When he reached the bottom, he stared at his choices. Four passageways burrowed through the stone. The tunnels in the middle went straight and level. The one to the left slanted down. The one to the right curved up. When he was a boy, he’d had the route to the tombs memorized. He hoped, after all the years, he could remember.
A moment later, he stepped into the passage to his left. He was surprised, as he made turn after turn, how well it all came back to him. It was almost like he was young again, tromping through the catacombs, exploring the warren of passageways when he should have been studying. To this day, no one knew how deeply Rogar’s builders had delved. So many sections had been sealed off and built over that no map in existence was entirely accurate. “Those were the times,” he said to himself, thinking back with fondness on all the adventures he’d had.
Laris knew, as he approached the two iron doors, that his memory had served him well. He knew this because there, in the center of each, stamped in bold relief, was the Danodren crest—a griffin holding a flaming sword on a round shield amidst a sea of twisting vines.
A draft moved the material of his cloak, producing a faint whisper. As a boy, he’d heard many stories regarding the restless spirits that roamed the catacombs, forever lost. It was said that the souls of those executed in the castle were doomed to wander the passages below until the day of judgment, at which time they would rise up through the floor to exact their revenge on the royalty who had sent them there.
Once, when the king was fifteen, he’d heard coarse laughter down one of the corridors. Being a headstrong youth, he’d run to investigate, catching sight of a gaunt figure wearing a tattered gray coat, limping away from him. “Excuse me, sir,” he had called. But instead of answering, the man had turned around the next corner and passed out of sight. When the king dashed around the same corner to catch up, the man was gone…vanished without a trace. Laris had spent hours searching the catacombs, finding no sign of the fellow, not so much as a footprint in the dust.
Chills ran through him as he inserted the key into the door lock. Steady, he thought. You’re not a child any more. Naturally, his mind began to fill with the faces of all the people he’d executed over the years—nameless wretches, some young, some old, enough people to fill the hall in which he stood. From the scattered fragments, one memory came to the fore.
Twenty years ago, the king executed a man for the murder and rape of two young girls. The night after the hanging, a loud pounding against the trapdoor startled him and his beloved wife, Abigail, awake. The king jumped out of bed with sword in hand and bounded to the center of the room. After flinging the trapdoor up, however, he just stood there, gaping, for the passage below was empty. He searched for days and, like before, found only trackless dust and vacant tunnels.
Laris chuckled at himself, dragged open one of the iron doors, and went inside. For the first time in years, he was having fun.
The Blue Bottle
Andaris regained consciousness slowly. First he became aware that he was moving, then, upon opening his eyes, realized he was strapped to a makeshift travois constructed of leather and wood, the heels of his shoes dragging lines in the dirt. Who’s pulling me? he wondered. He craned his head around, and there, larger than life, was Gaven, good old Gaven, limping along with him in tow. The man had a bloodstained bandage wrapped around his head, one on his shoulder, and a couple around his ribs.
“You don’t look so good,” Andaris observed, peering up at him.
Gaven turned his head without stopping. The big man’s face was haggard, but determined. “Glad to see you back,” he said, managing a tired smile. “I was getting concerned. I couldn’t tell what was keeping you under. The bolt hit you at the very bottom of your armor. A couple of the scales got pressed into your skin, and the tip of the bolt gave you a shallow cut, but that was it. All I can figure is that it hit you hard enough in the middle of the spine to knock you out.”
“Where’s Trilla?” Andaris asked.
“It has her,” Gaven said, his voice flat, “and it’s, best I can figure, a couple of hours ahead of us. We have to catch up before….” He cleared his throat, unable or unwilling to articulate what he feared. “Well…fortunately it leaves a trail like a macradon, and is slowed by its wounds. I don’t know what in Kolera’s name shapelings are doing so far east of the Onarris, but we’ll catch it. Don’t you worry.”
“And Jade?” Andaris asked.
Gaven gestured to his right. “She’s there.”
