“I don’t like the looks of those clouds,” said Gaven, squinting up at the sky.
Andaris turned to his friend, grateful for the distraction.
“Looks like snow clouds if I’ve ever seen ‘em. If it starts to storm while we’re up in those mountains, things could get pretty rough.”
“Like how rough?” Andaris asked.
Gaven shot him a look. “We’d have to turn around and march to the sea, which would take at least a week.”
“The sea?” Andaris echoed.
“And from there we’d have to charter a ship around the Dragon’s Tooth, and march another week through the badlands.”
“How long if we cross?” Andaris asked, pursing his lips.
Gaven took a moment to consider. “Oh, probably only a few more days,” he said. “Rogar’s just on the other side.”
Feeling a gust of frigid air, Andaris shivered. It seemed to be getting colder by the second.
Gaven frowned. “This weather’s strange,” he said, pulling his cloak together.
“How so?” Andaris asked, not liking the ominous tone in his voice. “I know it’s cold, but— ”
“I don’t know. Everything just feels…off. Winter shouldn’t even be threatening for another month, and yet suddenly, here it is.” Gaven looked back up at the sky. “There’s something else, though. Can’t you sense it?”
Andaris shrugged, not really sure to what he was referring.
“I can smell it,” Gaven said, sniffing the air. “Something’s wrong. I mean, think about it. How long since you heard a bird chirp, or seen a squirrel, or anything else?” Noting the confusion on his friend’s face, Gaven nodded. “Exactly. You can’t remember, can you?”
“No,” Andaris admitted, becoming concerned, “I can’t. Maybe not since we left Sokerra. Maybe before. What does it mean?”
Gaven’s eyebrows drew together. “I don’t know, but it’s not good, whatever it is.”
Neither spoke for several minutes, Gaven’s words hanging in the air like prophecy, the creaking of their saddles and light jingling of their gear filling the silence.
“Even if we make it through,” Andaris finally asked, “what about our reinforcements?”
Gaven grimaced beneath heavy black stubble. “Let’s just hope the pass stays clear.”
Braced for the Attack
Rogar keep was over two hundred feet tall, set deep into the base of the Onarri Mountains. Its six towers rose even higher, slender spears stabbing skyward, tops often lost in the clouds. The castle as a whole was one of the most imposing structures in the world, dwarfed only by the mountain into which it was carved. It had been built to be defensible, and defensible it was. In front of the keep stood eight stone walls, the fabled Eight Walls of Rogar.
Spanning the width of the pass, these walls were fifty feet tall, and twenty feet thick, spaced a hundred yards apart from one another. The field between was sectioned off by deadfalls and low wooden barricades—a real killing ground.
Despite the distance, because of the slope upon which they were built, even the cannon atop the innermost wall could fire to the valley below. This, along with the steadfast effort of its defenders, is why the castle had never known defeat, not in the thousand years since its construction. No enemy had ever breached the third wall.
The Onarri Mountains stretched the length of the continent from sea to sea, separating east from west. Through those sheer, icy peaks, there was but one safe pass, and it was blocked by Rogar castle. Those living in the wet fertile lands to the east called the Rogarians the Alderi Shune, which in the ancient tongue simply meant Guardians of the East. The Alderi Shune had not been called to war since the Battle of the Reckoning, more than two hundred years ago. Since that time, as generations came and went, the fear of another war had faded, as had the purity of their already diminished bloodlines.
The Alderi Shune were descendents of the kings of old. Once, long before the Battle of the Reckoning, they had been considered gods among men, but were now mere shadows of their former selves, shadows cast from the brilliance of a bygone era. It had generally been assumed that the Lost One, if not entirely destroyed, had retreated back from whence he came, to some dark hole in the heart of the Great Waste, never to test their resolve again.
This assumption had been reinforced by more than two centuries of peace, during which time they had become so complacent that they had begun to take their preeminence for granted. No enemy would dare attack. This was Rogar, and they were the Alderi Shune.
