The Eight Walls of Rogar: An Epic Fantasy Adventure Series! (The Lost Kingdoms of Laotswend Trilogy--Book One) (35 page)

“I just want to see when it was made,” Gaven assured him.  “If it’s old enough, it’ll make a nice addition to my collection.”

Andaris frowned.  Something didn’t add up here.  There was some discrepancy that he couldn’t quite perceive.  Phantom fingers tickled the back of his brain, teasing him.  It was like when you step into a familiar room and realize something is either missing or out of place. 
What is it?
he thought.  But try as he might, he couldn’t bring it to the fore.

“There,” Gaven said, spotting the make and date etched into the base of the blade.  His eyes narrowed—then widened.  “This thing’s over eight hundred years old!” he exclaimed.  “If we make it out of here, it’ll fetch a pretty penny, to say the least.”

“Like, how pretty?” Andaris asked.

Gaven smiled, looking like he’d just hooked the biggest fish in the lake.  “I’m no expert,” he said.  “I just collect for the fun of it, but if this is what I think it is, it could make us rich.  Very few blades this old still exist, certainly very few of this quality.  It’s possible this is a Grinari, a blade made using the forgotten art of spell layering.  The process was said to make the metal ten times stronger, impervious to corrosion, and ever sharp.”

Andaris finally realized what was bothering him.  “Where’s the blood?” he asked.  “Shouldn’t the floor and dagger be stained red?”

Gaven’s smile slipped, his eyes darting back to the skeleton.  The bones were bleached white, as though they’d spent years baking in the sun.  “Could be…he’s as old as the dagger,” Gaven pointed out.  “Anything could have happened in eight hundred years.”

“I don’t know,” Andaris said.  “I don’t like it.  It feels
wrong.
  I say we just…leave it behind.  Walk away as if we never saw it.”

For a moment Gaven just sat there, gawking at him.  And then, for the first time since the honey water, he laughed.  “Don’t you worry, my friend.  I’m sure his thieving spirit won’t mind.  We’re not royalty after all.”  That said, the big man winked at the skeleton, slid the dagger into an empty slot on his belt, stood up, and proceeded down the hall.

What am I so frightened of?
Andaris asked himself. 
It’s just a skeleton.  We all have one.
  He stared intently into its eye sockets while feeling of the bone around his own eye sockets.  A shiver went down his spine. 
A thin layer of skin is all that separates us,
he thought. 
I’m not afraid of you, I’m afraid of what you represent. 
Andaris averted his eyes from those empty sockets, from the harsh truth buried within, then turned and hurried after Gaven. 
What else will we find down here?
he wondered.

Call for Aid

W
hen the prince saw the two riders approaching, he raised his hand and reigned in his horse.  “Be ready!” he yelled.

“It’s all right,” Trilla said, relief mixing with excitement.  “They’re wearing the blue and white. They’re Rogarian!”

The prince squinted his eyes.  “It could be a trick,” he warned.  “I don’t want to take any chances, especially after…well you know.”

Trilla wrapped her fingers around the handle of one of her throwing knives, face darkening with the memory.

The two riders brought their horses to a walk as they drew near.  The man on the right saluted them.  “You can’t know how relieved I am to see the Sokerran flag,” he said in a raspy voice.

“We too are heartened to see the colors of Rogar,” the prince answered, “though I fear we need further proof of your identities before you come any closer.”

The man frowned, ran his thumb and forefinger along the sides of his drooping moustache, reached into one of his saddlebags, and brought out a tied scroll.  “I can understand your co—”  Before he could finish, he began to cough.

Trilla winced, for the cough sounded raw and painful, like it was tearing his throat to ribbons.

When the fit passed, he held up his free hand, cleared his throat, and said, “Forgive me, I can’t seem to shake this cold.  Now, as I was saying, I can appreciate your concern.  During times like these, one cannot be too careful.”

The prince nodded and cut his eyes to Lieutenant Mudan.

Understanding the gesture, the lieutenant dismounted and walked towards the scout to retrieve the scroll.

“It has the royal seal stamped upon it,” the man with the raspy voice explained, holding it out for him to take.

Mudan kept his right hand on the hilt of his sword as he reached up with his left.

“Be ready,” Palden whispered to Trilla.