Andaris turned, seeing her running through the tree line with her head low to the ground.
“She won’t lose the scent,” Gaven assured him. “It’s foul enough that even I can follow it.”
Andaris looked at his legs and wiggled his toes. Nothing appears broken, he thought. “I can walk,” he offered. “You can’t keep dragging me if we hope to catch up, especially in your condition.”
“At least I’m upright,” Gaven argued. Nonetheless, after a moment, he came to a halt.
By the time Gaven set the end of the travois down, Andaris had the second strap unbuckled.
Gaven took the strap from him, which Andaris now recognized as Gaven’s belt, and put it back around his waist. Andaris stretched his legs and, with a groan, tried to stand. Gaven offered him a hand. Andaris stoically refused, getting to his feet without aid.
Once the world stopped spinning, Andaris looked at Gaven and, with a broad smile said, “Well, don’t just stand there, get a move on!” Unfortunately, after speaking these spirited words, his legs began to tremble, his vision blurred, and he startedto perspire as though he’d just finished running a foot race.
Gaven shook his head and, from one of his pouches, pulled a blue-tinted bottle. He held the bottle up to the sun, jiggling it as he peered through the glass, causing the liquid inside to bubble and froth. “This was Ashel’s,” Gaven told him. “He said it is very rare, and is only to be used when the need is great. I’d say this qualifies.” Placing his thumb and forefinger on either side of the cork he twisted and, with a loud pop, pulled it free. The liquid fizzed to the top of the bottle’s neck. “I’m not sure how much you should use, so I’d say start with only a swallow or two.”
Andaris took the bottle from his friend and, before he could talk himself out of it, tipped it back. The liquid flowed warm and bubbling down his throat, the taste reminding him, interestingly enough, of maple syrup. He waited, but nothing happened, so he took another swallow. “I wonder how long it takes?” he asked.
Before Gaven could respond, Andaris was overcome by a surge of giddiness. A feeling of warmth and a sense of well being spread through his body, filling every part of him with a euphoric strength that flushed his face and made his skin tingle. Now finding it difficult to even stand still, Andaris grinned and handed the bottle back.
“Well then,” said Gaven, taking a quick swig for himself, “I’d say not long.” After re-corking the bottle, he returned it to his pouch, wiped his mouth clean, and threw the travois, which Andaris now recognized as Trilla’s tent, into the trees.
They started at a slow jog, but in no time were running, the landscape speeding past on either side. It seemed to Andaris that his lungs and heart were operating at double their normal capacity. Jade gave them the strangest look as they overtook her, then adjusted her pace, and was once again beside them. Gaven and Andaris ran in perfect step with one another, jumping over streams and bounding up hills, their heightened senses in tune with everything around them. Now they really could smell the shapeling, its fetid stink making their nostrils burn and eyes water. The animals of the forest fled before them, no doubt wondering how the normally slow humans could sprint as swiftly as deer.
The Crypt
After passing through the iron doors, King Laris, despite his previous success, had become turned around. He’d been searching for some time now, and had yet to locate the entrance to the crypt. There were so many interconnecting tunnels that he just couldn’t remember. It shouldn’t take m
ore than a few minutes to get from the iron doors to the crypt, he reasoned. I’ll just have to keep backtracking until I find it.
He’d been feeling so muddled lately. One minute he’d be fine, and then out of nowhere he’d become confused and start forgetting things he’d known just moments before. The longer he wandered, the more crippling his doubts became—his grandfather coming to him in his sleep, his enemies subverting his will, one of his advisors spinning betrayal like a spider spins its web—it was all so difficult to believe.
Here I am, he thought, with my cloak and my staff, traipsing about in the middle of the night. And for what? A dream? He came to a stop. Was it real? he wondered. Or am I losing my mind? Perhaps I really am mad. Perhaps...I should just turn around and go back to bed. He lowered the hood of his cloak, rubbed the nape of his neck, and sighed. Well, he decided after a moment, I suppose there’s only one way to find out.
