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

by Woodward, William

  The next day was filled with bustling preparation, something for which everyone was grateful. The busier they kept, the less time they had to think about what they were preparing for. The cannon were primed and loaded. The catapults and ballistae were fitted with new cord. The civilian volunteers were briefed and given old, mismatched pieces of armor. Laris was disturbed to see boys and even a few women amongst their number, but was heartened by how smoothly things were progressing. It was amazing how much could be accomplished with everyone united towards a single goal.

  Laris stood in the center of the Eighth wall as the sun crept behind the horizon, shoulder to shoulder with his men. Hands on the battlements, he gazed out over the featureless landscape to the west, towards the Great Waste, the cause of countless sleepless nights and troubled dreams.

  The banners snapped in the wind. Newly formed regiments trained at the base of the wall. All around stood his countrymen, his brothers in arms, ready to sacrifice life and limb for their kingdom. He felt a tremendous surge of pride. As king, he’d learned to live with a certain level of anonymity from those around him. In fact, he’d lived with it for so long, that he scarcely recognized the feeling of companionship swelling his chest now.

  From this point forward, he would either be on the wall or resting at its base. The attack could come at any time, in the light of day or under the cover of darkness. His sole comfort was that they were ready, at least as ready as they could be.

  Bring them, he thought. Let them break their backs against this wall and feel our steel in their bellies. He looked to his left and to his right. The men stared out as he did, with set jaws and stoic resolve. Yes, bring them.

  For twelve long hours they peered into the night, squinting their eyes for any movement in the shadows; but no alarm was raised and no arrow was fired. It was said that shapelings could see better at night than during the day, so that’s when many assumed the attack would come. Of course, for that very reason, it might not.

  The following morning was grim and cloudy, as was the disposition of the men. Laris cursed the weather, knowing full well how it could either bolster or sap an army’s morale. A bit of sunshine would have gone a long way just then, but none came. If anything, as the day progressed, the sky grew even blacker—unnaturally so, making some whisper that it was the work of the Lost One.

  A profound restlessness settled over the men. Many of the soldiers on the wall were barely old enough to be kissing girls. Some, even within the ranks of the Rogarian regulars, had seen only fifteen or sixteen summers, boys trying to make their fathers proud. Brothers stood with brothers. Fathers stood with sons. Three generations were on that wall, guarding that which was most dear to them, their homes and families, their way of life.

  Ironshield watched with admiration as Laris took to walking the wall, doling out encouragement and inspiration as naturally as other men said hello. He knew the king hadn’t slept much for days. None of them had. How long, he wondered, could someone his age endure the strain? He hoped for all their sakes the attack came soon.

  Another breathless night gave way to a steel gray dawn, and still there was no hint of the enemy. Their nerves, even with the king’s efforts, had become as taut as drawn bows. Arguments broke out as tempers flared. It was inevitable. No matter how balanced, one can stand poised on the point of a sword for only so long.

  And then they heard it, from the window of the northwest tower, a trumpet sounding clear and true. The lookout had apparently spotted something…noteworthy. The trumpet brayed again and again, and then others joined in with it, their calls filling the morning air with a sense of urgency.

  A chill shot up Laris’ back. The men were instantly alert, hands on sword hilts, eyes focused straight ahead. The king pulled his spyglass from his belt and peered through, searching the terrain as bowstrings stretched around him.

  Within the sphere of his vision, he saw a single horse and rider moving fast. No wait, he thought, there is a second man…sitting behind him. Kindere whipped his horse for more speed and thrust his hand, palm forward, into the air. On the center of his palm was a tattoo of a single eye, the ancient symbol of the scouts.

  An instant later, a surging press of grotesqueness crested over the hill into view. Creatures of every shape and size lurched after the two men, gaining on them with each stride. It was a ghastly sight; enough to make even the stoutest of hearts tremble.

  “Rodan protect us!” one man exclaimed.

  “What…are they?” asked another.

  “Glad the wife ain’t alive to see,” said a third.

  They had read about shapelings in their history books, the pages containing detailed descriptions made by those who’d actually been at the Battle of the Reckoning. These descriptions, however, were so far-fetched that most assumed they had been, to some degree or another, exaggerated. What they had expected, no one could really say, but certainly not this. To them it was a nightmare come to life, something their mothers had threatened them with to scare them into behaving. “You’d better do as I tell ya,” many a Rogarian mother had said, “else the shapelings will come and get ya!”

  Kindere peered frantically behind him, pressed his horn to his lips, which hung by a tether around his neck, and blew two short blasts followed by one long one—the universal call for help. He repeated the call, and again thrust his palm into the air, holding it up as high as it would go.

  “It’s two of ours!” Laris yelled. Going to be close, he thought. Without taking his eye from the scope, he made his decision. “Open the gate five clicks!” he cried.

  The gate, with all its ponderous weight, began to slowly grind open. When Kindere saw what was happening, his face became a mask of determination. Leaning low in the saddle, he whipped his horse repeatedly.

  Come on, damn you, the king thought. Ride!

