The Eight Walls of Rogar: An Epic Fantasy Adventure Series! (The Lost Kingdoms of Laotswend Trilogy--Book One) (8 page)

It really wasn’t a hard decision.  He wasn’t about to strike off on his own again, not after everything he’d seen.  Indeed, even if he wanted to, he suspected it would be difficult, considering how taken with Trilla he’d become.  She was so beautiful and charismatic that he felt inclined, even compelled, to do what she asked.  He would like it better if he could find Shamilla’s friend, Lindolin, but that was apparently not his path, not right now anyway.  He felt as if he were being swept along by a swift-moving current of events, against which it would be pointless to struggle.  All he could do was sit back and see where it took him.  “Well, I guess if nobody objects,” he said. 

She gave his leg a reassuring squeeze.  “Of course nobody objects.” she insisted, glancing sharply at Ashel.  “Isn’t that right?”  Ashel nodded his head dutifully.  “Good, it’s decided then.  You’re coming with us.”

Tearful Goodbye

W
ithin the hour, they broke camp and proceeded down the trail.  Jade scouted ahead from time to time, as though she felt it her duty to make certain the way was clear.

Andaris shook his head at her energy.  “So,” he asked, finding himself a bit winded from Gaven’s brisk pace, “aren’t there any horses in this world?”  Gaven strode ahead boldly, seeming not to hear the question.  It was easy for Andaris to picture the big man standing tall in a gale-force wind, trudging forward as floodwaters rushed past.  There was a solidity about him that made them all feel safer, an even confidence that reminded Andaris strongly of his father. 

“What’s a horse?” Trilla asked, turning her head and fixing him with a blank stare.

Andaris was taken off guard.  Was she serious?  “Uh, well...you know…a horse--a large hairy animal that walks on all fours.”

“Kinda like a dog?” Gaven called back.

So he is listening,
Andaris thought.  “No, not really,” he answered.  “Much larger than that.  Where I come from we ride on their backs when there’s a long distance to cover.”

“On their backs!” Trilla exclaimed.  “Why, I can’t imagine.”

“It’s actually quite safe,” Andaris assured her.  “You just—”

Trilla started to snicker.

“She’s having you on,” Ashel said in a weary tone.

“You have to keep your eye on her,” Gaven told him.  “She loves a good joke.”

Andaris looked back at Trilla.

Her sheepish grin grew wider.

“So I take it you do have horses,” he said.

“I’m sorry, Andaris, I couldn’t resist.”

“Not only do we have horses,” Gaven bragged, “but Trilla here is quite the accomplished rider.”

“Somehow I’m not too surprised,” Andaris said, sizing her up with his eyes.

“Why, there was this one time,” Gaven continued, “I saw her—” He came to a sudden stop, gesturing emphatically for them to be quiet.  Andaris peered about, wondering if he should be alarmed.  Gaven stood perfectly still, listening.  Andaris perked up his ears.  There was only the sound of the wind blowing through the trees, and the distant
rat-a-tat-tat
of a woodpecker, but even so, the worried expression on the big man’s face was enough to make him shiver.

Gaven held up his hand and in a harsh whisper said, “Get down!”  Crouching below the tall grass that bordered the trail, he eased out his broadsword.

Trilla pulled four gold-handled throwing knives from somewhere within the folds of her dress, lining them up in a row on the ground in front of her.

Andaris unclipped his crossbow. 
Where’s Jade?
he thought, glancing over his shoulder.  There was no sign of her and, more surprisingly, no sign of Ashel.  Jade was probably somewhere farther down the trail, but where was the wizard?

As Andaris turned back around, Gaven sprung from his crouch, burying his sword into the middle of a man who came charging through the grass.  The man’s scimitar fell from his fingers…blood spilled from his mouth…and he dropped, dead before he hit the ground.

Three more burst from the grass as Gaven brought his blade vertical.  They were a ragged lot, dirty, ugly, highwaymen all.  Seeing Gaven standing above their fallen comrade, broad face sprayed with blood, eyes seething with rage, they pulled up short, for in those eyes they saw their doom.

Trilla raised her arm to throw.

Andaris lifted his crossbow. 

Gaven charged in like a bull, swinging his sword in a series of wide arcs.  “For Rogar!” he bellowed.

“Follow me!” Trilla yelled.  “We have to get to the side!”

At first, Gaven’s raw fury was enough to keep those attacking him at bay.  But then, as was inevitable, one of the men got past him.

