The Eight Walls of Rogar: An Epic Fantasy Adventure Series! (The Lost Kingdoms of Laotswend Trilogy--Book One) (41 page)

Minorian

L
aris rammed the end of his sword into the middle of a shapeling that, if not for its fierce claws and dagger-like fangs, could have been mistaken for a young girl of about ten. 
Where are they?
he wondered.  He knew eventually he would not move fast enough, that he would spin left when he should have spun right, or duck when he should have jumped, and that would be that.  He was getting tired, worn to his very core.  Trilla had healed his wound, and Doctor Terrell had given him another dose of sarsallis juice, but it was already beginning to wear off, and he didn’t dare take more.  He felt all stretched out, like his muscles were turning to water, and there was this hollow aching deep in his bones.

Willpower alone kept him standing now.  But for how long?  The men looked to him for strength, and he found he had none left to give, and yet he mustn’t yield, neither to this tyrant nor to his own weakness.  So on he fought, saving his last ounce of life to strike at his enemy’s heart, and his last breath to curse him and all his dark legions straight into the abyss.

The Sokerran trumpet signaling the charge was at first barely discernible above the din of battle, nothing more than a stray note drifting high on the wind.  But then it sounded again, coming to their ears clear and true.  Prince Palden and his men were here, riding hard to reach them.  The shapelings fled before their striking hooves and cruel steel, taken wholly by surprise.  The gates of the outer walls stood open, enabling the Sokerrans to ride straight towards the keep.  It was a glorious sight—the prince and his men galloping in tight formation, driving the shapelings before them, swords flashing, armor shining, like Rodan’s own cavalry.  It took the breath away, for these were surely the finest horsemen the world had ever known.

“Here they come!” the king bellowed.  “Ready the oil!”

Twenty handpicked men extricated themselves from the fighting and began rolling the barrels to the edge of the wall.  In places, the line had grown dangerously thin.  Into one of these thin spots, just before the last barrel was rolled into position, a group of man-like shapelings with thick auburn hair and black armor burst through.  Before the men rolling the barrels could even draw their swords, the dozen or so shapelings were upon them, laying into them with great barbed sabers that glowed red and burned whatever they touched.

Ironshield ran to stem the tide.  “To me!” he cried.

Gaven, Andaris, and many others went to his aid, reaching him just as he buried his sword into the lead shapeling’s chest.

“Alderi Shune,” it said in a guttural voice.  “We are the Malkeran.  We are the beginning.  We are the future.  And we are your end.”

It can talk!
Ironshield thought in horror, pulling his sword from its chest and plunging it into the throat of another.  Suddenly, the general went rigid.  His mouth filled with something wet and salty, and he began to convulse.  When his head dropped, he saw a glowing saber buried to its hilt in his stomach.  The Malkeran that he had stabbed through the throat had apparently stabbed him as well.  These shapelings were different from the others, stronger, faster, and
much
smarter.  A searing agony coursed through Ironshield’s body, and then, without expressing any final words or thoughts, he died.

The men around him couldn’t believe their eyes.  The shapelings that had broken through had been defeated, but at what price?  At least twice as many Rogarians lay dead or dying around them, some with their swords still in their scabbards, their blood running together onto the flagstones.  Ironshield had become a hero to so many, had survived so much.  And now, just like that, he was gone.

“There’s no time to mourn!” Gaven bellowed.  “Come on, let’s move these barrels!”  The line bowed and nearly buckled as the shapelings were driven into the wall.

Now!
Laris thought
.  It has to be now!
  “On my mark!” he yelled.  “Three!  Two!  One!  Mark!”

Gaven rolled the last barrel into place and, with a downward swing of a borrowed axe, hacked off its end.  The oil gushed forth.  The torches were thrown and, with a tremendous whoosh, everything below burst into flames.

Hundreds of shapelings scurried up the ladders to try and escape the inferno.  Here and there, flaming bodies broke through the line, most falling dead before they could be killed.  Prince Palden and his men galloped in to close the vice; driving those that tried to get past them screaming back into the blaze.

