tall before certain doom, sacrificing himself for another.

Kindere hesitated a moment longer, shouted something to his uncle, and proceeded to run towards the gate.  Bendolli slashed his sword through the air and assumed a defensive stance.  Several hundred shapelings broke from the main group, which had now come to a stop, and headed straight for him.  Bendolli stood perfectly still, waiting.

What must be going through his mind?
Laris thought.

The shapelings crashed into him as if he weren’t even there.  Bendolli slashed, stabbed, blocked, spun, and fell.  By the time the shapelings were beyond the spot where he’d gone down, nothing recognizable of him remained.  His sacrifice had gained Kindere only a couple of seconds—at the most.

Now close enough that the men on the wall could see the strain on his face, Kindere ran as hard as he could.  He’d pushed his legs and lungs to the limit, and was now nearly spent.  The swiftest of his hunters quickly closed the gap.

Touched by his heart, the men began calling to him, urging him on.  One of the older soldiers, standing only a few feet from Laris, leaned forward and narrowed his eyes.  He was a solid sixty, with a steel gray beard and a shaved head, his only armor a thick leather doublet and heavy, square toed boots.  His tanned face turned ashen.  “Oh gods,” he rasped, “is that Kindere?  Run, boy!” he cried.  “Come on, son, run!”

It was as though the scout could hear his father’s voice raised above the others, for just as he seemed ready to collapse he focused his eyes on the wall and sprinted forward with renewed effort.

Laris took the scope from his eye and exchanged a worried glance with Ironshield.  Very soon, they would have to close the gate.  It would be a wretched blow to morale if both men died, torn limb from limb before their eyes.  “Give him some cover!” Laris bellowed.  He hated to risk hitting Kindere, but at this point what else could he do?  At least it would be a clean death.

“Archers!” Ironshield yelled.  “Nock, draw, loose!”

The arrows whistled through the air and stuck harmlessly into the ground, falling just wide of their target.  The creature closest to the scout loped along like a bear, its spade shaped head twice as broad as a man’s, its body twisted and hideous, with extra joints that bent out at odd angles, and oily patches of fur that coiled into cruel spikes.

“Loose!”  Ironshield called again.

This time, three arrows thudded into the creature’s chest.  It swiped at the back of the scout’s legs as it went down, narrowly missing.  Howling in agony, or rage, or both, it got back up, yanked the arrows out, and again lurched forward, lengthening stride upon the burnt terrain as if nothing had happened.

“Close the gate!” Laris shouted.  He could wait no longer.  If the gate were wedged open, they were all dead.

Kindere’s father fell silent as it slowly began to pull shut, holding his breath, gripping his sword hilt till his knuckles were white.  The scout managed one last burst of speed.  As he did, another volley of arrows took flight, most piercing the same shapeling’s chest.  The scout dived forward.  The shapeling dived after him.  One or both of them crashed into the gate. 

Did he make it?  They leaned over the battlements, but couldn’t tell.  Kindere’s father turned and, with a blank expression, stepped over to the eastern edge of the wall, staring down at the tunnel opening from which, if he were still alive, his son would emerge.  Several seconds passed with no sign of him, so he walked tentatively to the head of the steps.

Just then, a thin figure stumbled from the tunnel.

Kindere’s father froze.  “My son?” he asked.  But the cheers of the other soldiers drowned him out.  The young man locked eyes with his father, and then crumpled to the ground.