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

by Woodward, William

  They were going to Rogar, if she still held, to confront an ancient evil, to stem the rising tide before it swept across the land. They prayed they would prove equal to the task, asking Rodan, their benevolent creator, to make their hearts true and their pace swift, to grace them with both courage and honor during the dark days to come.

  On the second morning out, Gaven gave Andaris a metal sword to replace his wooden one. “Thanks,” Andaris said, turning the blade so it caught the light. “Hope you didn’t go to any special trouble.”

  “Bought it off the cook,” Gaven told him with a wide grin. “For next to nothing. I know it doesn’t look like much, but he swore it would hold its edge. Whoever made it chose not to leave their mark, which normally is a bad sign, yet in this case the steel seems surprisingly good. Probably was made by an individual rather than a big forge.”

  Andaris winced as he ran his thumb along its edge, finding it keen enough to draw blood. “Any sharper and I’d need a surgeon,” he said, sucking his thumb.

  Gaven struggled to keep a straight face. “I should have gotten you one before we left. I don’t know why I didn’t. Guess I was just too distracted by all that was happening.”

  “This will do fine,” Andaris insisted, holding it up and slashing it through the air. “It’s even about the right weight.”

  Del shook his head and laid his ears flat.

  “We’ll practice extra hard this week,” Gaven promised, eying his demonstration with equal concern. “Until you’re more comfortable with it.”

  Andaris nodded and buckled the sword to his belt.

  Gaven chuckled at the proud as a peacock expression on his face. “Just don’t let it go to your head,” he warned. “The moment you get cocky is the moment you die.”

  Andaris rolled his eyes, but did, after a rebellious pause, deflate his chest a bit.

  “There!” one of the officers yelled. “In the ditch! Do you see it?”

  Gaven strained to sit taller, yet still couldn’t determine what had the man so excited. Prince Palden raised his hand and ordered the column to a halt. Spurring their mounts around the others, Gaven and Andaris went to investigate. Many of the Sokerrans eyed them wistfully, no doubt wishing they could break ranks and follow.

  “I know that man,” Gaven said as they cantered up, his voice flat and unreadable.

  The prince and his officers stood around a mutilated body that they’d just finished dragging from the shoulder to the center of the road.

  Gaven dismounted and walked over to them. “His name is Belfar Dunarin,” he announced. “He was a scout major in the Rogarian infantry, a thrice decorated member of the Whitehawks…a loving husband…a good man…and a scrappy fighter. It would have taken a lot to do this to him.”

  Belfar had several black-shafted arrows in his back, and a dozen or so slashes across his well-muscled chest. The wound that had killed him, however, was a deep gash running the breadth of his belly.

  “Looks like an axe did this,” Gaven said, his face as unreadable as his voice, “and a damned big one at that.”

  “His horse was shot out from beneath him,” said the prince’s second in command, a stocky man with a narrow black line for a moustache. “It’s in the ditch over there.”

  Gaven looked to where the man was pointing, seeing the mangled, half eaten remains of a large white stallion. Starfire, he whispered, recalling that it had been the major’s favorite and fastest horse. “Looks like he was on the run,” he said, brows drawing together. “At a full gallop, judging by those hoof marks. That’s not like him. He would have stood his ground. Unless….” Realization donned on his face. “Ordered not to.” Gaven squatted and searched Belfar’s pockets. “Were there any papers found?” he asked.

  A thin, nervous young man with a ratty beard shook his head. “There were no papers,” he answered, trying to clear the anxiety from his throat. “There was nothing.”

  Gaven glared at him and nodded, obviously skeptical, suspecting the lad’s rank was bought rather than earned. When he’d finished searching Belfar’s pockets and pouches, he stood and faced the prince. “No disrespect intended, your Highness, but do you mind if I examine the area where he fell myself?”

  “I assure you,” the nervous young man protested, squaring off in front of Gaven, “there is no—”

  “Do you presume to speak for me?” snapped the prince. “Step aside, Jerid. We do not have time to coddle your precious pride. The house of Enovay, powerful as it is, holds no sway out here.”

