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

by Woodward, William

  Afterward, when his adventuring was done, he would return home and share what he had discovered with his people. He felt a flutter of excitement. Because of him, they would no longer have to fear what lay beyond the borders of Fairhaven. He would be a hero, respected by all—including his father and brothers.

  Andaris had known he had to leave, but now that he had a definite goal in mind, a quest with a beginning and an end, he could scarcely contain his eagerness. He felt like a character out of one of his beloved books, like Argolath of the Silver Circle, racing against time to save the kingdom of Nore from destruction. He had never felt so splendid, so utterly alive. In part because of this, and in part because the trail finally began to straighten out, he traveled the remainder of the morning with a light step and a sense of brimming confidence, delighting in all that he saw.

  Until, that is, his stomach began to rumble. Even heroes have to eat, he thought. All this walking had given him quite an appetite. Not one to ignore his hunger for long, Andaris began searching for a suitable place to stop and have a picnic lunch.

  Sometime around midday, he came across a nice sunny clearing full of green grass and little blue flowers. In the exact center of the clearing, as though placed there by the hand of a giant, was a large boulder covered with moss. He walked to the boulder with a look of childlike wonder on his face, poked at the moss with his thumb, then took off his pack and had a seat.

  Many of the trees in this part of the forest were already in full bloom, most notably the ones with the white trunks and gold-tipped leaves. Once he’d finished his meal of cheese and nuts, he lay back upon the blanket of moss and watched as cottony seeds floated into and out of the light. The wind sighed through the branches of the taller trees, creaking them gently to and fro. Feeling the warmth of the sunshine against his skin, he closed his eyes and began to doze

  .

  * * *

  Andaris was not an especially handsome young man, at least not on the outside. His father had always told him that he could tell an honest man by his face. Generally speaking, the plainer the face, the more honest the man. If so, then Andaris supposed he must be one of the more honest men around. It wasn’t that he was ugly, just that a person had to look extra close to see anything of note about him, good or bad.

  Why go to all the trouble when it was so much easier to love and admire his two elder brothers—Jorden for his blue eyes and bright smile, and Blakeland for his square jaw and level head? Andaris possessed none of these qualities. He was the dreamer who couldn’t seem to keep his mind on all those pesky details of everyday life that, for some reason, everyone else found so blasted important.

  The ground had been free of snow for more than a month now, and it was getting warmer every day, something for which Andaris was truly grateful. He was weighted down enough as it was. In order to lug all his winter things, he’d need a pack mule.

  Presently, he wore only a homespun cotton shirt, a pair of scuffed leather boots, deerskin pants, and a wide belt to which he had strapped his thin-bladed hunting knife. His pack, which he usually kept slung over his left shoulder, contained strips of smoked meat, nuts, dried fruit, the mead, the block of sharp yellow cheese and, most importantly, some of his mother’s ginger spice cookies. In addition to food, it held the woolen cloak—the nights still got chilly enough to warrant it, especially in the high country—two blankets, flint and steel for starting fires, and a small hand axe with a hickory root handle for chopping woods. Any more weight and I’d buckle, he thought.

  Most would call it reckless to venture alone into the uncharted wilderness. Indeed, some might say that you’d have to be touched in the head to even consider such a thing. Fortunately, Andaris didn’t care what most people thought.

  Besides, there was more to him than met the eye. No one would know, for instance, that his pants had been treated with the fat from a deepwater hollarcan fish, the dark oil making the already supple leather waterproof and virtually impossible to tear, not unlike the skin of an eel.

  Andaris’ father had been lucky enough to hook one of the spike-tailed creatures off the west shore of Lake Shelladock. The hollarcan had put up a valiant struggle, but in the end had proved no match for his father who, like Blakeland, was a bull of a man, strong and steadfast, not one to allow a mere fish to get the better of him—even if it did weigh close to a hundred pounds.

