Unfortunately, the clouds did not do as she’d asked, and presently, from the mass of shifting darkness, there came rain. It started as nothing more than a light sprinkle, halted long enough to convince them they were in the clear, then burst from the heavens with sudden intensity. Within moments, they were cold and shivering, soaked to the bone.
Aware that Andaris’ horse had begun to fall behind, Trilla looked back to check on him. He signaled her to keep going. Again, she marveled at his spirit. Had their roles been reversed, would she be so brave?
“Tie his horse to yours,” Gaven called back.
“What?” she yelled, moving closer.
“I said, tie his horse to yours. If need be, we’ll strap him to the saddle.”
She nodded. “Hopefully that won’t—”
So abruptly that it startled her, Gaven yanked back on his reins and came to a halt. “What is it?” she asked, pulling up beside him.
Gaven pointed west as a group of indistinct figures came riding into view, emerging from behind a dark curtain of rain. At first, the horsemen appeared not to see them. Then, just as the curtain was again closing, they wheeled about and headed their way.
“Wait here,” Gaven told Trilla. “If I don’t return, you and Andaris make a run for the castle. I’ll meet you there. Good luck.”
“You too,” Trilla said, frowning as Gaven bared his steel and spurred his horse forward.
With what appeared to be a monumental effort, Andaris drew his wooden sword from its sheath, slowly, painfully, as though turning to stone. It’s happening already, Trilla thought, wrapping her fingers around one of her knives, wondering how, in their condition, they were supposed to fight off an attack. It seemed fate had frowned upon them yet again, perhaps for the last time.
Gaven cried out, “For Rogar!” and was quickly lost to them behind the curtain of rain.
They waited; tense and expectant, but heard neither clash of steel nor shout of battle. There was only the wind and rain, punctuated by the occasional crack of thunder. Long minutes passed. Trilla was about to disregard Gaven’s instructions and go investigate when they heard it—the big man’s hearty laughter. Her heart soared with relief as Gaven rode into view, an emotion which turned to joy as she realized who was following him. Instead of enemies nipping at his heels, as she’d expected, he was trailed by ten members of the Westguard, an elite division of the Sokerran cavalry.
All ten had golden beards and golden smiles above green cloaks and gleaming armor. As they came to a halt, the one in the lead, a dashing fellow in his mid-thirties, gave a crisp half bow from the saddle. “My name is Lieutenant Landrogen, my lady. I must say, it is an honor to have Rogar’s first daughter grace our land with her presence. I apologize for the unpleasant weather, but with your permission, I would be happy to escort her Highness to more hospitable environs.”
Smiling at his effortless melding of formality and flattery, Trilla put away her knives. “Your assistance is greatly appreciated, Lieutenant.”
“I am told you have a wounded man with you,” he said, looking with concern at Andaris.
“Yes, that’s right,” she answered. “He’s in desperate need of a healer. It’s okay, Andaris, they’re friends. You can put your sword away.” She could see the struggle in his eyes, his will fighting to overcome the paralysis. After several failed attempts, he finally managed to get the weapon back into its sheath.
“Is he fit to ride?” Lieutenant Landrogen asked.
Trilla could tell Andaris was burning up with fever. “That depends on how far we are from the castle,” she replied.
Landrogen looked over his right shoulder, as if expecting it to be within sight. “Shouldn’t take more than ten minutes or so,” he said. “It’s fortunate we came across you when we did. If you’d kept going the way you were, you’d have missed it altogether.”
Trilla glanced at Gaven, who just grimaced and shrugged. “So,” she asked Andaris, squeezing his arm, “what do you say? Can you ride?”
Even though he could barely keep his eyes open, and even though he could no longer feel his legs, he did not want to disappoint her, so he nodded.
Trilla smiled at him, nodded back, then turned to Landrogen. “There you have it, Lieutenant,” she said, voice swelling with pride. “Lead on!”
He saluted her and spurred his horse forward. “Yes, my lady.”