  Jerid’s face turned livid as he swallowed what he was about to say. If his eyes had been swords, Gaven would have been dead. “Go ahead,” Jerid directed, sounding like a petulant child. “But you won’t find anything.”

  Kneeling over the spot, Gaven spent several minutes examining the ground, appearing to scrutinize every mark and blade of grass. “There were six of them,” he said as he stood back up. “Six of the shapeless ones.” His mouth turned down, as though the words tasted foul on his tongue. “I can still smell the stench of their blood…if it can be called that. Belfar gave them a real go of it—the tough old dog. I count four trails where they dragged off their dead. Against these monsters, four out of six is a damned respectable tally, especially for a man his age. It was a good death.”

  The prince rubbed the back of his neck, visibly troubled. “Did you find anything else,” he asked, “any clue as to what Belfar’s orders were?”

  Gaven shook his head. “Nothing,” he admitted. “Jerid here did a good job. The area was clean.”

  Jerid tilted his head to the side, taken off guard by the compliment. He wasn’t prepared to stop being angry altogether, but some of the fire left his eyes, and his face no longer seethed as if someone were shoving bamboo shoots beneath his nails. Now, if Jerid’s eyes were swords, the big man would merely be wounded, not dead.

  Unable to restrain herself any longer, Trilla ignored protocol and went to Gaven, putting her hand against his broad back. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I wish it wasn’t him. When I realized…well…it’s just not fair, is it?”

  Gaven nodded to her and, with a stricken expression, looked quickly away.

  Trilla took his arm and turned to the prince. “Gaven and Belfar were family,” she explained, speaking loud enough that everyone gathered round could hear. “Belfar,” she continued, “was like a father to him after his own died, taking him in and raising him as his son.”

  “He was the best man I ever knew,” Gaven said quietly. “He deserved better than this.” All present stared at the big man with new respect, even Jerid, admiring his composure in the face of such tragedy.

  “Andaris,” Gaven abruptly called, his voice husky with pent sorrow, “would you get the razor out of my saddlebags? It should be in one of the side pockets.”

  Andaris dismounted and, after rooting around a bit, brought him the bone-handled straight edge, a skin of water, and a bar of lye soap. Gaven took the razor, wetted its well-honed blade, and carefully began to shave Belfar’s head. The hair was barely knuckle length, offering little resistance.

  What’s he up to, Andaris wondered, watching the razor move back and forth in slow, somehow seductive strokes. He found the process entrancing. The steady scraping, the glint of wet steel, the silver hair being rinsed away like sin, revealing baby smooth skin beneath, baby smooth…but cold…and dead. Scrape, scrape. Rinse. Scrape, scrape. Rinse. Scrape, scrape. Rinse.

  “There it is,” Gaven said. “Look. I was right.” Above his thumb, tattooed into Belfar’s now bare scalp, was Rogar’s royal seal—the shield, the crossed swords, the crown, the hawk, and the sacred eye. Beneath the seal were several lines of blocky letters. “I suspected when I saw his hair,” Gaven explained. “He always wore it long. It was his one vanity.”

  Palden nodded. “They must have assumed he would encounter trouble. Papers can be stolen, but this…. This is…ingenious.”

  Gaven squinted at the letters, then up at Jerid. “Too small for me. How ‘b
out someone with better eyes?”

  Several of the officers smiled at the gesture.

  Jerid complied without argument, squatting next to Gaven like they were old friends. He read first to himself, chewing his lower lip, then cleared his throat and spoke aloud. “It’s not good news, he told them. It reads…urgent…siege eminent…Lost One awake…shapeling army advancing…badly outnumbered…cannot hold border…send aid or all is lost.”

  There was now no doubt. The rumors were true. Rogar was under attack. Gaven’s eyes sparked with anger. Trilla’s filled with tears. Andaris took an instinctive step towards her, and then stopped himself, remembering his place. Prince Palden, also aware of Trilla’s distress, put his arm around her. Andaris felt a rush of jealousy, but immediately condemned himself for it. How could he be so selfish? She had simply done what she had to for her home. Would he have done any less?