Trilla threw the knife.  It had scarcely left her fingers when the fellow lit up from within and, with a bright flash, vanished.  The knife passed through empty air, sticking harmlessly into the ground.

Andaris’ jaw lowered along with his crossbow, for sitting in the man’s footprints was a large, particularly nasty-looking rodent.  It wore a blousy shirt, drawstring breeches and, like the man, had a gold loop through its left ear.  Sitting up on its hind legs, it glared fiercely at them, brandishing its tiny sword in challenge—a ridiculous gesture considering its stature—then did an about face and scurried away.  Andaris started to make chase.  It did not, however, turn out to be necessary.  After traveling only a few feet, the rat was crushed flat, as if stomped beneath the heel of an invisible boot.

Gaven spun, hacking the larger of the two men he was fighting from neck to waist.  The other man danced aside nimbly, flashing him a gap-toothed grin.  It was going to take more than a simple trick to fool him.

Trilla gasped as two more men broke from the grass, raised her right arm and, with a quick flick, tossed another knife.  The man in the lead yanked the knife from his throat, tried in vain to stem the crimson flood issuing from the wound and, with a strangled scream, dropped.  The other one went to one knee, fitted an arrow to his bowstring, pulled back—then suddenly jumped up, dropped his bow, and sprinted away, yelling and waving his arms like he’d gone mad.

“Well done, Ashel!” Trilla exclaimed, flinging another knife.  The man pitched forward, writhed on the ground for a time and, after a final shudder, went still.  Andaris looked from the knife protruding from the man’s spine to Trilla, gaping at her, seeing past her beauty and youthful innocence to the bedrock within.

“He moves like a serpent!” Gaven huffed, drawing first their attention then their concern.

Trilla’s mouth pinched shut with worry for him.  The other man was both cunning and agile, and Gaven was obviously tiring.  Sweat poured from his brow, and he was sucking wind like a leaky bellows.  If Gaven could just hit him it would all be over, but each time he came close the man sidestepped, rust-colored braid flying through the air, confident sneer never faltering.

Gaven cried out as the curving steel bit into his shoulder, as it sliced through his leather armor into the corded muscle beneath.  With his face contorting in fear and rage, he rammed into the man and bulled him over, knocking the scimitar free.  Counting on his opponent’s split-second reflexes, Gaven stabbed to the left as the man began to roll, planting his blade like a tree of metal through the center of his chest into the ground.  The man lay there with astonishment in his eyes, spitting blood and grasping at the sides of Gaven’s sword.  He struggled to speak, convulsed, and with a sickening gurgle, died.

Gaven bent down, braced his foot unceremoniously against the man’s ribcage and, to the grotesque sound of sucking flesh, pulled out his blade.  “He was good,” he said wearily, peering down the length of the blood-smeared steel with distaste, the muscles in his forearm rippling as he flipped it over to examine the other side.  “For a while there I thought I was—” Gaven’s eyes widened with alarm.  “Behind you!” he yelled.

Andaris whirled as another foe emerged from the grass.  Before the man could go two steps, a knife and a crossbow bolt thunked into his chest.  The only trouble was…he didn’t die.  He just smiled thinly and kept walking.  Andaris fired the second bolt.  Trilla threw her last knife.  Both connected, but horribly, his smile only broadened.

Andaris jumped in front of Trilla and drew his hunting knife.

Gaven ran forward, sword held high.

The man stopped walking and casually raised one of his hands.

“Save yourselves!” Ashel cried.

A bolt of jet-black energy shot from the man’s palm towards Gaven.

Ashel materialized in front of Gaven with arms already raised, caught the beam in his hands, stumbling back as he fought to gain control.  “Run!” he yelled.

The man’s grungy clothes morphed into a fine black robe, every inch of the silky fabric embossed with silver lettering, the edges shimmering and stretching as they watched.  Above the man’s now-aristocratic features, a line of blocky runes appeared, wrapping around his shorn head like a crown.  As the runes lit, his smile turned sinister.

Ashel murmured with ever-increasing speed, face draining of color as he frantically tried to shape the black energy into a sphere, hands moving around it in a blur.  Gaven flexed his big arms in frustration, desperate to help, but knowing better than to interfere.

