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

by Woodward, William

  Turning from the mirror, Laris stepped clanking over to his bedroom doors, took a deep breath and, with as much gusto as he could manage, swung them wide. His guards jumped back, then kneeled, hands on sword hilts, mouths agape. He cut quite the striking figure as he walked past—bold and impressive, swaggering down the marble hall with fire in his eyes and vengeance in his heart.

  A few minutes and several hallways later, the king stopped before a heavy oak door, its surface adorned with leaf-shaped hinges and a tarnished copper kick plate. After taking a moment to collect his thoughts, he raised his armored fist and knocked. He heard shuffling footsteps from the other side, followed by the sound of a metal bar being pulled from its slot. He lowered the visor of his helm as the door, bottom scraping across the stone floor, began to open.

  “Have to get that fixed,” Ironshield grumbled. “I thought I told you to be here at—oh…my King!” Displaying surprising agility for his age, the general dropped to his knees and bowed his head. Ironshield was, as always, immaculately groomed. He wore a dark blue long coat with ivory buttons and a heavily embroidered collar. His thick mustache and broad shoulders gave him a solid, unyielding look.

  “Stand up, man,” Laris urged.

  Ironshield regarded him with open amazement as he regained his feet. “But how did…I mean…how may I serve?” he asked.

  Laris smiled and, with a twinkle in his eyes said, “I want to, shall we say…pay a surprise visit on the troops…a surprise inspection, if you will.”

  “Is there anything wrong,” Ironshield asked. “I mean, other than the obvious?”

  “Most certainly,” the king replied. “It is very wrong that I have not talked to the men before now, to assure them that their king is ready and able to lead them into battle, ready to do whatever is necessary to guarantee victory.”

  Ironshield was speechless. Somehow, Laris had managed to rally himself for the coming war, to make his failing old body stand strong once more. Perhaps there was hope after all.

  “So,” Laris asked, “what do you think?”

  Ironshield cleared his throat before responding. “I think that Rodan is smiling on us,” he said, giving the king a spirited salute. “And I think the Lost One is going to have a fight on his hands!”

  Laris saluted back. The hair raised on the nape of Ironshield’s neck. This was a moment he would never forget.

  After getting Ironshield into his armor, the two men went clattering down the hall to the castle’s interior barracks. As they approached the entrance to the barracks, they slowed to have a word with the two cadets standing guard.

  They must have made quite the pair in their full-plated mail, for the cadet on the left, the shorter of the two, puffed out his chest and cried, “Identify yourselves. Now!”

  Laris chuckled, lifted his visor, and motioned for Ironshield to do the same.

  Recognition widened the boy’s eyes.

  “I am General Ironshield, Keeper of the Holy Flame, and the Seven Scrolls of Kolera. And this,” he continued, gesturing with flourish to the king, “is your lord and protector, King Laris IX.”

  The color drained from the young man’s face and, in unison, the cadets fell to their knees and kissed the marble floor. “For…forgive us, your Highness,” stuttered the boy. “I…we—”

  “There is nothing to forgive,” the king interrupted. “You were only doing your duty, as is proper. I haven’t worn this armor since before you were born. Why should you recognize it? Now rise, and go fetch your Captain.”

  Anxious to please, the young man sprung to his feet and dashed through the doorway.

  “Their captain is a good soldier,” Ironshield told the king. “His name is Grendan Browning. He served under me for a time, shortly before I retired from active duty and became your military advisor. He’s loyal to a fault, and tough as old boot leather. He has a nasty temper, but you’ll not find a man more patriotic.” Laris nodded, trying to remember if he’d ever met the good captain.

  They heard him before they saw him, his gravelly voice echoing from inside the barracks. “What’d they say this was about?” he asked.

  “They didn’t, sir.”

  “As if I don’t have enough to worry with already.”

