The Eight Walls of Rogar: An Epic Fantasy Adventure Series! (The Lost Kingdoms of Laotswend Trilogy--Book One) (4 page)

Weary and dismayed, he arranged his blankets within the mouth of the cave and lay down.  In the morning, he would broaden his search.  There had to be something he was overlooking.  Hopefully tomorrow he would discover what.  Missing the warmth and security of his own bed, he slipped into a restless slumber, heart aching as he pictured the house in which he was born--cedar cottage tucked behind a hill, surrounded by well-tended fields, small stands of oak trees, and clear running streams.

Going Home

T
he first blush of dawn bathed the forest in amber hues.  Dew glittered on the ground like diamonds, refracting the light in a sparkling dance.  Something had woken him, a low snuffling noise.  Focusing his eyes in the direction of the noise, Andaris became rigid with fear, for no more than a few feet away stood a creature out of myth and legend.  He recognized the curving horns and bulging eyes from the stories he’d heard as a child, stories which found their origins in the Shallae.  He blinked, trying to clear it from his vision, but to no avail.  As impossible as it seemed, he was lying directly in the path of a macradon.

The beast stood over ten feet tall, covered from top to bottom with coarse gray fur, its muscles bunched and swollen, its eyes black as coal.  Andaris had been told that macradons could eat twice their weight in flesh, which, assuming the creature before him was typical of the breed, meant several hundred pounds.  He’d also heard that they were many times more ferocious than any bear, and could, despite their immense size, outrun a deer at a full sprint.  The beast opened its slathering maw in a wide yawn, took in a great gulp of air, and expelled it in a brilliant billow of mist, revealing row after row of jagged teeth.  Andaris held his breath and remained as still as possible, feeling sure it would hear the thundering of his heart. 

The thing rocked back and forth on its thick haunches, glistening snout sniffing this way and that, eyes darting about as though agitated.  Andaris shrunk against the floor of the opening, staying perfectly still when, to his horror, its eyes met with his.  He felt his blood go cold in his veins, for in those eyes he saw not an ounce of reason.  They were empty, flat, and utterly pitiless.  The macradon tilted its blocky skull to one side, as though unsure what to make of him.

Go away,
Andaris thought. 
Please….

With a sudden thrash a deer bolted from behind a tree.

The macradon heaved its massive body around and went crashing through the forest after it, moving out of view to the sound of breaking branches and snapping limbs.

Andaris lay there a moment, stunned, attempting to come to grips with what he’d just seen.  Then a single question jarred him into action—what if it comes back?  Wasting no more time, he stuffed his things into his pack and crept from the hole like a mouse, heading away from the mountains in what he hoped to be the general direction of Fairhaven.  Danger seemed to lurk behind every tree.

How was it possible that macradons were real?  Their mere existence punched gaping holes in his tidy belief system, because if they were real, what else might be real? 
And what about that deer?
he wondered.  He couldn’t be sure, for it had darted by in such a blur, but he was almost certain its coat had shimmered like a rainbow, flashing in the morning damp from one color to the next.

I’m losing my mind,
he decided.
  I’ll probably end up like poor old Mr. Krandike
.  Now long dead, Jovan Krandike had ventured into Fingar Forest in his youth and returned forever touched.  At least that was the polite description.  Andaris remembered him well from his childhood. The eccentric old man had filled his and the other children’s heads with an inexhaustible variety of fantastic tales about distant lands and magical creatures, about knights and dragons, kings and queens, and castles in the sky.

Andaris had been mesmerized by the stories, even more so than his friends had been.  Mr. Krandike had planted a seed in the fertile soil of his young imagination that would one day sprout and grow, reaching far beyond the borders of Fairhaven.  All those stories growing within him, day after day, year after year, had made his world seem unbearably bland.

Now, however, he found himself beginning to seriously rethink his views on provincial life.  His existence back in Fairhaven, boring as it had been, had at least been safe.  He had not expected the lands beyond to be this treacherous.  It was all very humbling.  He had been so arrogant, so eager to show the others the error of their ways.  Suppose he’d come across the macradon while lost in the caverns?  What then?  He could picture the hairy beast with its broad mouth too full of teeth, waiting for him like a nightmare around the next bend.  His pace quickened.  The more distance he put between himself and that monster the better.