  “If Rogar falls,” the prince said, voice becoming impassioned, “so does Sokerra. An attack on Rogar’s soil is an attack on the sovereignty of all the kingdoms. We must reach them in time.” He paused, pursed his thin lips, and called out, “Colonel Tolvine!”

  A tall man with intelligent eyes put his right fist to his chest in salute and stepped forward. “Yes, sir, how may I serve?”

  “You and a company of your choice are to return home at best speed. Apprise the king of Rogar’s situation. Tell him we need every man he can spare, and tell him to send runners to Mindere and Nelvin. They will have to put their petty differences aside and come together to fight this common foe.” He turned to one of his retainers. “Bring me a quill and ink,” he said. “Colonel Tolvine, I will give you a memorandum to deliver to the king, outlining the situation in better detail. This is likely the greatest threat we have faced in more than two centuries. You must not fail.”

  Trilla stared at the prince with wonder as he talked, her eyes smiling with growing appreciation. This man before her was a far cry from the selfish brat she remembered. In fact, at the moment, he reminded her strongly of her father.

  “Is that understood, Colonel?”

  Tolvine saluted crisply. “Yes, my liege. It will be done.”

  “Lieutenant Mudan,” the prince yelled. “To my side!” Mudan had short gray hair and a clean-shaven jaw. Given the ardor with which he had been summoned, he walked to the prince with remarkable calm, with the sort of solemn dignity usually reserved for priests.

  “Lieutenant, send two runners to Rogar to notify them of our position and intent. Tell them to stand firm and to not lose hope. Sokerra has heard their plea for help and we are coming. We have not forgotten the debt of blood we owe our Rogarian neighbors, and the valor of the Alderi Shune. This time they will not be made to stand alone.

  Mudan’s eyes burned with pride. He held his salute longer than Tolvine, then turned with impeccable timing and marched away. The prince knew his orders would be carried out to the letter. Tolvine and Mudan were as good as they came. And that, considering the elite force to which they belonged, was saying a great deal. After Palden had finished penning the memorandum, Trilla whispered something in his ear that made his eyes smile, too.

  “It’s the least I can do, my dear,” he told her, oozing charm. Trilla nodded as he leaned in and, with a smile that managed to be impish without belittling the gravity of the situation, kissed her ever so gently on the lips. He was one of those rare people who seemed to be able to do or say anything he wanted without it being taken ill. He had an easy sort of way about him, a soothing touch, like a stream winding through sleepy hills lost in mist, or a tree creaking to and fro in a warm breeze.

  Trilla saw Andaris turn away, saw the pain on his face—the pain she’d put there. She felt terrible. The last thing she wanted was to hurt him. If only there had been some other way. Sokerra would have eventually acted, whether she had married the prince or not. The question was, would it have been in time? She had been unwilling to take that chance, and now, to save Rogar, she had sacrificed not only her future, but also her friend’s heart. If he had been conscious, she would have spoken to him before the wedding, to try and make him understand, to tell him that even though she was marrying another, she loved him.

  But he had not been conscious. He had been in a comatose state, from which some believed he would never wake. Then he’d surprised them all by showing up just before the ceremony began, looking so ridiculous with his uncombed hair and frumpy robe, so wonderfully ridiculous. Seeing him there, with his heart so full of anguish, she had nearly called the whole thing off. And now, feeling powerless to bridge the broadening gulf between them, a part of her wished she had.

  Andaris kept his head high and shoulders back as he climbed onto Del and returned to his place in line, falling into step beside Gaven. Trilla watched him go with regret, hoping she could think of some way to make amends. The prince observed her observing him, his face expressionless.

  Gaven rode beside Andaris with a set jaw and steely eyes, as if he could see all the way to Rogar. The prince raised his arm and the trumpeter signaled the column forward. The mood was grim, for their darkest hour was at hand. They were off to war.