And so, as the years passed, fewer and fewer young men joined the elite ranks of the Rogarian army, focusing instead on planting crops, building houses, and raising families. They had thought they were safe, free to finally concentrate on the business of living. They had thought wrong. While they’d grown fat off the fruits of their domestic labors, the Lost One had been raising his shapeling hordes anew, training them relentlessly for the day of his revenge—a day which would soon arrive, a day when, once again, he would reach his mighty arms across the desert and beat against their gates. History, it seemed, had finally caught up to the Alderi Shune.
It was written, in the tomes of Agaloth, that the Lost One had once been a man of unmatched faith, blessed with both wisdom and intelligence, a mage of great renown, ever walking in the light.
His faith, however, had not been enough to sustain him after the loss of his wife and daughter. An infectious disease had taken them from him, killing them within weeks of one another. With all his power and knowledge, he had been unable to stop it, for against death, the great equalizer, he had been as helpless as a child.
His grief had overwhelmed him, until something deep inside of him had snapped. He had gone mad. Denouncing Rodan, he had turned to the black arts, desperate to find a way to bring them back. But it was no use. No matter what he’d tried, no matter what demons he’d employed, he had not been able to retrieve their souls. They were beyond his reach, destined to spend eternity in the fertile lands of Kolera, beneath Rodan’s loving gaze.
From that point forward, he had become obsessed with immortality, determined to prolong his life by whatever means necessary. Until he was as powerful as a god—until he was a god. With each passing year, his heart became more twisted with evil. And as his power grew, so did his insanity, until almost nothing remained of the man he’d once been.
None of the entries in any of the forty-six tomes of Agaloth agreed on how old he was. Some said old enough to have seen the fall of one civilization and the birth of another. Others claimed he’d been one of the original architects of Rogar, helping to construct that which he would one day try to destroy. Whichever the case, one thing remained irrefutable—the darkness had seared away his humanity, turning him into that which he had most despised, a cruel beast that hated all who walked in the light. Now, not even his wife and daughter would recognize him, for truly, he was lost.
***
“They’re so young,” King Laris said with regret.
Ironshield peered across at him from his chair at the opposite end of the war table.
The other top ranking officers sat between them with straight backs and stern faces, listening. Fenton’s chair remained conspicuously empty.
“They are merely untried in war,” Ironshield replied. “A few battles and they’ll be seasoned enough.”
Laris eyed his military advisor with appreciation. What would I do without him? he wondered. “Each of you,” he said, making eye contact with his men, “has the responsibility of preparing them. I am counting on you to elevate those serving beneath you to the challenge, to fill their hearts with hope and determination.”
This was met with stoic nods and half-hearted salutes.
Laris pointed to the map carved into the tabletop. “I know the situation looks dire,” he said. “I know we are out-manned, but look at these walls. They are strong walls, guarded by strong men. No enemy has ever made it past this point.” His fingertip touched the third wall. “This castle wa
s designed so that a handful of dedicated soldiers could hold back an army. And now that is precisely what we must do. General Ironshield,” he asked, “what is our exact complement?”
“Twenty thousand swords,” Ironshield answered, “four thousand archers, and two thousand heavy horse.”
Laris glanced quickly to the map. How had they allowed themselves to become so weak? What had seemed adequate during peacetime was now almost laughable. When he spoke again, he made certain to keep his voice strong. “We’ll arm the eighth wall with as many men as it will hold, keeping the remainder of our forces in reserve on the ground. We’ll place the ballistae here, between the cannon and archers, and put the catapults here.”
“But my King,” one of the more grizzled officers asked, “begging your pardon, sir, but won’t that reveal how weak we are? If they see only the eighth wall manned, they’ll think we’re defending a house of cards, and they’ll be right.”
“That is why,” Laris said with a gleam in his eyes, “we are going to suit up a decoy force to sit atop the other seven walls.”