The first thing he was going to do when he got back home was take a hot bath and pull the burrs out of his hair.  Then he’d eat a big steaming bowl of his mother’s potato stew and sleep for a week.  Adventuring wasn’t at all what he’d expected.  None of his books had prepared him for how dirty and tiring it would be, not to mention lonely.  An image of his best friend came to mind.  Gerold, with his tangled mop of red hair and mischievous eyes, had always been able to cheer him up when he was feeling down, possessing many of the qualities that Andaris lacked, including a seemingly endless supply of confidence and charisma.  No matter the situation, Gerold could handle it, going through life with a wry grin on his face, as though there were some secret to which he alone was privy.

Wish he was here now,
Andaris thought, realizing how many things he’d been taking for granted.  “It could always be worse,” Gerold was fond of saying, and Andaris was beginning to agree.  Perhaps a life behind the plow wouldn’t be so tragic after all.  It was certainly better than being lost in an uncharted forest full of monsters that wanted to have him for breakfast.

In an attempt to calm his nerves, he began to hum a tune.  Looking around at the crooked, claw-like branches, he faltered, took a long swig of mead, and then started up again, the words to the song running through his mind, comforting him as much as he could be comforted.

Come on boys lets go, go, go
,

Come on boys lets row, row, row,

Bend those backs and flex those oars,

W
e’ll get that gold we all adore,

Another day and we’ll be back home,

Another day left to roam,

A maiden’s kiss and a cup of wine,

No finer bliss shall we find.

With each step and many more swigs of mead his mood improved, for soon he too would be home—or so he very much needed to believe.

The Old Man’s Cottage

Later that afternoon, long after the wine skin had run dry, Andaris no longer hummed.  The mead had left him with chapped lips and a parched mouth, and still there was only forest, dense and oppressive, stretching in every direction.  He picked up a gnarled stick he found lying in the grass beside the trail.  It felt good in his hands, solid and comforting, so he stripped off the bark and hacked smooth the knots where the branches had been. 
If the macradon comes back I’ll….  I’ll what?
he thought.
Clout it on the head with my mighty staff? 
He laughed hollowly at this, and prayed that he would not have to spend even one more night alone in the forest.

The hours passed without incident as he walked, his hope dwindling along with the light.  The afternoon had been warm and humid, alive with mosquitoes and biting flies, but now, as dusk reached its dark fingers through the trees, a chill wind began to blow, promising change.

Andaris was searching for a place to camp when, with great relief and no small measure of confusion, he came upon the cottage.  It shouldn’t have been there, sitting in the middle of the animal trail as it was, path ending at its door like a tongue of dirt stretching from a rectangular mouth.  And yet it was there, as solid and real as the trees around it.

He walked around to the back to see if the trail continued on the other side.  It did not, so he just stood there, hands on hips, staring.  He certainly hadn’t passed anything like this on his way into the forest.

The cottage was cobbled together with smooth round stones beneath a thatched roof.  Two square windows sat above twin flower boxes, tulips arranged neatly amid an even assortment of baby’s breath and begonias.  Try as he might, Andaris was unable to peer through the windows to the cottage’s interior.  He could see the general shape of furniture, but the glass was too wavy to make out much else.  Smoke drifted lazily from the chimney, watering his mouth with the robust aroma of cooking meat. 
Who would live out here?
he wondered.

He was tired, thirsty, and in desperate need of directions, so at length Andaris walked to the front door and knocked.  When no answer came, he knocked again. 
Perhaps
they’ve stepped out,
he thought. 
I could try the door.  If it’s not locked, I could open it a crack and peek inside.
  He reached for the knob—but it turned before he touched it...and the door slowly creaked open.

Warm air washed past him, and out stepped a bent old man who, from the bottoms of his green loafers to the tips of his wild gray hair, was no more than five feet tall.  Seam upon seam crisscrossed his leathery face, like a road map gone awry.  He wore a bright yellow vest over a tan shirt, its tail tucked neatly into a pair of brown corduroy trousers.

“Who are you, and what do you want?” the old man demanded, concern shining behind wire-rimmed spectacles.

Andaris realized he must look a bit worse for the wear.  “I’m sorry to disturb you,” he said, “but I’m lost and…could use some help.”

At first the old man regarded him dubiously, eyeing him up and down, but after a moment his expression softened, becoming kind and inquisitive, almost grandfatherly.  “Well, by all means,” he said, opening the door wider and moving out of the way, “come in and warm yourself by the fire.”

Andaris nodded gratefully to him, took a step forward, and then hesitated, peering into the cottage with sudden doubt.

“Come on,” urged the old man.  “It’s getting cold out here, and my bones are beginning to complain.”

