The Eight Walls of Rogar: An Epic Fantasy Adventure Series! (The Lost Kingdoms of Laotswend Trilogy--Book One) (31 page)

“I made the tunnel as small as I could,” Andaris pointed out, “for added strength.  I don’t think it’ll collapse, but then who’s to say…it might.  I’ve been wrong before.”

Gaven glanced back to the opening of the tunnel with a grimace.  “Even if we don’t find another way,” he said, “it’ll do us some good to stretch our legs.  And besides, think of what Ashel would say if we turned our backs on something like this?”

Andaris smiled at him.  The big man looked like a merchant trying to sell a bottle of tonic out of the back of a wagon.  “Well,” he laughed, “as long as we’re here, I guess there’s no harm in looking around a bit.”

“Good,” replied Gaven, “I’m glad we agree.  Now, I think the first thing we should do is find that water.”

Andaris gestured for him to take the lead.  “After you, good sir.”

Gaven chuckled and walked through the opening.

Monstrosities

The Rogarians still held the outer wall, though at times only by the narrowest of margins.  They’d spent the day locked in desperate combat, fending off wave after wave of enemy attacks, the ferocity of which escalated as the twilight hour approached.

The king looked out over the swarming flesh with disgust.  Three times the shapelings had gained a toehold on the wall, and three times they had been repelled, but no matter how many were killed, more took their places, marching without end from the curtain of mist.

One thing Laris hadn’t counted on was the effectiveness of the monstrosities.  They had been named for their appearance, gargantuan size accentuating gruesome features, making them, without question, the most monstrous creatures any of them had ever seen.

Overlapping plates of armor protected the tops and sides of the monstrosities’ wide bodies.  Their heads, which to Laris resembled giant walnuts, came almost to the middle of the wall.  Square saddles, each capable of carrying scores of shapelings at a time, and each equipped with a telescoping ladder, were attached to the armor on their backs with rivets the size of dinner plates.

When fully extended, these ladders could reach the battlements.  Once there, because they were attached so firmly to the armor, they could not be cast off, which meant they had to either be hewn with long axes, or the monstrosity from which they rose had to be brought down.  The ladders were constructed of a wood unfamiliar to the king, harder than oak, seemingly impervious to fire, each rung reinforced with iron bands.  This made their destruction, even at the hands of broad-shouldered men with keen eyes and fierce swings, both difficult and time consuming—especially during the middle of an attack.

Bringing the monstrosities down was no easy task either.  No, far from it.  In addition to being hideous to look upon, they were proving absurdly hardy.  Laris supposed he should rejoice each time one fell.  Instead, he felt only a vague sadness. 
One does not blame the mount for the actions of its rider,
he reasoned.  And he was convinced that’s what these creatures were, beasts of burden, gentle giants with no malice in their hearts.

He had not come to this conclusion without cause.  With the exception of the six that had died in the initial charge, the monstrosities had been docile to the extreme, walking calmly from the curtain into the fray, moving forward as though taking a leisurely stroll through tranquil environs, walnut heads occasionally turning to admire the countryside.  On three separate occasions, one made it to the base of the wall, and in each case just stood there as it was showered with flaming arrows and cannon shot—a mountain of flesh rising from the churning sea, a loyal pet waiting patiently for its masters to extend their ladders and throw down their ropes.

Why not use them to ram the wall again?
Laris wondered. 
If four didn’t work, why not try more?  Even if they don’t use them to ram…why send only four to six at a time?
  It would be a comfort to blame it on limited numbers.  Unfortunately, Laris’ gut told him different.  The Lost One was not being conservative out of necessity.  He was just feeling them out, looking for weaknesses he could later exploit.  Indeed, some believed the shapelings were being created on the other side of the curtain as fast as they were being exterminated on this side.  Laris had told Elkar to do whatever it took to lower the barrier, for regardless of what was or was not happening over there, the seed of doubt sewn by their ignorance had planted itself deep into the soil of their minds.  Unless something was done, it would soon grow into a great tree of fear, its stark branches casting a shadow over their hearts.  Once again, the king had to grudgingly admire the Lost One’s strategic savvy.  He was utterly insane.  There was no doubt about that.  The trouble was, he was also brilliant, his genius rivaled only by his capacity for doing evil.