Nearly two hours later, after having walked into and out of a dozen different tunnels, Laris at last approached the entrance to the crypt. Holding his daystone at arm’s length, he peered about for the lever that would open the door. Once he found it, he wrapped his hands around its rusted end, and pulled. The lever scarcely moved, so he pulled harder, using all of his once-great strength. “Come on!” he sputtered. “Infernal thing!”
Eventually, after several more derogatory remarks, he managed to bring it the rest of the way down. But not without a price. Trying to catch his breath, he leaned against the wall and watched as the slab of stone began to slowly grind open. Pathetic, he thought, holding his hands together to keep them from shaking. Can’t do anything any more.
As soon as the gap was wide enough, he went through, walking with measured, almost reverent steps, into the crypt. “So still,” he whispered, feeling as if he were the first person to ever speak in this place. He took a deep breath to steady his nerves, and immediately began to cough. There was an unclean odor on the air, a staleness born out of many dark decades of stagnation. Decay had seeped into the very stones of the place, into every crack, until the air itself had become fouled.
The dust upon which he stepped had not been disturbed for a very long time. Nobody, it seemed, had come down here for years, including him. He knew he should visit more often, to pay his respects and what not. It was just that the crypt, with all its caskets and cobwebs, made him feel so...uncomfortable. Won’t be long before I join them, he thought with a shiver.
The walls of the crypt were divided into separate tombs, each housing a different family. The tombs were divided into individual compartments, hundreds upon hundreds of them, almost all holding a full casket.
No one had been laid to rest here since his mother, more than thirty years ago. Another crypt had been built at ground level to accommodate new arrivals, complete with oversized doors that could be opened to catch the afternoon breeze. Laris’ place, however, had been reserved since the day of his birth, here, with his parents.
If it were up to him, he would be buried outside, in the fresh air and sunshine, but it was not up to him. He was not some anonymous peasant, free to rot in whichever patch of earth he preferred. No, he was the king, which meant he had certain obligations, including, unfortunately, spending eternity in a sealed vault with his ancestors.
The compartments he stood before were filled with Danodrens dating back hundreds of years. The higher up the body, the less significant the title. The compartments on the bottom were larger and more elaborate than the rest. Rather than just a casket in a slot, they were equipped with drawers that could be pushed in and out for easier viewing. If a person wished to view a body that was out of reach, they had to use the scaffolding. The metal wheels of the scaffolding, when properly aligned, could be rolled back and forth inside a shallow track that stretched from one end of the crypt to the other. Probably rusted in place, he thought. Though as far as he was concerned, it was just as well—he’d never trusted the contraption anyway.
Laris stepped forward and, with the hem of his cloak, wiped one of the nameplates clean, revealing his grandfather’s name and station engraved in flowery script. He felt a sudden urge to wipe clean the nameplate adjacent to it, but resisted, for he knew, beneath the thick layer of dust, what he’d find—his own name and station, lacking only an end date to make it official.
Instead, into the hole beside his grandfather’s compartment, he inserted a brass key, the narrow body of which he twisted around and around, as though winding a clock. As he twisted, a small half circle of stone within a ring of symbols began to slide out. When the stone was an inch above the surrounding surface, he removed the key and rotated the half circle so that the notch on its flat side lined up with the symbol of the hawk. “Left to the hawk,” he whispered. “Left to the shield, right to the ship, left to the sun, and right to the griffin.”
Knowing that he had dialed in the correct series of symbols, he stepped back…and waited. There was a metallic clank followed by a whirring noise. Then, fast enough that it startled him, the panel slid open and the drawer whooshed out.