Lacking Gaven’s experience with wizards, Andaris charged in and stabbed through the man’s robe, sinking his knife into what felt, strangely enough, like wood.  The mage looked down at him as if he were a fly that needed swatting.  Andaris met his gaze…and became instantly transfixed, staring beyond the edge of reason into the unfathomable depths of those crazed, merciless eyes.  His head started to throb.  He opened his mouth in a silent scream as the man pushed into his mind.  He felt him begin to sift through his thoughts.  Pain lanced through his body, becoming excruciating.  Andaris was wondering how much more he could stand when he suddenly went somersaulting backwards, repelled by some invisible force.

Ashel shouted a string of clipped-off words that to his friends sounded like gibberish, speaking the last word with such force that the air around them wavered.  With a deafening boom, the sphere became whole and perfect.  Ashel flung it at his foe with a growl, looking to put everything he had into it—all his malice, strength, and will.  The orb spun inexorably forward, a ball of pulsating midnight, shrieking like the damned, vengeance incarnate. 
Behold thy doom and weep,
it cried,
for you have been judged, and you have been found wanting!

Despite all that the other wizard tried to do, the sphere impacted with the ground directly in front of his feet.  The energy swirled around his legs to his waist, forming a distortion field that extended several feet in every direction.  The mage’s eyes bulged as he fought against it, the runes on his head burning even brighter.  When the energy reached the middle of his chest, it halted…and slowly began to recede.

Ashel shut his eyes and shouted, “Ulteran ik delkenu!”--stopping it again.  It stayed in place for several seconds.  Then…inch-by-inch…crept back up.  When it reached the man’s shoulders, blood began to ooze from Ashel’s pores.  Gasping for breath, Ashel brought his thumbs and forefingers together to form a triangle.  “Lok tor vik hurqinie!” he shouted.

Both wizards screamed.  The energy raised in front of the man’s face, churned for a while, as though digesting, and then was drawn into the earth, leaving nothing of him behind, not even the fingertips from which it had sprung.

Ashel collapsed into Gaven’s waiting arms.  Trilla rushed to his side as Gaven eased him to the ground.  Andaris wasn’t surprised to see Trilla crying as she laid her hands upon Ashel’s chest, but the tears welling in Gaven’s eyes took him aback.

A white glow emanated from Trilla’s fingers, weaving around Ashel’s body like a blanket.  In a way, Andaris found this to be more remarkable than anything he’d seen thus far, adding to his already considerable affection for her.  He could feel the healing energy even from where he stood, the fierce love which it contained--love emanating from her in waves, warm as a campfire, reaching out to encompass them all.

Of course, like all perfect things, this too did pass.  While basking in her radiance, Andaris felt another emotion begin to build--fear rising beneath the surface of the waves, cold as the grave, turning into barely controlled panic, its sharp edge like a knife across his throat.  She was desperate to save Ashel, employing all her skill, but something was wrong.  He wasn’t responding.  The wizard’s chest barely moved.  Up and down, up and…down, up…and…down…and then nothing.

“He’s not breathing,” Andaris said unnecessarily.

The white light grew brighter, almost blinding them.  “Come on,” Trilla pleaded.  “Don’t go!”

Ashel sat bolt upright and sucked in a chest full of air, eyes pulling open mechanically.  He turned to Trilla, jerky and unnatural, like some kind of perverted puppet.  “You cannot save me,” he moaned.  “You must release me.  My wounds are beyond your power to heal.”   Then, as if the creator had reached out and abruptly cut his strings, the wizard’s eyes shut and he fell back.

“No!”  Trilla cried.

Gaven placed his hand on her arm.  “It’s over,” he said, voice choked with anguish.  “Let him be.”  But the light grew still brighter, and Ashel again sat up.  Gaven grabbed Trilla by her small shoulders, shaking her.  “This is obscene!” he shouted.  “You must stop!  He’s…gone.  Can’t you see that?”

Trilla looked at Ashel’s corpse with sudden horror, finally seeming to realize what she was doing.  A moment later, with a quick sideways slash of her hand, the light winked out.  She sat there for several seconds, staring at her palms like she’d never seen them before, then threw her arms around Gaven and began to sob.

“It’s not your fault,” he said, holding her awkwardly.  “You did all you could.”

Within the hour, Gaven and Andaris had dug a waist deep hole in the center of a small clearing.  Into this hole they laid, with the utmost solemnity and care, Ashel’s broken body.  They positioned his hands over his stomach, one atop the other, placed his cherished flute on the middle of his chest, and then began the heart-wrenching process of covering him up, watching with troubled eyes as he slowly disappeared beneath the earth.