***
Fleeing the Lost One’s army, entire communities were abandoning their farms for the relative safety of the city. The west road into Rogar was clogged with wagons, livestock, and people. This morning, Laris had seen a long line of peasants with the haunted eyes of those who didn’t expect to see their homes again, young men carrying their grandfathers’ swords, pregnant women holding hands with their children, old men hobbling along with their canes.
It had been a painful sight, but one that he had needed to see. These were his people, coming to him for refuge. And though he might have trouble feeding and housing them all, he could not turn even one away. Many within the city walls were opening their doors and hearts to the refugees. Signs of patriotism were everywhere. Blue and white flags waved up and down the streets. Rogar’s anthem was being sung in the taverns. The daily post was full of inspirational headlines, praising the brave young soldiers who would be on the front lines to defend their kingdom:
“The Alderi Shune Rise Again!”
“A Wall of Steel and Blood!”
“Rogar Stands Firm!”
“Victory for The Faithful!”
Just about every able-bodied man who entered the city volunteered to aid in its defense. The trouble was, most of them were farmers and ranchers more accustomed to swinging a hoe than a sword, and there just wasn’t enough time to train them all.
***
“Do we have enough armor to make it believable?” Laris asked.
Ironshield nodded and, with a shrewd look in his eyes said, “And if we are short, we can have the blacksmiths fashion more helmets and breastplates. That is all the enemy will see anyway.”
“This decoy force,” Laris explained, his eyebrows rising to two snowy peaks, “will be comprised primarily of civilians.”
The officers began muttering amongst themselves. “Civilians? “On the walls?” “Unthinkable.”
Laris raised his hand. “Calm yourselves,” he said. “They will only be for show. If things go as planned, they will not have to so much as lift a sword.”
All present, except for Ironshield, regarded him with open puzzlement. Now that he had their attention, he picked up his pointer stick. “If we lose the eighth wall, we will fall back to the seventh. The fresh reserves and cannon will cover our retreat, allowing us the time we need to close the gate. There will be archers spread amongst the civilians to aid in this. The civilians will fall back to the sixth wall as the soldiers take their places. We’ll keep on like this, sleeping in shifts, the reserve force relieving the wall force, as long as is necessary. We’ll utilize every advantage, and turn disadvantage to our favor. Additional deadfalls are being dug as we speak. The battlements are being equipped with spikes that can be extended out twice as far as the old ones.”
Laris stood and thwacked his pointer stick against the table, giving a couple of the senior officers a start. “We will be ready for them!” he shouted. “If they expect us to roll over as they crush our realm to dust, they are sadly mistaken. If they want a war, we will give them a war!”
The officers stood and, with choreographed precision, saluted him. “For king and country!” they said, and to a man their eyes were shining.
“You have done it once again,” Ironshield told Laris after they filed out. “You have given them hope.”
“They cannot give to the men what they do not first possess themselves, but I have done nothing yet…except perhaps buy us some time. Time will be my judge.”
Ironshield nodded, sobered by his words.
“Anything from the scouts?” the king asked.
“I was about to brief you,” Ironshield answered. “One rode in an hour ago. The other is still out, and from what I’ve been told, probably dead.”
“And?” Laris asked.
“And,” said Ironshield, “they are closer than we thought. There wasn’t time to tell you before the meeting, and I didn’t want to surprise you with it in front of the others. The scout that returned, Onoaken Branchwood, said there is a sizeable advance force that has already made it as far as our western outpost.
“Bendolli’s post,” Laris whispered.
“As you know,” Ironshield continued, “we sent orders to Bendolli instructing him to pull his men back to the castle after evacuating the rural communities between here and there. Unfortunately, by the time this was achieved, the enemy was already marching on his position. That’s why Kindere Muldune, the other scout, didn’t return. Bendolli is his uncle, so he opted to stay and fight with him.