  The Speech

  The king had spent the early hours before dawn alone in his room, polishing his armor. The suit of plated mail had hung on a rack in the corner beside his bed for the better part of two decades, unused and collecting dust. Now, however, it gleamed with past glory. He’d buffed the metal to a high luster, until each piece reflected as well as a mirror. He grinned into the breastplate. I look almost like my old self, he thought.

  Indeed, with each passing day he was growing stronger. If thing’s kept on as they were going, instead of just a figurehead behind the lines, he’d be at the fore, leading his people into glorious battle, the proud commander of the Alderi Shune, the tip of the spear from which all enemies would flee.

  But before he could become a hero, he first had to get into his armor, and at the moment that was proving to be quite a challenge. Back in the day, he’d had servants to help him. Now he remembered why. The confounded thing had more straps than a woman’s corset, straps that he had to either adjust in or out to accommodate where his body had either shrunk or grown. He’d considered summoning his guards to help, but ultimately had opted to go it alone. After all, he didn’t want to ruin the surprise.

  Following nearly an hour of grunting and cursing, he put on the plumed helm and stepped over to the full-length mirror. Hmm, not too bad, he thought. His codpiece was a bit cockeyed, but other than that he looked pretty imposing—if he did say so himself.

  The armor was shaped to make its wearer appear muscular, which, considering the somewhat less than robust condition of his body, he thought just as well. Already, he was finding the weight too much to bear…though knew, no matter how cumbersome, he would have to bear it. The armor had been in his family for nine generations, and in that time had never failed to bring victory. Just the sight of it would be an inspiration to his people, a symbol of strength behind which the Alderi Shune would unite.

  Laris pulled his sword from its ornately etched scabbard. It was called Onoray, which in the ancient tongue meant shadow—the shadow of Rodan cast from above by the eternal light of truth, all seeing, all knowing, ever burning with holy retribution in defense of the realm. Onoray had been in Laris’ family as long as the armor had, made by the same smiths, born in the same forge, meticulously crafted by the finest artisans of the time using a technique that involved folding magic into the metal of the blade.

  Magic had once been so plentiful in the world that mage guilds had been organized to both develop and control its use. Unfortunately, as the centuries passed, fewer and fewer children were born with the gift, and of those few, only a handful possessed any real power. Lacking the members necessary to sustain them, the guilds were eventually forced to disband, leaving the world vulnerable to the maniacal maneuverings of renegade magicians.

  Laris doubted that even Elkar could make a sword to match Onoray. The process was sai
d to be quite involved, requiring the talents of six or more mages. As far as he knew, there weren’t that many left in the entire kingdom. While Onoray had still been red hot from the forge, every inch of its surface had been covered with runes. In this way, the enchantments placed upon it were sealed in forever, merged irreversibly with the metal.

  Onoray would never tarnish nor need to be sharpened. It was light, unbreakable, perfectly balanced and, best of all, at least as far as Laris was concerned, gave anyone with Danodren blood a certain level of resistance to hostile magic. If a spell were being cast against him while he held the sword, the runes would glow red, and the magic locked deep within the metal would attempt to shield him. The stronger the spell, the more brightly the runes would glow.

  Laris felt a shiver up his back. There was no escaping his duty. The die was cast. What mattered now was that he carried the burden with pride and honor. No matter what the coming weeks brought, he would not betray the sacred pact he had made with his people.

  Many years ago, as the crown had been placed upon his head, he had sworn an oath to defend the sanctity of the realm with his life. To die on the battlefield upholding the values and principles that had made Rogar great was his duty, and perhaps even his destiny. He would not shirk it now just because he was old.

  Laris’ eyes sharpened. Yes, he was old, but he was no longer the doddering invalid that everyone had come to expect. I’m going to show them, he thought, that I remember what it means to be king. For the sake of his people, he was going to have to put Fenton’s betrayal behind him—for now anyway. Later, if he survived, he would decide how to reward his friend’s treachery, when the kingdom was once again safe. He straightened his spine and held up his head. In his ancestral hall, before the eyes of Rodan, he’d been named king of Rogar. It was time he started acting like it.