  After catching the hollarcan, his father had spent the next few days at his forge, hammer ringing against the anvil late into the night. On the dawn of the fourth day, he had emerged, holding in his hands a sleeveless shirt of armor, the pale-green scales of which he had pounded flat and painstakingly linked together. “It’s as strong as steel, yet much lighter,” his father had said when he’d handed it to him.

  For as long as Andaris could remember that’s how things had been between them, his father always doing more for him than his brothers, trying to make up for what he perceived as shortcomings in his son—Andaris’ small build and introverted manner, his lack of skill in fighting and hunting. It was difficult for a strapping man of the earth like his father, a man of sweat and toil and straightforward thoughts, to understand.

  Andaris knew he meant well, knew that he did what he did out of love. He just wished his limitations weren’t so glaring as to require preferential treatment. He felt the gift was too good for him, as out of place on him as a sword on his hip, or even a crown on his head. Perhaps on his journey he would prove to himself, to his father and to everyone, that he was good enough to wear it.

  According to the Shallae, an ancient tome containing the town’s oldest written records, Andaris’ ancestors had once relied on armor and weaponry for their very survival. After making their way across the endless expanses, fending off famine and foe, they had finally come to rest in what they had later named the Valley of Plenty.

  Aptly named, the valley seemed curiously set apart from the rest of the world, a land where the animal and plant life were as unique as the climate. Between the mild winters, long fertile summers, and absence of invaders, they had discovered a veritable paradise.

  As the centuries came and went, their tumultuous beginnings were largely forgotten. Things like the scale mail shirt that Andaris wore had become scant more than decorative reminders of a distant past. Only a few, like his father, had had the knowledge of how to make such things passed down to them.

  The truth was, most of what they had once been was now lost. Even the Shallae, with over half its crumbling yellow pages either missing or damaged beyond recognition, was incomplete. The history keepers still retained a handful of remnants from that period, corroded pieces of armor and heavy, unwieldy blades. But these artifacts, sacred as they were, did little to complete the puzzle of their past.

  The names and descriptions of the places from which his ancestors hailed had long been clouded in mystery, covered over by the shifting sands of time until the lands beyond the valley had become as shapeless as a dream. The few references the book made to actual towns read like fantasy, speaking of magical creatures and fantastic locales that stretched belief.

  * * *

  Andaris opened his eyes and sat up, feeling refreshed and ready to be on his way. Hoping to make some more notable progress before dark, he spent the remainder of the afternoon walking. A couple of hours before sundown, he reached the foothills.

  The forest had thinned considerably, and now, rising before him, he could see the full grandeur of the Tertanian range. Breathtaking, he thought. He’d had a glimpse here and there along the way, but to see it all at once, so close up and complete, was almost overwhelming. Had his beliefs been more traditional, he would have been on the ground groveling, desperate to pay homage to the Watcher within the Stone. As it was, he stood—head held high, shoulders back, the damp ground seeming to validate his lack of faith. A bit muddy for groveling, he decided with a pragmatic half-smile.

  He knew he should stop and make camp. That would be the prudent thing to do. There probably wasn’t e
nough time to climb to the top of even the first rise before dark. But it was such a relief to be out in the open again, where he could breathe, that he felt he could do anything. Imagine, he thought, how glorious it would be to sleep up there tonight. It’s not that big—just a hill really. Bet I could make it if I set my mind to it.

  Unfortunately, the small, tree-dotted slope turned out to be a good deal more challenging than it had appeared. In order to keep his pack from throwing him off balance, he had to lean far forward as he climbed. He was glad Blakeland wasn’t there to see. “Come, little brother,” he would have laughed, “Grandfather Rocaren can climb faster than you.” But then his eldest brother seldom had trouble with anything.

  Determined not to allow his shortcomings to conquer him, Andaris grabbed onto branches and tree roots, clinging to whatever he could find, feet scrabbling for purchase. One wrong step would send him tumbling. He had known he wasn’t in peak condition, that his legs were skinny and weak. He had known he would have an adjustment period. He just hadn’t counted on it being quite so…grueling.