  And then the unthinkable happened. The horse stumbled and fell, pitching the two men forward. Kindere rolled and came up running. The other man, who looked to have twisted his ankle in the fall, limped after him. Kindere glanced over his shoulder, saw that he was in trouble, and turned to go back for him.

  “I think the one with the limp is Bendolli,” Laris said. “He has red hair and a scar across his left cheek.”

  Ironshield adjusted his scope. “Yeah,” he replied, shaking his head in admiration, “I was just thinking the same thing. I told you, didn’t I? If there was a way, he’d find it. The old goat.”

  Bendolli motioned emphatically for the scout to keep going, saluted the men on the wall, then turned and drew his sword. It was the bravest, noblest thing the king had ever seen—one man standing tall before certain doom, sacrificing himself for another.

  Kindere hesitated a moment longer, shouted something to his uncle, and proceeded to run towards the gate. Bendolli slashed his sword through the air and assumed a defensive stance. Several hundred shapelings broke from the main group, which had now come to a stop, and headed straight for him. Bendolli stood perfectly still, waiting.

  What must be going through his mind? Laris thought.

  The shapelings crashed into him as if he weren’t even there. Bendolli slashed, stabbed, blocked, spun, and fell. By the time the shapelings were beyond the spot where he’d gone down, nothing recognizable of him remained. His sacrifice had gained Kindere only a couple of seconds—at the most.

  Now close enough that the men on the wall could see the strain on his face, Kindere ran as hard as he could. He’d pushed his legs and lungs to the limit, and was now nearly spent. The swiftest of his hunters quickly closed the gap.

  Touched by his heart, the men began calling to him, urging him on. One of the older soldiers, standing only a few feet from Laris, leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. He was a solid sixty, with a steel gray beard and a shaved head, his only armor a thick leather doublet and heavy, square toed boots. His tanned face turned ashen. “Oh gods,” he rasped, “is that Kindere? Run, boy!” he cried. “Come on, son, run!”

  It was as though the s
cout could hear his father’s voice raised above the others, for just as he seemed ready to collapse he focused his eyes on the wall and sprinted forward with renewed effort.

  Laris took the scope from his eye and exchanged a worried glance with Ironshield. Very soon, they would have to close the gate. It would be a wretched blow to morale if both men died, torn limb from limb before their eyes. “Give him some cover!” Laris bellowed. He hated to risk hitting Kindere, but at this point what else could he do? At least it would be a clean death.

  “Archers!” Ironshield yelled. “Nock, draw, loose!”

  The arrows whistled through the air and stuck harmlessly into the ground, falling just wide of their target. The creature closest to the scout loped along like a bear, its spade shaped head twice as broad as a man’s, its body twisted and hideous, with extra joints that bent out at odd angles, and oily patches of fur that coiled into cruel spikes.

  “Loose!” Ironshield called again.

  This time, three arrows thudded into the creature’s chest. It swiped at the back of the scout’s legs as it went down, narrowly missing. Howling in agony, or rage, or both, it got back up, yanked the arrows out, and again lurched forward, lengthening stride upon the burnt terrain as if nothing had happened.

  “Close the gate!” Laris shouted. He could wait no longer. If the gate were wedged open, they were all dead.

  Kindere’s father fell silent as it slowly began to pull shut, holding his breath, gripping his sword hilt till his knuckles were white. The scout managed one last burst of speed. As he did, another volley of arrows took flight, most piercing the same shapeling’s chest. The scout dived forward. The shapeling dived after him. One or both of them crashed into the gate.

  Did he make it? They leaned over the battlements, but couldn’t tell. Kindere’s father turned and, with a blank expression, stepped over to the eastern edge of the wall, staring down at the tunnel opening from which, if he were still alive, his son would emerge. Several seconds passed with no sign of him, so he walked tentatively to the head of the steps.

  Just then, a thin figure stumbled from the tunnel.

  Kindere’s father froze. “My son?” he asked. But the cheers of the other soldiers drowned him out. The young man locked eyes with his father, and then crumpled to the ground.

  “Kindere!” he cried. Jarred into action by the sight of his son lying face down in the dirt, he descended the steps two at a time. When he reached him, he turned him over, checked to make certain he still lived, then picked him up and carried him to one of the cots at the base of the wall.

  Laris breathed an immense sigh of relief. He would have to congratulate the scout for his valor. Such bravery deserved to be rewarded. Rewarded and, more importantly, encouraged—for judging by what he’d just seen, they would need much more of the same if they hoped to survive. Might even pin a medal on his chest, Laris thought. But first I need to find out what happened at that outpost. Hopefully Kindere knows something we can use to our advantage.

  A piercing scream sent them scrambling back to the other side of the wall. Incredibly, the shapeling that had collided with the gate twitched and started to rise, its chest holding over a dozen arrows. They stared on in utter amazement.

  “That’s not possible,” one man near Laris said, voicing what they’d all been thinking. “It can’t be alive.”

  “Archers!” Ironshield shouted, sounding furious. “Nock, draw….”

  But thankfully, just before the arrows were loosed, the shapeling gave a tremendous shudder and collapsed. Laris prayed they were not all so hardy. If they were, no amount of valor could save Rogar from destruction.

  Two of the shapelings came forward as the others withdrew to a safe distance.