Andaris studied his face, searching it for the slightest hint of deception.  Finding none, he nodded again, smiled, and walked inside.

The old man shut the door behind him, gesturing for Andaris to sit in one of two high-backed chairs beside the hearth.  “Would you care for some stew?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you,” Andaris answered, seeing the stew bubbling and spurting above the fire, “though what I really need is some water.”

“Oh my, where is my head?  I can see that you do.”  The old man walked to the table and picked up a clay jug.  “I get this from the spring behind my house,” he explained, handing it to Andaris.  “I think you’ll find it to your liking.  It has restorative properties.”

Andaris pulled the cork and took a long drink, finding the water both cool and refreshing.  “Thank you,” he said, smiling as he handed it back to him, “I don’t think I could have gone much longer.”

The old man beamed with satisfaction.  “My pleasure, my boy.  Now, how about that stew?”

Andaris felt a pang of hunger as he watched him ladle a generous helping of meat and onions into a wooden bowl.  It wasn’t potato stew, but looked delicious all the same.

“My name is Shamilla,” the old man offered as he handed him the bowl, his liver-spotted hand shaking slightly.

“Good to meet you,” Andaris said.  “Mine’s Andaris.  And again, thank you.”

Shamilla sat in the chair across from him, staring at him intently as he watched him eat, his eyes brimming with curiosity.

The cottage had only three rooms—a bedroom, a kitchen, and a living room.  Some would describe it as cramped, but to Andaris it was cozy.  In the middle of the living room was a plain square table with four chairs.  To the left of the front door was a large oak desk, back flush against the wall, two of its six drawers pulled halfway out…as though Shamilla had been searching for something.  There were three shelves above the desk, atop which an untidy assortment of papers and books were strewn.  An ornate rack of pipes was situated on the center of the bottom shelf, rising from the sea of literacy like a trophy.  An ivory ship-shaped pipe was, assuming the char marks on its rim could be believed, the obvious favorite.

In front of the desk, a narrow, threadbare rug hugged the planked floor.  Sprawled out upon this rug was a not-quite-fully-grown dog of questionable lineage.  Its fur was short and a drab shade of red.  It watched Andaris with half-lidded eyes, its mouth seeming to smile.

“Hey, boy,” Andaris said in a friendly tone.  “I didn’t notice you there.”

The dog whined and stretched to its full length, rolling over like it wanted to be petted.

Andaris immediately saw his mistake.  “Oh, I’m sorry.  I suppose I should have said girl.”

She barked once, as if in confirmation.

“She’s uncommonly smart,” Shamilla told him, eyeing the dog with a mixture of admiration and puzzlement.  “I swear, she understands most of what I say.”

She barked again.

“What’s her name?” Andaris asked.

Shamilla looked embarrassed.  “Um, I’m afraid I haven’t named her yet.  I just call her, Dog.”

Andaris tried not to laugh.  “Just ‘Dog,’ huh?”

“Well,” Shamilla explained, “I only found her a few weeks ago.  I just haven’t come up with a good name yet.”

“I wouldn’t worry,” said Andaris.  “I doubt she knows the difference anyway.”

Looking incensed, Dog whined pathetically and buried her head in her paws.

“As I said,” Shamilla pointed out, “she is quite intelligent.”

“Hmm.  Certainly seems so, doesn’t it?  Well, if she’s so smart…then maybe you should let her decide.”

Shamilla’s bushy eyebrows drew together.  “How do you mean?”

“I mean,” Andaris explained, “just keep saying different names until you get a favorable reaction.”

Shamilla nodded.  “I like the way you think, my boy.  Let’s give it a try.”

They took turns; offering up various inspired suggestions such as Paws, Floppyears, and Furrytoes.  But she rejected them all, making them dig progressively deeper.

“How about Licksalot,” Shamilla teased.

Dog tilted her head to the side and released a soulful whine.

“See, there’s no pleasing her.”

Andaris’ brow creased, lips pursing as if to ward off an unwanted kiss.  Then his face lit with sudden inspiration and he smiled.  “I’ve got it!” he declared.

Dog looked at him hopefully.

Shamilla leaned in close.  “Yes, speak up.”

“What about Jade?  I mean, considering the color of her eyes.  They really are beautiful.”

Dog jumped to her feet and padded over to him, surprising him by licking him full on the face.

“Well,” Andaris laughed, “I guess it’s decided.”