So far Rogar’s casualties had been light.  But Laris knew the worse was yet to come. 
Even one life lost to these fiends is too many,
he thought.  This morning, he’d seen a young man—a boy really—killed by a winged shapeling that had come swooping in from the curtain to the wall.  He’d later been told the boy’s name was Olaver.  They’d shot many of these winged assassins out of the sky.  The ones that made it through, however, always did damage, and always had a specific target.  That particular assassin had been sent to kill Ironshield.  Had Olaver not jumped in front of it at the last moment, it probably would have.  The scene kept repeating in the king’s mind, irresistibly tragic.

***

Ironshield spun around as Olaver cried out, as his handsome young face was sliced to ribbons.  With a furious bellow, Ironshield severed the assassin’s malformed skull from its shoulders.  The body took flight and, with a sudden flailing of dark wings, hurtled to the ground, crushing several of its earth-bound brethren.  Olaver fell into Ironshield’s arms.  The general eased him to the flagstones, cradling the back of his head in his hand, dabbing helplessly at his ruined face with a corner of his cloak.  But there was too much blood.  The veins in his neck had been sliced as well, pumping out his life with each beat of his young heart.  Soon Ironshield’s lap was soaked red.  Olaver convulsed, opened his mouth in a silent exclamation, and died—died so that Ironshield might live. 

***

From that point forward, the general had been like a man possessed, always the first to engage the enemy and the last to withdraw.  He had never married, so had no sons of his own.  He’d once told Laris that his children were the soldiers who served beneath him.

One of the lookouts sounded their horn, jarring Laris from his reverie.  The king’s eyes widened, for there, in the distance, slowly walking from the curtain of mist, were twelve lumbering shapes
.  My god,
he thought, feeling the last domino fall into place—the click one experiences when foresight becomes fact.
That’s too many.

“Ready all forward defenses!” he yelled.  “Bring up the reserves!  Concentrate fire on those monstrosities!  They must not reach the wall!”  When the creatures were in range, he lowered his arm, and the sky filled with cannon shot.

Minutes later, the catapults began hurling
Headcutters
into the air, stone discs with circles cut out of their middles, each packed with scores of iron stars tied to braided twine.  When the discs took flight, the stars unfurled behind them, resembling strands of hair attached to a broad head—hence the name.  Because of the bloody mayhem left in their wake, and the shrieking made by the braids, they were also called
Redheads
.

The ballistae sent forth long spears of oak and steel, a crude weapon which hadn’t changed design since Rogar’s inception, crude yet effective, especially at short distances.  The archers lit the air with hundreds upon hundreds of flaming arrows, the vast majority striking, if not their desired target, something.  The field literally swam with shapelings, making it almost impossible to miss.

Within the hour, despite all their efforts, five of the beasts reached the wall.  “I need fifty volunteers!” Laris shouted.  “Fifty men to stand with me while the rest fall back!”  Hundreds raised their hands—everyone, in fact, within the sound of his voice.  Word traveled from one end of the wall to the other, increasing the count to thousands.  Now, practically every man in sight had his hand raised.  Some faces were stern, some were afraid, but all were proud.

Looking at them, Laris found himself having to fight back tears, deeply touched by their devotion and heart.  It was an amazing sight, the likes of which his old eyes had never seen.  So many men, ready to give their lives to stand by their king, staring at him with complete faith, the sort a child shows their parent before the disillusionment of adolescence.  Laris set his jaw and cleared his throat.  When he was certain he could speak without his voice breaking, he began to make his selections.

The king’s blade bore little resemblance to a sickle.  Nevertheless, he was dealing out death as surely as Kolera’s own executioner.  He knew it, and they knew it, too.  Keeping this in mind, he chose grizzled old veterans who’d led full lives in service to the crown—steadfast men who would not break under the pressure.  He thought it fitting his sword be named Shadow, for it was that which he used to point out his victims.  Woe is he upon whom the reaper’s shadow falls.

“Let me remain, as well, my King,” pleaded Ironshield.  “It’s too dangerous.  We can’t afford to lose you.”

