“Yes, sir!” they cried, and as one drew their swords.
Chain mail clad soldiers wielding long spears stood behind the shield wall. “Pikemen!” their commander called, “make ready to shore up the gaps!”
They clacked their heels together and yelled, “Yes, sir!”
Three tiers of steps, each with the breadth to accommodate many scores of men, ran along the back of the wall. “Archers! Nock arrows!” their commander shouted.
“Yes, sir!” they cried.
The men positioned between the archers and pikemen represented the bulk of Rogar’s military force—the common soldier, the active reservist—a hodgepodge collection of men wielding everything from clubs to long swords, clad in everything from leather shirts to plated mail.
Each wall had, situated above and behind the archer’s steps, eight cannon. The cannon sat atop round platforms within dome frameworks, protected by thick metal plates to the front. Using a series of wheels and levers, the domes could be pivoted ninety degrees to the left or to the right, be lowered to the top of the wall, or raised ten feet above it. At the moment, they were as high as they could go. The armored plating had numbered slash marks beside the firing slots and floors, enabling the domes and the barrels of the cannon to be adjusted with complete accuracy.
The cannoneer’s commanding officer had detailed topographical maps of the area in front of each wall. These maps had horizontal and vertical lines on them that coincided with both the distance marks on the cliffs and the slash marks in the domes. If an enemy were spotted on the field, the cannoneer’s commander would refer to the proper map, estimate the enemy’s vertical and horizontal location, then refer to the firing key at the bottom of the map, which in turn would give him the coordinates for each of the eight cannon. The domes were relative newcomers to the walls, considered an engineering marvel to some, an overly complicated, not-yet-battle-tested eyesore to others. Time would decide which.
“I know you will make me proud!” the king shouted. “We will be true to our blood! And to Rogar!” The shield wall struck the hilts of their swords against their shields. The pikemen pounded the brass butts of their spears against the flagstones.
“Rogar!” he yelled.
“Rogar!” they answered.
The shapeling drums stopped beating and, from the curtain of mist, six lumbering shapes emerged, six hulking monstrosities. These had to be the creatures Kindere had described, the ones they had prayed didn’t actually exist. The beasts walked forward on all fours, looking to weigh several thousand pounds. From the bottom of their tear-shaped hoofs to the tips of their curved horns, they were more than twenty feet tall. Coarse black quills stuck out from their legs like swords, providing a formidable defense against attack. Above their legs they were hairless; but their skin was thick as tree bark, black as pitch, and crisscrossed by deep cracks. Atop their backs they wore wide saddles with high side rails—each with a ladder rising from its center, and each teeming with shapelings.
What seconds before had been a controlled march now broke into an all out charge. The four monstrosities lowered their heads, released a guttural roar, and galloped forward, hooves like thunder against the ground. Shapelings of every variety ran behind them, screeching and howling with mad delight. At that moment most men would have struggled to even speak. King Laris, however, with a voice that was strong and clear, broke into song.
“Motherland of mountains high,
For you we’ll fight, for you we’ll die,
Land of dreams and open sky,
Where our fathers bled and our mothers cried,”
One by one, other voices joined with his, until soon every soldier on the wall was singing, the might of their voices filling the air and swelling their hearts.
“Rogar, Rogar, we stand as one,
Through dreaded storm and gracious sun,
Your borders we shall never flee,
We’ll always strive, for victory,”
The cannon fired again and again, their shots whistling through the air, ripping into the shapeling ranks with grisly results. Darts of death rained from above as the archers sent wave after wave of white-shafted arrows arcing into the sky. Many of the misshapen creatures fell, trampled under by their brethren. But this only excited the rest, making them run even faster, the carnage working them into a frenzy. It reminded Laris of ants swarming atop a mound, of controlled chaos about to erupt. The singing grew louder as the horde grew near.
“Rogar, Rogar, you’re in our prayers,
God and kingdom, always there,
High and low, near and far,
To the end we’ll go, to the farthest star.”
Elkar raised Minorian above his head and, in a commanding voice shouted, “Enderith! Artane! Onicune! Lenolay!” The gems lit and cast forth rays of rainbow light, wrapping around one another, forming into a single beam of colorless energy. Elkar’s face twisted as the beam shot west. By the time it was halfway to the barrier, the ground and air began to vibrate. When the beam hit the mist, there was a bright flash and a deafening, “crack!” The rays of the beam unraveled at its end, spreading out like feelers, arcing and zapping off the surface of the curtain.
