The Eight Walls of Rogar: An Epic Fantasy Adventure Series! (The Lost Kingdoms of Laotswend Trilogy--Book One) (42 page)

Elkar strained against his captor’s will.  At first there was some slack, then he felt the restraints on his soul stretch tight.  Almost, he thought.  Please….  He was so close.  Yet if a person drowns an inch from the surface, are they any less dead?

The Lost One’s expression went from surprised…to angry… then worst of all…proud.  He looked at Elkar like one would a child, a child who, in the midst of doing something naughty, had revealed some hidden talent.  Impressive, he said.  Though of course I will have to teach you a lesson, as I taught Fenton Albigard a lesson.  After all, when pets misbehave, they must be punished.

Elkar looked up, gasping as though something had just taken hold of him.  Then, with an agonized scream, he vanished.

The Lost One raised his bony arms into the air, revealing a half circle tattoo on each palm.  Intense red light welled within the center of the tattoos, then shot out and up, forming a small orb in the middle of the room.  The orb pulsed, growing larger and brighter as he fed it with energy.  The Lost One cackled as it began to spin.

Ashel raised his arms as the light arced from the orb to him.  Pain lanced through his body, up through his feet, and out the top of his head, wrapping around him, burning and squeezing.

***

Laris’ amulet was growing uncomfortably warm against his skin, so he pulled it from beneath his breastplate and held it at arms length by its chain, eying it with distrust.  It began to glow red, like a coal in a stove, then rose into the air and started to spin, spade-shaped end pointing towards Ashel.  The chain grew taut, wrapping around itself, until soon Laris had to hold on with both hands.

Ashel began to convulse.

The chain snapped.  The amulet flew through the shield and sunk into the center of Ashel’s chest.  Ashel’s mouth and eyes opened wide as, without spilling a drop of his blood, the amulet was absorbed into his flesh.  Ashel’s feet rose several inches off the ground and, as if on cue, another wall exploded.

***

What happened? Ashel wondered.  One moment he’d been wrapped in red energy, writhing on the ground, unable to breathe, then suddenly he’d been released.  There was no more pain or cackling laughter, no red energy.  He took a deep breath, sat up, and looked around the room.  A blue dome surrounded him, much like the one surrounding his physical body on the wall.  All he could see outside the dome was red light, growing ever brighter.  Doesn’t make sense, he thought.  I tried to erect a shield, but I wasn’t able to.  That’s when he noticed the shaft of blue light extending from his chest to the dome— from the center of a second amulet.  He wrapped his hand around it, felt its power surging through him, and smiled.

The red energy grew brighter and, with a sudden flash, winked out.  The Lost One stood on the other side of the room, a perplexed look on his face. 

What have you done with Elkar? Ashel demanded.

The Lost One didn’t answer.  He stared at Ashel, not with fear, but with curiosity, like a hunter might look at a deer if it kept grazing after it was shot through the heart.

Ashel closed his eyes and again reached out for Elkar’s mind.  It was there, close by, just hidden

Elkar was sitting on the floor in the dark.  He could see nothing.  He could hear nothing.  He had yelled Ashel’s name over and over again, and there had been no response, no echo, as if the air had absorbed his voice.  He had tried to visualize the link, but without Ashel it had been impossible.  He had tried to stand up, but had been too weak.

Elkar, whispered a voice.  It sounded like the faintest of sighs, stirring the hairs inside his ear like the flapping of butterfly wings, or the breath of a gnat.  Can you hear me?

       
Ashel?  Is that you?

There are only two strands left, said the voice.  We must break them.  Repeat after me, Godaren, Mazdath, Pondune.  Godaren, Mazdath, Pondune.

Elkar did not know the meaning of the words, but could feel their power surging through him.  Godaren, Mazdath, Pondune, he repeated.  Godaren, Mazdath, Pondune.  A moment later, he found himself sitting in front of Ashel inside a blue dome.