Darkness fell as they rode through the main gate, the fluttering of their cloaks and rising mist transforming them into specters born of the night. Three short horn blasts announced their arrival as they clattered to the center of the square.
Andaris sat atop his mount with muscles drawn tight—a demented statue, mouth open in a rictus of pain. Gaven and Trilla rushed to him as soon as they dismounted. Jade circled his horse, barking and jumping.
“Andaris,” Trilla asked, “can you hear me?” She patted his leg. “He’s like ice!” she exclaimed.
Gaven tried to pull the reins from Andaris’ hands, finding his fingers clenched into a fist that even his strength could not pry apart. Andaris’ eyes darted this way and that, looking panicked, like the eyes of a wild animal. Gaven sliced the reins and hoisted Andaris from Del’s back. One of the soldiers picked up Andaris’ legs, which remained stubbornly drawn into a sitting position. Andaris let out a tortured gasp and began to convulse as they carried him into the castle, eyes rolling back into his head. In order to keep him from biting off his tongue, Trilla cut the side out of one of her pouches, rolled it up, and crammed it between his teeth.
Knowing that moments could make the difference, they hustled him down the hall as fast as they could, towards the Temple of the Brothers of the Light. Beyond the walls of the castle, the storm began to pick up strength, raging with what some would later describe as malevolent fury. Lightning slashed at the sky with startling brilliance whilst thunder beat against the heavens, booming low and deep, like the mightiest of drums.
It was the sort of storm that trembled the spine and beset the mind with dark dreams, the sort that made children cry out for their mothers in the small hours of the morning, and husbands snuggle closer to their wives. To be sure, all but the most stout-hearted of folk would have trouble sleeping this night.
The Disguise
Elkar frowned as the door to his study shook again with a loud knock. “What do you want?” he demanded, ceasing to weave the summoning spell he was about to complete. “I’m very busy!”
“You are always very busy,” came the king’s authoritative reply. “But not too busy for me, I think.”
Elkar cursed under his breath and, with an aggravated wave of his hand said, “Fictor telonny.” The threads of crimson energy hanging above his desk vanished. Elkar said, “Onay,” and the glowing rune in the center of the door changed from red to blue.
Laris felt a barely perceptible vibration coming off the floor. The air around him grew heavy, pushing against him from all sides. The door wavered like a desert mirage, bulged out for a moment, resolidified, and swung open. Laris glanced down the hall to make certain no one was watching. Then, with a mischievous gleam in his eyes, ducked inside.
“Tovay,” said Elkar.
The door shut as Laris cleared some scrolls from the cushion of an old leather chair and sat down. The study was small and stuffed full with all manner of books and papers, the mountainous piles standing as monuments to Elkar’s apparent disdain for tidiness and order.
“How do you find anything in here?” Laris asked, looking around with a bemused expression.
“I often ask myself that very question,” replied Elkar. “So…to what do I owe this…unexpected pleasure?” After a protracted pause he added, “Your Majesty.”
Usually, the wizard’s lack of respect was enough to make Laris’ temper flare, but at the moment he scarcely even noticed. “I gave my guards the slip,” he said, eyes shining. “I told them I wasn’t feeling well and needed to go back to bed. As far as they know…that’s where I am still.” He lowered the ho
od of his cloak. “I used the tunnel that connects my room to the archives. It’s fortunate your study is so close, for other than a couple of curious looks, I went entirely unnoticed, and more importantly, entirely unrecognized.”
Noting Laris’ flushed face and bright eyes, Elkar’s expression turned quizzical. “The proximity of my residence to the archives, as well as your throne room and private chambers, is by design not chance. You know, my King,” he said with the beginnings of a smile, “I find it fascinating that, for someone who is supposed to be sick in bed, you look better than I’ve seen you for months.”
“Yes, it’s true,” Laris admitted, unable to hide his excitement. “That’s very perceptive of you, but then I suppose that comes with being a wizard, eh? As a matter of fact, I feel fine, more than fine, but I can’t discuss that just now. What I’m here for is a disguise.”