“I don’t know,” Shamilla said, doing his best to sound sincere.  “I think I still prefer Licksalot.”

Jade looked at Shamilla as though offended.

Andaris couldn’t believe what he was seeing.  “It really is remarkable,” he said, “how expressive she is.”

Jade’s eyes snapped back to Andaris, sharp and attentive, shining with un-canine-like awareness. 
She understands
, he thought, becoming a trifle unnerved.

Shamilla shook his head.  “Spooky if you ask me.  I’d prefer it if she’d just act like a normal dog, as is proper.”

Jade walked to the rug and lay down, resting her chin on one of her paws, peering up at them moodily.

Shamilla pulled the brass poker from its holder beside the hearth and began to prod the fire.

Uncomfortable with the way Jade was looking at him; Andaris shifted in his seat and averted his eyes.  “Um, I’ve enjoyed the hospitality,” he said, “but I’m kind of anxious to get back home.  My parents are probably worried.”

Shamilla frowned.  “I’m sorry, Andaris.  It’s been so long since I’ve had visitors that...what I mean to say is, I’ve so enjoyed your company that…I all but forgot about your problem.”

“That’s all right,” Andaris assured him, dismissing his concern with a wave of his hand.  “I’ve enjoyed your company, too.  I’m just ready to find out where I am.”

Shamilla smiled and pushed up his spectacles.  “That’s kind of you, and of course you are.  Now, you say you are lost?”

Andaris nodded.  “Yes, that’s right.  I left Fairhaven a few days ago and headed into Fingar Forest….”  He felt somewhat ashamed as he began to unwind the tale, listening to the predicament he’d gotten himself into, listening to himself try and make what he’d done sound reasonable.  It seemed more real somehow…now that he was saying it aloud.  Thoughts roaming loose in one’s head are much easier to justify.  Once corralled and made to stand in line for all to see, the ones that are thin and wobbly become easy to spot.

As he neared the tale’s end, Andaris noticed a heightening tension in the old man.  Assuming it was something he’d said, he paused, eyes filling with uncertainty.  Shamilla merely gestured for him to continue.  Andaris did as instructed, trying to keep his voice as pleasant as possible.  Regardless of his efforts, by the time he finished, his host was sitting far forward, wringing his hands together.

“This presents somewhat of a problem, my boy.  You see…I’ve lived in this area my entire life, which is to say I am quite familiar with it and…I’m afraid I haven’t heard of any of the places you just mentioned.”  Shamilla stood and walked to his desk, spry despite his age.  When he returned, he was holding two leather scrolls and the ship-shaped pipe.  Using the stem of the pipe, he pointed to the chair at the opposite end of the table from him.  “Come here,” he said, unrolling one of the bundles flat.  “Let me show you.”

Andaris stood, walked to the table, and had a seat, his expression guarded.

“This is a map of the entire area,” Shamilla told him, “everything from the Blue Mist Mountains to the Barren Sea, and nowhere upon it will you find any of the places you just described.”

Andaris’ mind spun as he stared at all the unfamiliar lines and symbols burned into the leather.

Shamilla pushed it aside and unrolled the other one.  “You are apparently farther from home than you realize.  This is a map of the world.  Does anything on this one ring a bell?”

Andaris saw one large continent surrounded on all sides by ocean.  He had seen a map of the world before, a map brittle with age preserved beneath a thick pane of glass, but the few hand-scrawled names on its surface had been faded and nearly impossible to read.  One thing was certain though: There had been several continents divided by vast bodies of water--not just one.  “Only one continent,” he whispered.

“How many were you expecting?”  Shamilla asked.

“I don’t understand,” Andaris said.  “It doesn’t make sense.”

Shamilla’s eyes filled with pity.  “I must confess, I don’t understand either, but if you are willing, I know of someone who might.  His name is Lindolin Fendale, a very wise man and an old friend of mine.  He lives on the outskirts of Stonegarden, a large town about a day north of here.”

Andaris stared at the map in numb silence, reading all the strange names. 
Rogar, Sokerra, Mindere, Nelvin, the Great Waste.
  It was all wrong, and yet…something scratched at the back of his mind.  Had he heard the names somewhere before, or at least variations of them, perhaps in the Shallae?  He sat with his head in his hands, searching for an explanation.

Shamilla leaned back in his chair and lit the ship-shaped pipe.  “You know, Andaris,” he said between puffs, “I’m overdue for a visit anyway.  Tomorrow we will call on Lindolin and see if we can’t find you some answers.”