  A moment later, he appeared in the doorway, gave them a shallow bow, and said, “Captain Browning at your service, my Lord.” Browning was a gruff man with deep worry lines around his eyes and mouth. His broad face scrunched when he saw the king, the worry lines becoming more pronounced. This was not the befuddled old man he’d been expecting—no, far from it. This man was strong and composed, radiating authority. As if suddenly remembering at whom he was gaping, Browning averted his eyes and, this time, bowed low.

  “I need to have a talk with the men,” Laris began. “They need to know that I am with them, ready to lead them into battle.”

  At first, Browning neither moved nor spoke. Then, with an exaggerated nod of his head, he straightened and stood at attention. “Yes, sir!” he spouted heartily. “It would mean the world to the men, and to the officers, too. I will gather them in the main square, if that pleases you.”

  Laris smiled at his enthusiasm. “That will be fine,” he assured him. “How long do you need?”

  Browning’s mouth turned down as he considered the question. “I can have them assembled by five o’clock,” he replied.

  “Then you have until four,” Laris said.

  Browning saluted. “Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!”

  Laris saluted back. “Oh, and one more thing, Captain.”

  Browning’s eyes shone with devotion. “Anything, Lord.”

  “How is morale with the coming threat? That is to say, how are the men at heart?”

  Browning paused, looking somewhat uncomfortable with the question. “They are well,” he replied carefully, “but I know they fear for their families. They have no illusions about the road ahead. That is why this will mean so much to them. With you to rally behind, they will become twice as strong.”

  “I thank you,” Laris said, “for your conviction. With help from you, and others like you, the coming siege will be our finest hour. Our efforts will ring out in story and song for generations to come.” They exchanged another heartfelt salute. Then the king turned, clacked his heels together and, in perfect step with Ironshield, marched back down the hall.

  The central square of Rogar castle was filled as never before as thousands awaited the arrival of their king. The rumors of his renewed health had spread through the populace like wildfire, the transformation being touted a miracle, a sign that they would not perish in the coming war.

  Laris stood with Ironshield and a few others, waiting anxiously for the church bells to announce the hour. It had been over a year since he had last addressed his people, and that had been only a brief speech regarding the summer solstice, nothing so dire as this. He had never been very good at writing down his thoughts, but didn’t want to come across as disingenuous by letting someone else do it for him, so had decided to forego the paperwork altogether and just speak from the heart, without polish or pretense.

  The bells rang out so abruptly they made him jump. It’s time, he thought.

  The crowd quieted, all eyes going to the empty stage. As Laris stepped from behind the curtains into the bright sunlight, he was greeted by steady, respectful applause. He saw, amongst the sea of faces, nearly as many civilians as soldiers—men, women, and children of all ages, looking to him for answers.

  They were everywhere. On the sloping lawn in front of him, sitting atop the walls, leaning from the windows—everywhere. It seemed all of Rogar had shown up for his speech. He had planned to address the civilians separately, but supposed two birds with one stone was just as well.

  Laris raised his hand, and there was instant silence. The square, in spite of its name, was a giant amphitheater, designed with the aid of magic so that all within its walls could hear whomever spoke upon the stage.

  “My people,” he began, his voice soun
ding much more impressive than it actually was, almost godlike. “I have gathered you together on this day to discuss the coming war, and to assure you that your king is ready and able to lead Rogar to victory. Proud blood flows through your veins, the blood of our ancestors, the blood of the Alderi Shune. During times of darkness, it has always seen us through…and will again. I want each of you to know that I am with you.” He drew his sword and raised it high above his head. “Onoray and I will join you in what I have no doubt will be our most triumphant hour! We will wage a war that will strike terror into the hearts of our enemies! You are Rogar’s finest, her sons and daughters, born of her soil. Together, we will do more than just delay the Lost One. We will defeat him!”

  At this, the crowd erupted with cheering, seeming to funnel all their pent emotion into it. Laris grinned as wave after wave of applause crashed over him, the thunderous force of it vibrating the stage. How glorious, he thought, pleased beyond measure by the cathartic effect it was having. It’s working! I’m reaching them. An inspired army feels no fear. A fearless army can do miracles.