It’s working!
Laris thought.  “We’re doing it!”

But then the lookout in the northwest tower sounded his horn.  Laris pulled up his scope and saw, between two columns of billowing smoke, a man strapped to an inclined table, traveling across the field towards the outer wall.

It’s moving of its own volition,
he thought.

The table was simply made, consisting of a flat board, four legs, and iron wheels, much like a hospital gurney.  Laris’ eyebrows shot up as he adjusted his scope.  “No,” he whispered.  Can’t be.”  And yet it was.  It was Elkar.

The mage, eyes tortured and full of fear, struggled to break free of the leather straps around his wrist and ankles, face contorting in agony as multi-colored bolts of light shot from the end of the staff towards the outer wall.

Upon impact, the ground shook and a deep crack formed at the wall’s base.  Rainbow light poured through from the other side as the crack zigzagged its way up the stone.  Hairline fractures appeared along its length, splaying out, broadening and linking with other fractures as they went, until soon the ancient face of the wall was covered.

Everyone froze, waiting for the inevitable.  Time itself seemed to hold its breath.  There was a quivering moment of balance, of stillness, the sort one might experience in the eye of a storm.  Then the moment passed and, with a sudden influx of air, the wall folded in on itself, shuddered once, hummed with a faint ringing vibration, and exploded.

Laris and his men ducked behind the battlements, raising their shields as a gale force wind carried debris over their heads.  Rubble, most of it the size of pebbles or smaller, pinged against their shields, but here and there large chunks fell, ripping into their ranks with tragic results.

When the worst was over, Laris stood and surveyed the damage.  Dust floated between the walls, making him cough, stinging his eyes and obscuring his view.  Soon everything would be coated in the stuff, turning the already surreal scene into a nightmarish dreamscape.  He pulled a handkerchief from the square pouch on his belt, held it over his nose and mouth, and squinted his eyes.

“Rodan help us!” he exclaimed.  “It’s gone!”  He had not expected there to be much left of the wall, but he had not thought it would be destroyed entirely.  The awesome force required to completely obliterate one of the
Eight Walls
was beyond his ability to comprehend.  It wasn’t supposed to be possible, and yet, unless his eyes deceived him, it had happened.

Prince Palden and his men, many of whom had been blown off their mounts, had the fire before and Elkar behind, trapped betwixt the two, the vice now closing on them.  The remaining shapelings began to regroup.  The Sokerrans scrambled to do the same.

“Arrows!” Laris cried.  “Nock, draw—I’m sorry,” he whispered—“Loose!”

Elkar was just in range, so most of the shafts missed.  But the three that hit, hit well, two lodging in his chest, the other puncturing his left eye.  Laris could see Elkar’s lips moving, mouthing two distinct words.

“Kill me!” he pleaded.

And then the staff lit anew.

Laris ordered another volley of arrows.  This time more than a dozen pierced Elkar’s body.  Still, he did not die.  And what’s more, his wounds were bloodless.

“Cannon!” the king yelled.

“That won’t work either,” said an even toned voice to his right.

Laris whipped his head around and saw, standing a few feet away, a sickly looking man wearing a silky blue robe with gold stitching on the sleeves.

“He is possessed by the Lost One,” Ashel told him.  “He can withstand any conventional attack.”  Laris was about to have the man taken away when he realized who he was.  Trilla and Ashel had been childhood playmates, but Ashel had changed so much that it was difficult to reconcile the man standing before him with his memories of him.

“So what do you suggest I do, let him destroy everything that so many have given their lives to protect?”

Before Ashel could respond, wall seven exploded.  Everyone ducked.  Everyone, that is, except Ashel.  As before, debris blew over their heads.  Ashel, however, remained untouched, protected by a blue dome of energy that only became visible when something zapped against its surface.  His hair and clothes did not move in the wind.  His calm expression never faltered.  As Laris got to his feet, Ashel laced his thin fingers together and smiled.  The king found his demeanor, under the circumstances, highly irritating.