“How many men at that post?” the king asked.
“Almost five hundred,” Ironshield replied, “only half of whom are mounted. Seems Bendolli wasn’t willing to leave half his men behind to be slaughtered while he and the others rode to safety, not to mention the hundred or so civilians still in his care. Ironshield pulled a folded piece of paper from his coat pocket and handed it to Laris. “He has sent an urgent request for reinforcements.”
Laris unfolded the paper, shaking his head at the hastily scrawled words, his face flushing with emotion. “But there’s nothing we can do for them,” he said. “It grieves me more than I can express, but…even if we sent the entire cavalry to their rescue, and even if we reached them before they were all dead, it wouldn’t be enough. Facing the shapeling army in the open field is folly. We wouldn’t last a day against a force that size, and our defeat would only further weaken our position here.”
“That was my assessment of the situation, as well, Your Grace. I don’t see how it could be otherwise. Though I will say this. If anybody could find a way out of that spot it would be Bendolli. The man is a cunning strategist, and always struck me as being too mule-headed to die. We tried to promote him to Colonel years ago, but he turned us down flat, saying that he didn’t want to become so respectable that he no longer recognized himself in the mirror.”
Laris ran his fingers through his hair, wearier than he pretended. “What of their numbers?” he asked. “How many of those damned things are out there? The last official estimate put them at around a hundred thousand. Is that current?”
Ironshield’s eyes turned hard. “Onoaken said it was difficult to say. Said the way they moved made a count all but impossible. He spoke of a shimmering silver curtain that his spyglass could not pierce. He tried to hide it, but I could tell he was deeply disturbed by what he had seen, by the shapelings walking out in front. He said they were like insects, scurrying across the land, every shape and size—”
“I’ve heard the descriptions,” Laris cut in, “what I need is a number.”
“Kindere apparently had the best overall view, my King. He told Onoaken that he was on a sand dune overlooking a valley when he spotted them. The shapeling army reportedly advances beneath the cloak of a terrible storm—dark billowing clouds full of malice, the curtain stretching from the bottom of the clouds to the ground, wreathed in silver mist, hiding the vile beasts fro
m god and man alike. At first Kindere was no luckier than Onoaken, but then, in a flash of lightning, the army became visible. In that moment, he was able to see a multitude of silhouetted shapes swarming across the floor of the valley, heading straight for Rogar, more and more pouring in from the other side.
“How many?” Laris asked. “Stop trying to cushion it for me, dammit. Just come out and say it.”
“When Onoaken asked Kindere for a number…. Well…he told him it was like trying to count the stars.”
“I see,” snapped the king. “That’ll be all. You may go now.”
Looking askance at Laris’ pale face, Ironshield hesitated. “But there is more, your Highness. Onoaken also spoke of demons that fly through the air, and great lumbering creatures that could trample entire houses with a single foot.
“Leave me!” Laris ordered. “Brief the others and report back. We’ll discuss it at the next meeting. Now go!”
Ironshield frowned, obviously hurt, then gave him a half bow and hurried out.
Laris sat down heavily in his chair, already sorry for his harsh words. In spite of his behavior, he was very grateful to have Ironshield by his side, benefiting immeasurably from his sound judgment, strength of will, and good character. He couldn’t imagine what he’d do without him, for even though he was no longer being poisoned, and even though his dreams were again his own, he was still an old man with the weight of the realm on his shoulders.
He would have to apologize to him later. Ironshield had been right to withhold the news until after the meeting. If he’d sprung it on him in front of the others, Laris would have had a difficult time keeping up appearances. No, it wasn’t Ironshield he was angry with—it was the situation. Those men out there, they were Rogarians, his people, and he could do nothing to save them. Their deaths shall not go unpunished, he thought.
The Eight Walls of Rogar: An Epic Fantasy Adventure Series! (The Lost Kingdoms of Laotswend Trilogy--Book One) Page 23