  To make matters worse, the weather was beginning to shift, and not for the better. The wind now howled out of the north, marring the perfect day with dark billowing clouds and a plummeting temperature. Andaris eyed the rising plumes with apprehension, at which time a peal of thunder, low and deep, rumbled across the sky. A raindrop hit him square on the nose. One drop followed the next and, in no time, he found himself in the midst of a steady downpour.

  The dirt beneath his feet soon turned to soup, making his perch even more precarious. Several times he slipped, and once he even fell, cutting his elbow on a sharp rock. He wasn’t far from the top of the hill. If he could only make it another twenty feet or so he’d be safe.

  Darkness fell as he labored. Lightning flashed across the sky with dazzling violence. The wind picked up strength, buffeting him from one side to the other, driving the cold rain into him in waves, stinging his skin and stealing his sight. Andaris forced his legs on, willing himself upward.

  And then somehow he was standing atop the hill, eyes darting this way and that, searching for shelter. He had never experienced a storm like this in the lowlands, a storm so intense and furious. He had seen dark clouds around the peaks before, but had not guessed it would be like this. Can’t last, he thought.

  As if to prove him wrong, the rain began to fall even harder. Ice! he realized. Desperate to escape the cruel needles, Andaris ran as swiftly as his legs would take him, and very nearly collided with the craggy face of a cliff. He scuttled along the base of the cliff to his right, skidding to a halt scant inches from the edge of a sheer drop.

  Shaken and breathing hard, he turned back around, and there, just a few feet in front of him, was the entrance to a cave. The opening was a flat circle of black about as tall and wide as he was, a yawning mouth inset with jagged stone teeth. He hesitated, despite the hail, wary about walking into that empty dark.

  Could be an animal in there, he thought. A wolf…or even a bear. Just then, a marble-sized chunk of ice hit the ground at his feet. He took a step back, and suddenly they were falling all around, jumping like popped corn in a pan.

  Andaris made a dash for the opening, stumbling as one of the ice marbles struck him on the shoulder. His hand went reflexively to the spot, fingers probing past the tear in his shirt to the cold scales beneath. If not for the armor it would have drawn blood, he was sure. What if it had hit him on the head? What then?

  Thinking it better not to find out, he hastened into the entrance. When he reached the far wall, he cowered against it, but still wasn’t safe. Thunder shook the cave as hail battered the rock against which he was pressed. A flash of lightning revealed an adjoining chamber.

  Surrendering fully to his fear, he stood and rushed into it, guided by the continued flashes, going from chamber to chamber, ever deeper into the earth. In time, he could no longer see the flashes, and the thunder became nothing more than a muffled drumming. Standing there, trying to catch his breath, he realized he was completely spent, inexplicably so—more exhausted than the exertion and even emotional strain could account for, more exhausted than he’d been his entire life.

  Moments later, he was surprised and somewhat unnerved to discover that he could no longer remain upright. He needed rest...and he needed it now. Struggling in vain against the sudden fatigue, he slid down the wall to the cold stone of the floor, wrapped his arms around his body, and fell into unnatural deep sleep—becoming swept away, almost immediately, by a disturbingly vivid dream.

  * * *

  Andaris flew over jagged mountain peaks and thick pinewood forest, over green hills and sparkling streams, swooping low, then catching an updraft and sailing high, reveling in his freedom, in the fresh air and sunshine on his feathers.

  Around and around he went, spiraling ever higher into the crisp blue of the sky. He was the hawk he’d seen the day before, the one that had given him the evil eye as he’d stood poised on the border of Fingar. Home, he thought. I’m going home.

  Soon the forest began to thin and the first farmhouses began to appear, nestled here and there amidst the rolling green hills, with their square fields of wheat and corn, small stands of oak trees, and little blue ponds. That’s Uncle Del’s place, he thought, recognizing the broken-down wagon in front of the house, vegetable gardens along the sides, and new barn in the back that, just last week, he and his brothers had helped to build.