  “Rogar shall not fall so long as she has steel and blood to protect her!” he shouted, getting caught up in their enthusiasm. “What we do here will be sung about! What we do here will live forever in the annals of Rogarian history!” He fanned his arm from left to right. “I see a whole sea of my countrymen standing before me, an ocean of my brothers! But what I see most clearly is a wall of steel and blood! A wall of heroes!”

  The applause, which had continued unabated, now swelled, picking up momentum, the whole becoming greater than the sum of its parts. It was surprising, especially considering the tentative mood when the speech began. When Laris had first stepped onto the stage, he’d seen far too many downcast eyes and slumped shoulders. “Will Rogar weather this storm like she’s weathered all others?” their eyes had asked. “Will our children live to have children of their own? Will the Alderi Shune heed the call and cleanse the shapeling blight from the Holy Land?”

  He had answered them with a resounding “Yes!” And now their faces were lit with passion. He had taken their fear and replaced it with courage, and for that they loved him.

  He soaked in the adulation, feeling a curious lightening of spirit, the long years of sorrow, so well tended by him, beginning to fade into distant memory. This had gone better than planned—much better. He had hoped he would reach them, but did not expect a response like this, and certainly did not expect them to, in turn, have such a pronounced effect on him. If only he could hold on to this feeling, he could accomplish anything.

  His advisors had wanted him to deliver a twenty minute long speech full of political double talk, which naturally they’d been kind enough to write for him, outlining in nauseating detail every aspect of Rogar’s military strategy. They had strongly cautioned him against going onto that stage without having something written down. But Laris had gone against their council and burned their play in his hearth.

  Clearly, he’d made the right decision. He had known basically what he wanted to say. It was much more effective to just come out and say it without sounding rehearsed—a strong, short message that got right to the point, distilling the issue down to its brass tacks.

  Look at them, he thought, chest bursting with pride. Why, if the Lost One attacked at this very moment, he’d be shocked by our zealous defense. Deciding to end on a high note, Laris sheathed Onoray, gave a final wave and, feeling nearly as invincible as they thought him to be, slipped back through the curtains.

  “Well,” the king asked Ironshield, “how did I do?”

  The general averted his glassy eyes. “You are my King,” he replied humbly, “and I am your servant.”

  From the other side of the curtain, thousands of fervent voices rose as one, “Rogar! Rogar! Rogar!” He had done it. He had inspired them. Now they would battle with their hearts as well as their swords, and maybe, if they were very lucky, help would reach them in time.

  An Ill Omen

  That evening around the fire, Gaven and Andaris danced with their swords until their bodies were spent. Their schedule no longer allowed them the luxury of practicing in the mornings. If they wanted to train, this, the brief period between supper and sleep, was their only recourse—while other people were sitting and talking after a long day’s ride. It was either now, or not at all.

  Most of the Sokerrans looked on with appreciation, admiring their tenacious spirit. A few, of course, peered at them with contempt, no doubt believing Andaris and Gaven were showing off, flaunting their stamina for all to see, their superior Rogarian ancestry. Can’t please everyone, Andaris thought. Some people can find fault in a room full of gold. “There’s always a sour egg or two in the basket,” his grandmother often said, “and no matter what ya do, how well you season 'em, they won’t be fit for company.”

  Trilla watched them practice from the front of the main tent at the center of camp. This time, however, she did not snicker. This time, her eyes held respect. She’d first seen Andaris with his shirt off the night he’d stumbled into their camp, carrying Jade. After all they’d been through since, it seemed a lifetime ago. Beneath his blood soaked shirt and scaled armor, his body had been soft and pale. But now his newly defined muscles glistened in the firelight. She felt a tingle down her spine as she remembered how she’d felt the morning they’d kissed. Her heart had been beating so fast, and every hair on her body had been standing on end. Have to stop having these thoughts, she told herself. I’m a married woman now.

  “Trilla,” the prince called from inside the tent, “are you coming to bed, my dear?” She sighed and stood. “Coming,” she answered.