Mudan snatched the scroll, turned around, and brought it to the prince, walking with slow, measured steps, as though carrying a great weight.

Palden leaned down, took the scroll from him and said, “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

Mudan saluted him and went back to his horse.

The prince turned the scroll over in his hands.  Frowning at its crumpled appearance, he drew a dagger from his belt, using it to break the wax seal and cut the ribbon.  After returning the dagger to its sheath, he unrolled the scroll, cleared his throat, and began to read.

“To our Sokerran neighbors,” he said, his voice swelling with sudden fervor, “this is Rogar’s final plea for help.  Our lines have grown too thin.  Our strength is failing.  We have been under siege for close to two weeks, and are now on the verge of collapse.  This foe is like nothing we have ever encountered.  Without aid, we will soon fall.  Our casualties number in the thousands.  We estimate the shapeling’s casualties to be much higher…and yet still they come, seemingly without end.  If you cannot reach us within a week of the date on this letter, then do not bother, for there will be no one left to reach.  Our women and children are fleeing east.  Please, do what you can for them.  I implore you, fortify your borders, and gather what strength you can.  The hour is late and the storm is nigh.  If the kingdoms do not unite, darkness will cover the land.  Against this foe we are not Rogarians, Sokerrans, Minderians, or Nelvinians—we are humans.  Against this foe we are brothers, for they do not merely want our surrender.  They want our extinction.  Rodan bless you and keep you.  King Laris Danodren IX.”

The prince showed the scroll to Trilla.  “Is this written in your father’s hand?” he asked.

She glanced at the hastily scrawled words and, without looking up, nodded.

The man with the raspy voice stared at Trilla intently for a moment, then his eyes widened.  “You have come back to us!” he exclaimed.  “After all this time, Rogar’s first daughter has returned!”  He brought his hand up in a crisp salute and bowed his head.  “Captain Morgani and bowman Myer at your service, my lady.  It is an honor to be speaking to her Majesty, and a miracle beyond miracles to see her alive and well.”

“You may approach as friends,” Palden told them.

Trilla struggled to maintain her composure as they neared, for these were her people, and they had obviously suffered a great deal.  Morgani was older than she’d first thought, probably around sixty.  His armor was battered and bloodied beneath a face that was drawn with exhaustion.

“Thank Rodan you’ve arrived,” he said with a sad smile.  “Though I fear it may be too late.  We’ve killed so many of them….  But…as King Laris said…they just keep coming…day and night.  Myer and I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep for days….  But we can’t complain….  Some, like General Ironshield, have gone longer.”

Ironshield’s sturdy image came to Trilla’s mind.  He’d been like a favorite uncle to her growing up, always greeting her with a warm smile and a kind word.

Morgani paused, as though lost in thought, took a steadying breath, and then went on.  “We’d all but lost hope,” he said, “but here you are, as if Kolera-sent.”

“Tell me,” Trilla asked tentatively.  “How
is
my father?”

“Oh yes, of course, forgive me, my lady…how stupid of me.  King Laris was alive, last I saw him.  He fought like one of the kings of old, leading the Alderi Shune in glorious battle.  He fell, though only after carrying a wounded man across the field to safety.”  Seeing the sudden concern on her face, he raised his hand and shook his head.  “Do not fret, my lady, his wound was deep, but I have no doubt he will recover.”

Trilla let out her held breath as quiet tears began to stream down her cheeks.  She didn’t care who saw, for right now she was not a princess, neither of Rogar nor Sokerra, she was a girl who’d just been told her father was alive.

Looking somewhat uncomfortable with her public display, Palden patted the back of her hand, drew himself up to his full regal stature, turned to Morgani and said, “Well, don’t just sit there, Captain.  Lead the way!  As you said, Rogar needs us!”

Morgani gave him a hearty salute, five years seeming to slip from his face, then turned his mount and headed back towards Rogar.

Hold on,
Father,
Trilla thought,
we’re coming.

Sarsallis Bush

“I will not lie still,” the king grumbled.  “Not any longer.  Not so long as my people need me.”  When Terrell had walked in, Laris had been sitting up in bed, grunting and cursing as he struggled to strap on his armor.