  Soaring past his uncle’s place, he saw Fairhaven appear on the horizon, shining like a jewel in the morning light. Anxious to see his family again, he wheeled north towards his parents’ house, passing over the shingled rooftop of the inn, then the stables, the blacksmith’s shop, and the general store. He saw Mrs. Greenwich and her three voluptuous daughters walking towards the temple, all wearing their finest dresses—fair heads held high, backs straight, noses up.

  Andaris chuckled at the commotion in their wake, at the men gesturing and smiling, at the women whispering behind their hands, at the wives nudging their husbands in the ribs. How he as a hawk could chuckle he did not know, nor did he, at the present, care. He saw Mr. Brody and his son driving their team of Mindarian studhorses out of town, and Old Man Tucker hobbling along with his cane, leering at everyone and everything. Yes, Fairhaven was exactly as he’d left it, exactly as it should be.

  As Andaris neared the outskirts of his father’s land, however, he spotted something that wasn’t exactly as it should be. Directly ahead, a thick column of smoke rose from behind a wooded hill. Troubled by the sight, he tucked in his wings and went into a dive, pulling up just before he hit the tops of the trees—at which point the dream became a nightmare. As he’d feared, it was his parent’s house that was on fire.

  Grandfather Rocaren came stumbling out the front door, coughing and covered in soot, carrying Jorden over his left shoulder. He laid Jorden on the ground beside Andaris’ father, who also appeared unconscious, and with a look of steely determination turned back towards the house.

  Mother’s still inside! Andaris thought.

  A wall of fire now blocked the front door, so his grandfather grabbed the hatchet from beside the woodpile, ran to the master bedroom window, and began breaking in the glass.

  Andaris heard a ferocious shrieking from above, and the flapping of leathery wings, then felt a sudden blast of scorched air. Everything around him burst into flames, at which point the scene shattered and fell away, a facade without supports.

  But Andaris did not wake, for the dream was not yet done with him. He now stood atop a high wall in front of a great stone keep, wearing a full suit of plated mail. Staring through slits in his helm, he saw that he held an elegant looking longsword, its gently curving blade etched deep with strange symbols, all of which glowed red, pulsating with each beat of his heart. He slashed the sword through the air, pleased with how natural the movement felt, with how well the ivory hilt fit into his hand. Clearly, he had used it many times before. It was like an extension of his arm, p
erfectly balanced and lighter than it appeared, as though made especially for him.

  The time of reckoning draws near, the sword said into his mind.

  I’m ready, Andaris told it, not at all surprised to be talking to it. Why should he be surprised? After all, it was a part of him and he was a part of it—man and sword irrevocably linked, their connection bordering on symbiotic.

  Andaris shivered and, with his free hand, pulled together his cloak. So cold, he thought.

  Yes…cold, answered the sword. The Lost One will soon be here.

  The sky swirled apocalyptically, red as an open wound. Flaxen-haired men in gleaming armor carrying long bows wrought of bone stood in the crenellations cut into the rampart. Long spikes adorned with the severed heads of beasts protruded from the tops of the battlements, swaying in the stiff breeze, each more hideous than the last.

  Andaris tensed as the enemy war horns warbled out a fervent succession of deep, soulful cries, then watched in horror as a dark horde flooded towards the wall, its ranks covering the charred landscape with grotesque, bestial shapes for as far as the eye could see. All around him swords were drawn and arrows were nocked as, in high ringing tones, the trumpets on the wall blared forth their response.

  Lost in Darkness

  Andaris awoke feeling groggy and disconnected. What a dream, he thought, slowly opening his eyes. Hmm. Why’s it so dark in here? He blinked, waiting for his eyes to adjust. No change. He opened them as wide as they would go, peering this way and that, and still…only blackness. He came instantly alert. What’s happening? Why can’t I--

  Then it all came flooding back to him. The hill. The storm. The cave. Yes, of course. He wasn’t blind. He was in a cave.

  But he had traveled so far in and had felt so chased, could he now remember his way back out? Just stay calm, he told himself. Think. Had the sun risen yet? There was no way to know. He couldn’t hear the storm any more. Perhaps if he waited long enough, it would become light enough to see.