“No, of course not, your Majesty,” Ashel answered, as though nothing had happened.  “That’s why I’m here.  I need to reach Elkar’s mind.  I might be able to disrupt the link between him and the Lost One long enough for his soul to escape.  Surprise is the key.”

Laris was out of his element, and he knew it.  Was this plan of Ashel’s even possible?  It sounded pretty implausible to him, but then his understanding of such things was lacking, to say the least.  He wished he could ask Elkar.  The king had always relied on him in these matters—too much it would seem.  The irony would be comical if it weren’t so terrifying.  He never dreamt he would need to ask his wizard how to defend Rogar against his wizard. 

“Your  Majesty,” Ashel urged.  “There is little time.”

Trilla trusts him,
he thought. 
According to her, he’s saved her life more than once.  But is that enough to risk—

“Your Majesty!  We must strike now, before the window closes.”

“All right,” Laris finally agreed.  “You have two minutes.  After that, we do it my way.”

Ashel took a moment to center his thoughts, then closed his eyes and reached out for Elkar’s mind.  Because it was shielded, he had to reshape his thoughts to be very thin and very transparent.  Pushing against the barrier would be a sure way to draw the Lost One’s attention. 

***

As it was, he simply floated through, unheard and unseen…or so he hoped.  He found he had to concentrate not to be overwhelmed by Elkar’s panic and despair.

Listen carefully, Ashel thought.  I will help you sever the link long enough to do what is necessary.

What?  Who are you?

I am a friend of Trilla’s.  My name is Ashel Tevellin.  You must trust me.  We have to work together, and quickly.

Yes, I remember you.  I will try.  I will do anything, just hurry.  Rogar doesn’t have much time.

First, visualize the link joining you to him.

They concentrated and, after a few moments, the link wavered into existence, sprouting from Elkar’s belly like an umbilical cord.  Just before it was solid, they heard another explosion.

I’m killing them! Elkar wailed.  The link vanished as quickly as it had appeared.  I couldn’t stop him.  I tried so hard, but I wasn’t strong enough.  I should have been strong enough!

If you want to save Rogar, you will center your thoughts.  Now focus!  We can do this.

Yes, of course, forgive me, so difficult, but…I must…I must try.

Once again, they visualized the link.  What Ashel had taken to be one thick black cord, was actually many smaller cords coiled around one another.  We must unravel this, they thought.  One by one the cords, as strong as steel and slippery as worms, snapped.

He’s here, Elkar gasped.

The Lost One appeared behind Elkar’s right shoulder.

Elkar turned to face him.

What is this? the Lost One asked, sounding wholly unconcerned.  Ah, I see, my pet is trying to escape.  He laughed with easy arrogance and, with a flick of his finger, turned Elkar back around.

Ashel worked feverishly, fingers yanking at the strands in a blur.

***

Laris looked up at Ashel from where he was crouched.  The mage was covered in sweat and mumbling like a mad man, spittle dripping from the corner of his mouth, milk-white eyes rolling back into his head, hands shaking with palsy.

“Cannon one—fire!” yelled the king.  “Cannon two—fire!”  On down the line, the cannon barrels flashed, sending their shot hurdling through the air, directly into Elkar, or rather the energy field surrounding Elkar.  When the smoke cleared, just as Ashel had said would happen, Elkar and the table remained untouched.

But the arrows went through,
Laris thought.
  Why?  Because they aren’t seen as a threat
, he realized.  “Arrows!” he yelled.  “Aim for his right wrist!”

***

You see, Ashel?  Oh yes, I know your name.  Your people will soon be destroyed and you will be my grateful slave, a dog to cower at my feet.  The Lost One’s mouth twisted into a wicked smirk.  Listen, Elkar, do you hear it?  You’ve destroyed another wall.  I can imagine no finer sound, can you?  Think of it.  Annihilated by their own wizard.  How glorious.