Laris took the general aside and in a low voice said, “I will determine what is and what is not
too
dangerous.”

“I won’t leave you behind,” Ironshield insisted.  “If you stay…I stay.”

“You are as stubborn as any mule, old friend, but we don’t have time for this.  You see…the truth is…I’m not sure how long my strength is going to last.  I don’t want to die, but if I fall in a heroic stand I will become a martyr to be avenged.  If I collapse, if my heart gives out, what will I be then?”  Ironshield didn’t answer.  Laris could tell by his grim expression he understood, so he put his hand on his shoulder and, with a weary smile said, “Now go.  Before it’s too late.  The Alderi Shune need their general.”

Ironshield snapped to attention with the vigor of a first year cadet, clicked the heels of his boots together, saluted crisply and, with glistening eyes, hurried down the steps.

As night descended, five ladders scraped over the rampart.  The curtain of mist glowed with a ghostly light, lending the scene a dreamlike feel.  Laris gripped his sword hilt tightly, bracing himself as he watched the twisted shapes come scurrying up the ladders, their snorting and snarling becoming more feverish as they neared, their fury unquenchable, their every movement a profanity.

Come on!
he thought. 
Shadow will deal out death for you, as well
.  “Come on!” he yelled.  “Come spill your guts on my sword!”

Ironshield, now safe on the second wall, fingered the magical device that would detonate the flash bombs—a short iridescent rod shaped like a serpent with emerald eyes and golden scales.  The serpent had three sections, each of which could be twisted into a variety of positions.  Only Ironshield, the king, and Elkar knew the one position that would bring it to life, the one out of the hundreds of combinations that would cause it to emit a high-pitched cry from its nostrils and detonate the first of ten flashbombs.

Once detonated, the lead bomb would begin a violent string of explosions, each bomb triggering the next, until the top of the wall, along with everything on it, was decimated.  But Ironshield would not twist it, not yet, not until the king had either fallen or was out of range.

The fifty fought till their arms burned and their swords grew heavy in their hands.  Ironshield marveled at their valor, for regardless of the silver in their hair, they moved like young men with fire in their hearts, strong of sinew and fleet of foot, their spirits buoyed by purity of purpose.  The general clenched his teeth, knowing at any moment they would be overwhelmed.

And thus would pass King Laris IX—the last Danodren to wear the crown.  The ancient line was as good as broken, marking the end of an era, writing the final, bloody chapter in the book of warrior kings.  Rogar had always had a Danodren sitting the throne.  What would become of her when the seat was left empty?  Whose brow would the crown grace then?

Unnoticed by all, Elkar struggled up the steps towards the battle.  When he came to within a few feet of the king, he stopped, thrust Minorian into the air, and began to chant.

Laris saw him and cried, “Elkar, no!”

But it was too late.  Multicolored bolts of energy shot from the end of the staff, arced over the king’s head, and impacted into the center of the shapeling ranks.  The night sky flashed with a heavenly light, beautiful and terrible to behold, as the air filled with the unholy screams of those being consumed.  Laris shut his eyes and raised his hand, recoiling from the light.

When he opened them, he saw the staff slip from Elkar’s fingers, drop through a crenellation in the rampart, teeter on the edge, then cartwheel end over end through the air into the writhing throng.  The wizard swayed, crumpled, and fell sideways through the same crenellation.

Laris ran to where he had fallen through and peered over the side, staring in astonishment at Elkar’s broken body fifty feet below, at the bright red blood pooling around his head. 
Can’t be,
he thought.  Over the years, he had begun to think of Elkar as immortal, or at least close enough as to not matter.  And now, just like that, he was gone.

A small group of man-like shapelings with black armor and auburn hair picked up the wizard and whisked both him and the staff away.  Unlike the shapelings they had seen thus far, this group looked well organized and efficient, an elite unit with top-notch armor and weaponry.  As they rushed Elkar into the curtain, thousands of other shapelings rushed out—the disorderly variety, pouring forth to cover the charred ground left by Minorian.  Towering above them, shambling along as though without a care, were several more monstrosities.  At first, the beasts moved forward at a walk.  Then, like the first four, they lowered their heads, let out a guttural roar, and charged.