“How do you expect to fight in your condition?” Terrell asked.  “As much as you hate to admit it, you’re not twenty-five any more.”

Laris scowled at him.  “I know you mean well, old friend, but I promised them I would be by their sides, and I intend to be.”

“Yes, I remember, but you didn’t say you would be by their sides even if you were near fatally wounded, did you?  No one can ask any more of you, my King.  You have already done much more than anyone would have thought possible, including me.  What you need now is bed rest, and plenty of it.  You are an old man.  If you keep pushing yourself like this you’re going to give out.  It’s only a matter of time.”

Laris shook his head in defiance.  “I heard,” he said.  “I was briefed shortly before you arrived.  By the sounds of things, I’m no worse off than anyone else.  I’d rather die out there, with a sword in my hand, than cower in this damned bed.  I’ve seen enough of this bed to last me a lifetime, however long or short that might be.  There must be something you can give me.  Help me, Doctor.  Please.  Help me…so that I can help them.”

Terrell uncrossed his arms and studied the king.  His piercing blue eyes narrowed.  “Very well,” he said.  “It will probably kill you, but if you are determined to do this thing, I cannot stop you.  There is a powder I make by grinding the root of a mature sarsallis bush.  You know, the ones that grow in the desert with the yellow and red blooms.”

Laris nodded impatiently.

“A spoonful of this powder will mask the worst of your pain without clouding your mind or slowing your reactions, but the effect is only temporary.  When it wears off, you will be worse than before.  Because of its highly addictive nature, I usually reserve it for patients who are near to death.  After just one use, you will crave more.”

“How long will it last?” Laris asked.

“It varies from person to person,” Terrell answered, “but at least a few hours.”

Laris’ expression softened.  “I’m grateful,” he said.  “Now, how about giving me a hand with these straps.”

Terrell noted the king’s haggard face and sunken eyes with concern.

“I see what is on the tip of your tongue, Doctor.  You have never been able to hide your thoughts from me.  The debate is over, as you well know, so I suggest you keep your lips closed, lest whatever you have to say accidentally escapes your mouth and gets you into trouble.”

Terrell kneeled before the king and began changing his bandages in silence.

Despite everything, Laris chuckled, for the man looked like a petulant child being forced to eat his greens.  Terrell was one of the most respected individuals Laris had ever known.  He was well into his sixties, a pillar of the community, and yet here he was, sulking as if someone had just stolen his lollypop.  This merely confirmed something that Laris already knew.  Deep down, beneath all the cultural differences, everyone was the same.  At their core, from the lowliest peasant to the ruler of the most powerful kingdom in the land, people ate, slept, loved, lived, and died.  All else was illusion.

Laris knew he was not the first to have these thoughts, nor would he be the last.  Everything that he could think or do probably had been thought or done before.  But he was not some despondent philosopher who had reasoned himself into a corner and was now content to do nothing while his world collapsed around him.  He was the king of Rogar, the leader of the Alderi Shune, and though he was also just a man, or perhaps because he was just a man, he would struggle on to the bitter end, no matter how pointless that struggle became, for that’s what being human was all about.

When King Laris stepped into the courtyard, he could scarcely believe his eyes.  All except the last wall had fallen to the shapelings.  The men fought with grim determination, yet were clearly on the verge of being overwhelmed.  He spotted Ironshield amidst the fray, battered and beaten, but alive, standing in front of one of the dozen or so ladders attached to the rampart, atop which flowed a dark river of misshapen flesh.  The few thousand Rogarians left moved methodically, as if chopping wood, eyes glazed, faces haggard.

“By Rodan, we will hold them!” the king bellowed, running up the steps to join in.  “For Rogar, we will not surrender!  Come on, men, dig deep!”

Ironshield and many of the others stared at him in astonishment as he drew his sword and took the place of a thin young man who’d just been stabbed between the ribs.  They had all seen Laris fall, and yet here he was, wading into the thick of battle as though fully restored, striking down his enemies with a rising fury, fearless and larger than life.

“What of the women and children?” he yelled.

“They are safe,” Ironshield answered, “fleeing by the thousands towards Sokerra.  We are all that is left to guard their escape.”

“Then guard it we shall!” boomed the king.  “Come on men!  Let’s show these monsters how Alderi Shune die!”