When the dust settled, the hair on the back of Laris’ neck raised. Lying there before him, virtually unchanged since his death more than sixty years ago, was his grandfather. The tightness of the seal, combined with the embalming treatments, had left his corpse in pristine condition. There was a brittle, papery appearance to his skin, but other than that, he lay there as though merely asleep. His great sword stretched the length of his armored body, hilt clutched firmly in his large hands. The expression on his face was one of fierce pride and conviction, made more imposing by his dominant Danodren traits—the jutting cheekbones, lantern jaw, and mane of thick hair.
“Even now,” he told the corpse, “you intimidate me.”
With trembling hands and a pounding heart, Laris reached around his grandfather’s neck, undid the clasp on the thin chain, and pulled the amulet of Sarcasis from beneath his grandfather’s breastplate. The amulet shone in the green ambience as it slipped free, looking as untarnished and bright as the day it was made. Laris held it up to his glowstone and, using his thumbnail, pried it open. “Thank Rodan,” he whispered. For there, etched into the metal, exactly as his grandfather had said it would be, was the inscription. “To my friend and lover,” he read, “we shall always be bound, Arvelay.” The dream was real, he thought, his face lit with relief and wonder. I’m not mad after all.
As the significance of this began to sink in, he put on the amulet, leaned forward and, with more strength than he’d had just moments before, shoved the drawer back into the wall.
“I won’t fail you,” he whispered. Now that he knew he wasn’t mad, there was no time to waste. There were many wrongs to make right.
Remorse
Trilla came to with a scream trapped in her throat, the side of her face pressed hard against the coarse fur of the shapeling’s chest. She had exhausted herself trying to break free of its iron grip, and since had been drifting in and out of consciousness. The shapeling was running faster now, heart thundering in her ears, breath hot against her skin. She found that if she stayed very quiet and very still, it didn’t squeeze her quite so hard. Night had fallen some time ago, but the moon was bright enough that she could see the forest floor passing beneath her. Where was it taking her? And why? She feared she knew the answer. Where else would it be taking her…but to its master…to the Lost One?
Andaris’ dream had warned them that the Lost One was planning to use her against her father, perhaps as a bargaining chip, or worse, as an example of what would happen to Rogar if the king did not surrender. In either case, she knew her father well enough to know that he would not negotiate with the enemy, not even to save her life. But she also knew that her death, especially considering the way in which she would likely be killed, would break his heart. And his heart had been broken too many times already.
Trilla suspected that her father would have preferred a son, a strong male heir to whom he could pass his crown. Before Trilla was born, her mother,
Abigail, had suffered through a total of five miscarriages—two boys and three girls. Her doctors had told her that she was putting her life in danger, and that the danger would only increase with age, but she had not listened.
A couple of months after Abigail’s forty-second birthday, her doctors had given her the most crushing news of all. “The change is coming,” they told her. “It’s a decade early, yet there is no doubt. All the signs are here. When it comes, you will no longer even be able to conceive, much less carry a child to full term.”
Becoming desperate, she and Laris disregarded the growing risk to her health and tried once more. That year a miracle occurred. Abigail gave birth to a beautiful baby girl, who they named Trilla, after the king’s grandmother. She was just what they wanted—and needed, filling their hearts with a quiet joy unlike anything they had known, reaffirming their love for each other, and giving their lives new meaning. She was, indeed, a miracle.
Years later, however, something happened that was even more miraculous. By the time Trilla was a precocious five, Abigail had once again become large with child. She had not meant to get pregnant again. In fact, because of what her doctors had told her, she had not thought it even possible. She was supposed to be barren. She had gone through the change. She no longer even had a monthly cycle, and yet the swelling of her belly and breasts could not be denied—she was with child.
“It is a gift from Rodan,” her doctors had told her. “Another miracle!”
And so it had seemed at first, as the months passed, as she grew closer and closer to her due date. She was healthy. The baby was healthy. Perhaps it was a gift from Rodan. Perhaps she could finally give Laris that son he so deserved.
The Eight Walls of Rogar: An Epic Fantasy Adventure Series! (The Lost Kingdoms of Laotswend Trilogy--Book One) Page 13