How sad, the Lost One cooed, sounding genuinely disappointed.  Now I shall have to destroy you both.  What a waste.  He raised his arms and showed them his palms.  A metallic buzzing filled the air as thousands of beetles burst from the center of the half moons, swarmed around the room, and landed on the floor at his feet.  Rise up children, my beloved Malkeran.  Father has souls for the two strongest.

       Ignore him, Ashel said.  Visualize the link.

You see, the Lost One explained, sounding as casual as a man discussing dinner plans over tea.  They are my finest creations.  They are shapelings, but are much more intelligent than the ones you have encountered thus far.  As he talked, two of the beetles grew into tall man-like things with black armor and thick auburn hair.  It took some of my own blood to make them.  They are the future, the end of Rogar, and everything you love.  With them, I shall build my empire.

Another wall exploded as the two Malkeran walked towards the dome. 

Ashel and Elkar held hands, concentrating.
             

I’m afraid your little spell won’t protect you.  You see, they are virtually immune to magic, except for my own of course.  They’re going to walk right through your shield and eat your souls.  I have bred into them a furious, unquenchable appetite for souls.  They can never get enough.  They simply kill their prey and absorb the soul as it leaves the body, growing stronger with each one.  When one of them dies, its soul, along with the souls of its victims, travels directly to me.  Clever, don’t you think?

The shield arced and crackled as the Malkerans stepped through, scarcely even slowing them down.

The two wizards struggled to pull the remaining strands as the Malkerans pulled their swords and raised them high above their heads—poised over them like twin executioners.

Then the Lost One nodded, and the Malkerans swung. 

The instant the blades sliced into Ashel and Elkar’s necks, the remaining strands snapped.  As their severed heads thudded against the floor, white light flooded the room.

Rather than eat the souls they’d been promised, the Malkerans drew back from the light, cowering against the far wall, terrified.

T
he Lost One shrieked in frustration and disappeared.

Ashel closed his spirit eyes.

***

And opened his physical ones.  He leaned against the battlements, panting and covered in sweat.  “I’m not sure…what happened,” he told the king, “I—” With a gasp, he pointed over Laris’ left shoulder.  The king turned in time to see multi-colored bolts of light shoot from the end of Elkar’s staff.  “Brace for impact!” he cried.

Prince Palden and his men stayed in formation as the bolts careened towards them.  There was no use trying to escape.  There wasn’t time.  If they were going to die, they were going to die like Sokerrans, not like a bunch of scurrying mice.

Laris pounded his fist against the parapet.  Prince Palden had done so much for Rogar.  He was a good and noble man, a young man who should have had his whole life ahead of him, a life he had chosen to share with Trilla.  It wasn’t right that he should die.  Rogar had lost so many of her sons and daughters, like Ironshield, and countless others, most of whom Laris didn’t even know, and now this….

The prince sheathed his sword and bowed his head.  His men followed suit.

Those on the wall watched for as long as they could, then took cover.

A heartbeat later, there was a deafening boom.  The wall shuddered.  Hairline cracks opened in the stone.  Laris pressed his body against the parapet, readying himself for the collapse.  “She’s going to give way!” someone yelled.  After enduring so much, was this to be their end?

A few breathless seconds passed…and then something miraculous happened—the wall stopped shaking and the cracks sealed.  The king struggled to his feet.  At first, he could see nothing of what lay below.  Then, as the debris cloud settled, his mouth curved into an amazed smile.

Prince Palden and many of the Sokerrans had survived the blast, and some of them, including the prince, had even managed to stay atop their mounts.  The shapelings that had been crowded against the wall, on the other hand, had been all but wiped out. 
The light must have sailed over their heads,
Laris thought
, hitting the shapelings instead.

Elkar could feel his body failing.  Without the Lost One to sustain him, he would soon be dead.  Thus, he activated the staff one…last…time.  It could not be allowed to exist.  It was far too dangerous, out of place and time, a remnant of a bygone era.  The gems on the staff glowed bright.  When they could hold no more, streamers of light poured from the top of the staff, braided together, and shot up through the clouds.