  Gaven grunted, spun, and slapped the flat of his blade across his friend’s bare back.

  “Hey!” Andaris exclaimed, “that’s gonna leave a bruise.”

  “An enemy would leave more than that,” Gaven panted. “Besides, I had to do something. You were wearing me out!” The big man wiped his face on his shirtsleeve. “You’re getting better,” he praised. “A couple of times you nearly got past me.”

  “Luck,” Andaris assured him, lips parting in a quirky smile.

  Gaven shook his head, suddenly serious. “No. Luck is for children and fools. A man makes his own luck.”

  Smile buckling beneath the weight of reason, Andaris nodded.

  “Now why don’t you go get some sleep,” Gaven suggested in a more diplomatic tone. “Something tells me tomorrow’s going to be another long day.”

  Sheathing his sword, Andaris walked to the fire and laid out his bedroll. Just as he was drifting off, Jade scampered over and plopped down beside him.

  ***

  Andaris dreamt of a spunky young girl who bore a striking resemblance to the waitress from the Loyal Subject. She had curly red hair, flashing green eyes, and a face full of freckles. He had never seen this girl before, yet knew he knew her from somewhere. It was disconcerting, so he turned around and walked away…only to realize, with growing uneasiness, that she was following. No matter how fast or how far he went, she was always there, right behind him.

  Who are you? he demanded, spinning around.

  Her lips moved, but no words came out. Looking frustrated, she opened her mouth and pointed to the red stump wagging within.

  ***

  Andaris jerked awake. Jade snored softly beside him, front paws twitching as though she dreamt of running. He shook his head at the idiosyncratic turnings of his mind, then turned over and went back to sleep.

  The day after, as Gaven had predicted, proved long and arduous, as did the days to follow. They marched hard from dawn till dusk, ate hurried meals of flatbread and salted meat, falling into lonely bedrolls at night, exhausted, only to begin the process over the next morning.

  Difficult as it was, things were going surprisingly well—for the most part anyway. At one point, while traversing some rocky terrain, one of the supply wagons lost a wheel, but no one was injured and the repairs took less than an hour to complete. If that
were the only bump in the road, so to speak, between here and Rogar, they’d count themselves very lucky.

  The nearer they came to Rogar, the more time Trilla spent alone in her carriage. Andaris supposed she was having trouble adjusting to all that had happened. He couldn’t really blame her. He felt much the same. If only he could talk with her, he knew he could make everything all right. The trouble was, she was never truly alone. Escorts followed her wherever she went, walking beside her carriage during the day, standing guard outside her tent at night. All Andaris could do was watch and wait.

  On their fourth day out, the landscape began to change, flat grasslands gradually giving way to rising hills, their gentle slopes spotted with oak and pine. Rolling into the distance, these hills became progressively steeper, until eventually they turned into the Onarri Mountains, a sweeping range of majestic peaks looming large on the horizon. Unlike their balding neighbors to the east, the Onarris wore a full beard of evergreens—ancient, red barked giants that creaked in the wind, a deep forest of mist-shrouded trunks and drooping, moss-laden limbs.

  Andaris was struck by how familiar it seemed, the mountains, the forest, the sea of grass. It all reminded him of home. Home, he thought. He’d been so preoccupied with simply staying alive that he hadn’t had much time to reflect.

  Now, however, the memories came flooding in on him, making him yearn for that which he had always taken for granted. He had not realized just how important his family was to him. What of his mother and father? Were they well? What must they be thinking? Did they believe him dead? He pictured his mother sitting in her high-backed rocking chair, staring at the front door, waiting for him to walk through it, her kind face drawn with worry.

  If only I could get back, he thought. He had been certain that adventure would cure all his ills—the intoxicating pull of distant lands, the promise of a new life full of wondrous things. It had been such a romantic notion…. But now he saw what a fool he’d been. He had wasted so much time being unhappy, while all along he’d had everything he’d needed right there in front of him. If he had just opened his eyes, he would have seen it. One day I’ll return, he promised himself, no matter how long it takes.