Elkar peered at him for several seconds before speaking, eyes fixed, as if caught on a particularly obscure line of text. “Disguised as what and for how long?” he asked.
“I wish to be a commoner, a servant in my teens. I need to be able to move freely throughout the castle without fear of discovery. As far as the duration of the spell…twenty-four hours should do, or at least will have to, considering the serious nature of the coming threat.” The perplexed expression on the wizard’s face was almost comical. In all the years he’d known him, Laris had never seen Elkar look more surprised.
“Indeed,” said the wizard, “and what’s to keep your men from breaking in your door when they think you’ve died in your sleep?”
“Aha, I see for once I am one step ahead of you, Elkar the Wise, Elkar the spinner of webs and twister of minds. In order to ward off any undue concern I plan, if you must know, to go back to my room periodically, via the tunnel, at least every few hours or so. My voice will be the same, so I can still speak to them through the door. I’ll tell them that I’m free of fever, and that all I need for a complete recovery is more rest. Doctor Terrell will undoubtedly be beside himself, but I think I can manage to stall him for a mere twenty-four-hours. I am the king, you know. What I say pretty much goes. No Elkar, oh masterful one, they may believe I’m behaving strangely, or being bull-headed, but that’s all, and I don’t think that will strike them as especially odd, do you?”
“A young man…and a servant at that,” Elkar said, twitching the fingers of his right hand.
“Well,” the king asked, “how ‘bout it?”
Elkar took a mirror from one of his desk drawers and held it up to Laris’ face.
A stranger stared at the king from the surface of the glass, an extremely attractive young man with blonde hair and blue eyes. The stranger smiled, revealing dazzling white teeth. “Why, you’ve made me quite handsome,” Laris declared.
“I do what I can,” said Elkar with false humility.
Laris handed the mirror back and stood up. “Thank you for your assistance in this matter,” he told him. “I know I can count on your silence.”
“Yes, without question my King, and if you wish to discuss the matter further, feel free to stop by.”
Laris could tell he wanted to ask why he needed the disguise, but also knew that his pride would not allow it. After all, Elkar was supposed to be omniscient. Enjoying himself immensely, the king spun about and, with a look of roguish amusement, walked to the door.
“Onay,” Elkar said, his tone taut with irritation.
Laris stepped through as the door opened, leaving the mage alone with his curiosity. For once, he would be the mysterious one. Elkar shouted, “Tovay!” and the door to the study slammed shut. Laris chuckled and started walking down the hall. A pretty young chambermaid was hurrying past on his left with an armload of laundry. He nodded and smiled. She blushed and smiled back. Ah, he thought, if only I were as young as I look.
For the past twenty-five years, the same man had brought the king his wine each and every night. That man’s name was Girard Lindolken. Girard was a quiet, unassuming sort, with average looks and average thoughts. He had no family and few friends, having spent the entirety of his adult life in service to the crown, married to his job. As far as Laris knew, Girard was, and had always been, a faithful servant. He took his job very seriously. At times, perhaps, too seriously, performing even the most menial task with the utmost dedication and professionalism. His work seemed to be the one thing in the world he cared about, the only part of his life from which he derived pleasure and pride.
All things considered, the king found it exceedingly difficult to believe that Girard had anything to do with poisoning him. Yet he knew, in the interest of leaving no stone unturned, that he shouldn’t dismiss the possibility entirely. If nothing else, it would be a good place to start, for even if Girard were as innocent as Laris thought, the culprit could be someone with whom he worked, tampering with the wine right beneath his nose.
To aid in his investigation, the king had filled out several forms for himself—his new young self—forms authenticated with his signature and royal seal. The documents gave him access to virtually every area of the castle, as well as the power to acquire whatever goods and services he might need along the way. In addition to these, folded into the square pouch on his hip, was a personal note to Girard, instructing him to take on Telven Hasseldelf as his assistant. Telven Hasseldelf was, of course, the king’s alias.