A moment later, like a star falling from the heavens, the light plummeted back to earth, straight towards Elkar.  When Laris realized what was about to happen, he raised his hand in a farewell salute.  The beam struck Elkar in the center of the chest.  His skin became translucent and, with a relieved smile, he and Minorian shattered into thousands of tiny pieces.  The pieces hung in the sky, shimmering like shards of crystal, then fell back down, showering over the land near and far.  Elkar’s soul flew up and out, soaring high over the battlements, picking up speed as it traveled west across the open countryside.  At long last, he was free.

The wall and field were silent.  The men atop the wall held their swords loosely, suddenly struck with nothing to do.  Was it really over?  Had they, against all odds, actually won?  It seemed too much to believe.  They had been ready to face death.  Six walls had been reduced to rubble, the battlefield between the last two now little more than a crater.

The first cheers went up from Prince Palden and his men. 
And why not cheer,
thought the king, feeling oddly detached. 
The war is over.

The prince saluted the men on the wall, putting all his heart into it.

Touched by the sentiment, Laris set his jaw, clenched his teeth, and saluted back.

“Company, form up!” called the prince.  The battered remnants of the Sokerran force came together, forming into lines, facing the wall.  Those who had lost their mounts—stood.  Those who couldn’t stand—sat.  The king and prince held their salutes.  Many of the men were injured, some of them badly, so what would normally have taken a few seconds, took several minutes.  Laris was distraught to see how few of them were left.  Of the thousands who had ridden out, only a couple of hundred remained. 

When they were assembled, the prince shouted, “Company, present arms!”  The Sokerrans pulled their sabers ringing from their sheaths, raised them into the air, crossed them over their chests, and bowed their heads.

Despite his set jaw and clenched teeth, Laris’ eyes began to tear up.  They were no longer just allies aligned against a common foe; they were brothers, brothers who had endured great trial together, who had fought side by side to defend that which they held most dear, their freedom, their principles, and their humanity.  When not just lives but ideology is threatened, lines on maps, such as the one separating Rogar from Sokerra, begin to blur—policy and politics, and petty squabbling over meaningless minutia, becomes as inconsequential as the color of one’s shoes.

The Rogarians cheered, clapping the flat of their swords against their shields.  Men who had been exhausted just moments before, were now imbibed with new life. 
Yes, why not cheer?
Laris thought again, relief finally starting to sink in, flooding his heart with sudden joy. 
We have done it!  We have won!

Then, to their utter dismay, one of the lookouts in the western towers sounded his horn.  An eerie hush fell as all eyes looked west, as all ears listened intently to the warbling cry of the horn.

Laris raised his scope, closed one eye, and peered through.  A wave of dread washed over him, for there, on the horizon, speeding towards them in a great cloud of dust, was the outline of a massive army. 
Rodan help us,
he thought.  Six of the
Eight Walls
lay in ruin, and those who were not wounded were wrung out with exhaustion.
  To come so close and fail....  What a cruel twist of fate.

The Sokerrans, true to form, turned their mounts and galloped out to meet this new threat.  The king’s chest swelled with pride.  They knew they had no chance, and yet were going to give their lives so that he and his men might escape.  Clearly, they had a thing or two to learn about Rogarians.

“We gave them a good show of it!” Laris yelled, making eye contact with his men.  Some of the eyes staring back at him were frightened.  Some were angry.  Some were filled with regret.  But all were ready to do whatever he asked, their respect for him bordering on worship.

Strange,
he thought.  Beneath his title and stately armor he was just a man, no better or worse than other men.  He ate, slept, lived, and he would die, just as countless others had before him.  He supposed the need to believe in something larger than one’s self was human nature, much like a child’s need to believe in his or her parents.  Of course when you grow up, you discover that your parents do not have all the answers, discover that they cannot guarantee what will or will not happen tomorrow—that they cannot save you from oblivion.  And so they are replaced with kings and gods, figures too grand to question, all so that you do not have to be afraid of the dark. 
What a comfort it would be,
Laris thought,
if I could look at someone the way they’re looking at me.