  “What’s the order?” Ironshield asked.

  “Let’s wait and see what they do,” replied Laris. “We need to learn as much about them as we can.”

  The first of the two was a short, shaggy thing that resembled a black-tusked boar; only it walked like a man and carried a sword. The other was tall and skinny, with the elongated head of a serpent and the voluptuous body of a human female, shiny blue scales turning to skin just beneath its collarbone, forming a half circle above each perfectly-shaped breast.

  The contrast was startling to say the least, beauty and beast hideously merged into a single living creature. Laris found it exceedingly offensive, and wondered by what dark sorcery such a perversion of nature had been created.

  The two shapelings stared up at them with open defiance, as if daring them to shoot. The short, shaggy creature made eye contact with Laris, then leaned down and sniffed its fallen comrade. Deciding it was, in fact, dead; it straightened up, said something to the snake woman in a series of sharp, guttural grunts, and pointed west.

  Turning their backs on the Rogarians, the two ran towards the horizon to re-join their brethren, towards the dark, looming mass of the Lost One’s army, rank after rank of which was now fanning out before a shimmering silver curtain. Laris doubted they retreated out of fear. From what he’d seen, fear was an emotion with which they were not familiar.

  His men, however, were another story. At least a quarter of his army, not including the decoy force, was comprised of reserves, farmers and tradesmen who had served a short stint in the military when they were young. They were a sturdy lot, to be sure, but they were not career soldiers, and now they were being faced with something out of their darkest dreams.

  Concentric Circles

  The narrow, twisting road through the Onarris was proving more difficult than anticipated—even for the Sokerran steeds. In places, they’d been forced to ride single file, with the craggy face of the mountain to their left and the road’s edge to their right. They had not seen the sun for two days. Since leaving Sokerra, there’d been only clouds, mist, and an incessant drizzle that had now turned to sleet.

  So far they’d been forced to abandon four supply wagons, two horses and, to Prince Palden’s further distress, Trilla’s carriage. The wheels of the carriage had been getting stuck in the snow, slipping on the ice, and coming far too close to the edge of the road—beyond which was a sheer drop into empty sky, into the mist which lay like a blanket between the peaks.

  After moving what supplies they could from the wagons to the packhorses, they went on, climbing ever higher into the frozen limbo, the thinning air working like a sedative on their minds. Palden found it unseemly for his new princess to be riding the back of a horse, but supposed it couldn’t be helped. Royal protocol wasn’t so important that he was willing to endanger her life to preserve it. Besides, with her feisty spirit, he doubted he could have kept her in that carriage much longer anyway. She was not the type to simply smile and preen while all her decisions were made for her, some timid flower of a girl who would hang on his every word without thought or argument. Indeed, he had the feeling the “T” in her name stood for trouble. But, like a moth to flame, he was helpless to resist.

  Only one road connected Rogar to the other kingdoms, only one overland trade route, and this was it. The prince was gaining a new respect for the brave souls who, year after year, carried their wares across the Onarris, risking life and limb to feed their families. Perhaps when the war was over, in the interest of rebuilding relations between the kingdoms, they could begin rebuilding this road.

  At this altitude, winter reined supreme year round, encasing the earth in silence. Andaris was thankful the army was well provisioned, for his cloak had proved woefully inadequate in the harsh environs, and the clouds looked overfull, ready at any moment to drop another layer of snow.

  Andaris peered over his shoulder, gazing at the long line of determined faces set against the cold. Something about the scene bothered him, but something other than the obvious. He felt an odd sense of detachment, as if he were outside looking in, as if he were staring at a painting on a wall instead of real life. Even Gaven appeared somehow unreal, thick stubble covered in frost beneath vacant, half closed eyes.

  Have to say
something, Andaris thought. “At this rate it’ll be a week before we reach Rogar,” he blurted, his voice sounding discordant in the still air, as out of place as he felt.

  Gaven cocked his head at him, but didn’t respond, his expression uncharacteristically tenuous. Andaris looked up at the cliff with sudden apprehension, sure he’d broken some unwritten rule by speaking, committed some dire breach that would bring the mountain tumbling down on top of them.

  Gaven cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Andaris, did you say something?”

  Andaris’ mouth turned down. Did I? he thought. He felt so dazed. Then he remembered. “Oh yes, I said at this rate it will be a week before we reach Rogar.”

  Gaven nodded, turning his eyes skyward. “And that’s if the snow holds off.”

  “Do you,” Andaris asked in a tentative voice, “feel…sort of strange?”

  Gaven pressed his chapped lips together as though the question required a great deal of thought. “I suppose so,” he admitted. “It’s so…still.”

  Andaris’ eyelids closed. From somewhere deep within, he sensed he was in danger, so he forced them back open. They felt stiff, like they’d been on the verge of freezing shut. But why? They were only closed an instant. Weren’t they? The first thing he saw as his vision cleared, was his stark white fingers clenched around the reins. Where are my gloves? he wondered. I should be wearing my gloves.

  An inch of snow covered both him and Del. It was falling all around—big white flakes drifting from the clouds like something out of a dream. So peaceful, he thought, and again his eyelids began close.