Laris grinned at what he believed to be a truly inspired plan, a grin which he still wore as he passed through the servants’ entrance into the tumultuous heart of the royal kitchen. People bustled this way and that, stirring and slicing, chopping and mixing, each with their own very important task to carry out. Dishes clanked together. Steam rattled the lids of the pots. And the smells, the delightful smells of food being cooked to perfection, joined into a kind of culinary bliss, complementing and accenting one another until Laris’ mouth began to water.
What do you know about that, he thought. I’m actually hungry. He’d been eating out of a sense of obligation for so long that he’d nearly forgotten what it felt like. Trying to ignore his sudden appetite, Laris walked amidst the clamor in search of Girard. Of all the days, they had to fix my favorite today—sautéed rosemary and garlic potatoes, winter peas, hock of lamb, sesame seed bread, and for dessert, sugarberry pastries with extra icing on top. What a waste.
“My father says everything’s going to be all right,” he overheard one plump but pretty young girl tell her coworker. They stood at a long counter, their backs to him, unaware that he had paused to listen.
The thin, flaxen-haired girl ceased to chop the carrot she held and stared at her friend with wide eyes. “I heard my papa talking last night to a member of the guard,” she confided. “He thought I was asleep, but I wasn’t.”
“What did he say?” she asked.
The girl took a deep breath. “That everything’s not going to be okay. He’s only telling Mother and I that so we won’t worry. He said we’re outnumbered a hundred to one. He said that even if we get reinforcements, we can’t hold.” Chest heaving, she looked down at the chopping block and shook her head. “I heard the fear in his voice,” she whispered. “I’ve never heard him sound like that before.”
“My father’s been saying everything’s all right, too,” the heavier girl said. “But I’ve caught him staring at me in the strangest way lately. And sometimes…there are tears in his eyes. When I ask him what’s wrong, he says he’s just tired. But he knows, doesn’t he?”
The thin girl nodded, turned around, took a step, and then froze. Her face drained of color, her stick legs wobbled, and she collapsed.
Laris went to her without thinking, kneeled beside her, brushed the hair from her eyes, and ordered her friend to go fetch some water. “Well don’t just stand there like a statue,” he shouted. “Go!”
Rather than doing as she was commanded, she glared at him obstinately, raised her eyebrows, dropped her chin, and put her hands on her hips.
“Why you insolent little--” Then he remembered. He
was no longer the king. This was going to be tougher than he thought. He cleared his throat. “Please,” he amended, glancing at the gathering crowd. “Will you please get some water?”
“Hmph, that’s better,” she said.
“What’s going on here?” demanded a commanding voice. “And who are you?”
Laris turned his head to behold one of the largest women he’d ever seen. She was positively enormous, and obviously in charge, staring down at him with a scowl that he found frightening.
“She fell,” he explained, remembering to raise his voice an octave. “I was just trying to help. My name is Telven Hasseldelf.” He pulled out his papers and began shuffling through them. “I was instructed to report to Girard for training. Ah, here it is,” he said, holding it up so she could see. “This is a note from the king himself.”
Instead of taking it from him, she just stood there, ogling him, sweat popping out amid the stubble on her upper lip. The girl at whom Laris had so forcefully barked returned carrying a basin of water. She sat down and, with a ripped section of cloth, began to dab cool water onto her friend’s forehead and cheeks. The behemoth of a woman, who was already looming over him like a mountain, leaned in even closer, snatched the paper from his hands, glowered fiercely at what it said, and thrust it back into his face.
“Everything seems to be in order,” she admitted, as though regretting it. “But I would advise you not to speak out of turn to my girls, lest you want to feel the sting of my rolling pin across your rump.” To emphasize her point, she held up the pin with one of her meaty arms.
The Eight Walls of Rogar: An Epic Fantasy Adventure Series! (The Lost Kingdoms of Laotswend Trilogy--Book One) Page 17