Elkar’s face became translucent, skull showing white beneath his skin. “Findell! Gandorin! Marlanie!” he shouted. With a sudden whoosh of air, every shapeling in sight was knocked flat. The earth quaked, and half of the creatures burst into flames. The other half stood back up and kept running, including three of the six monstrosities.
After Minorian’s gems went dark, Elkar lowered his arms and, as though in a trance, turned to the king.
Laris’ took a step back, for Elkar’s hair had gone white, and his skin had become slack with wrinkles. “What’s happened to you?” asked the King.
“I cannot use it again,” Elkar wheezed, leaning on Minorian with all his weight. “It…it was never meant for me.” Without another word, his eyelids fluttered shut and he collapsed. He had wiped out thousands, and already, as the sea of flesh rolled closer, it became impossible to tell.
When the shapelings were within range, Laris yelled, “Now!” and twenty-five flash bombs were hurled to the ground. Upon impact, the bombs sent metal shards hurtling in every direction, shredding flesh and cracking bone. But it wasn’t nearly enough. “Hold on!” cried the king.
With a horrendous crash, the three monstrosities collided with the wall. A deep shudder went through the stone. Many of the Rogarians lost their footing and fell. Laris grabbed onto a section of the battlements and, taking his own advice, held on for dear life.
When the shaking finally stopped, those who had fallen stood up and looked around at each other with expressions of awe. The wall had held, but for a moment had seemed on the verge of crumbling to dust. With all their careful preparation, this was something they hadn’t even considered. Rogarians were taught to think of the Eight Walls as eternal, as permanent as the mountains into which they were built. Could it be they were wrong?
Parting Ways
Gaven and Andaris had not asked for the prince’s permission to leave. They had sworn no fealty to him or to Sokerra, which meant they could come and go as they pleased, or at least that’s how they saw it. They had, however, to avoid causing any undue concern, asked one of the Sokerran soldiers to relay a message for them.
“Tell his Highness we’ll catch up as soon as we can,” Gaven had said, “by tomorrow at the latest. And tell the princess not to worry. We’ll find her.” Of course telling Trilla not to worry was like telling a fish not to swim, or a bird not to fly. She would worry all right, as much for Jade as for them. It was just her way.
Gaven and Andaris searched until the pines cast long shadows across their path and the sun slipped behind the mountains. In that time, they saw no sign of Jade’s paw prints in the snow, either on or beside the road. But they did not lose heart, sure that on the morrow, lost somewhere amidst the jumble of hoof marks, they would pick up her trail.
The road stretched
endlessly before them, lonely and enigmatic, beckoning to them with sweet visions of reunion. Gaven had the feeling that if he stared at the hoof marks long enough, a hidden message would be revealed—anything from bleak prophesy predicting the end of days, to a recipe for the cooking of one’s goose. As darkness settled fully across the land, they set up their one-man tents and awaited the dawn, sleeping fitfully through the night, minds and hearts ill at ease.
When morning came, they packed their things, ate a cold breakfast of salted pork and dried apricots, and continued on. They planned to keep riding east until midday, then, regardless of what they did or did not find, turn around and catch up to the others. As distressed as they were about Jade’s disappearance, she was not their only concern. They had Trilla’s safety and Rogar to think about, as well.
Shortly after breakfast, the wind began to pick up strength, howling out of the west with a mournful quality that raised the hair on the back of Andaris’ neck. Sounds almost human, he thought. The sky in that direction went from gray to black, lit, with increasing regularity, by bright flashes of light.
Gaven held up his hand, reigned in his horse, and turned around to have a better look. The big man sat there for a long while, watching the lightning with a troubled expression, listening to the distant rumble of thunder with his head cocked to the side.
“Rogar must be getting pounded,” he said. “I just hope that’s thunder and not cannon fire.” He took a deep breath and turned to Andaris. “Either way, I don’t like it. It looks…unnatural somehow. Too flamboyant—like it’s showing off. And, judging by this wind, it’s moving fast.” Gaven shook his head. “I don’t know, Andaris, I think maybe we should turn back. I’ve learned to trust my instincts, and right now they’re screaming at me. There’s something not right here.” As if to illustrate this statement, a particularly strong gust of wind blew past, making the limbs of the trees creak, and the horses snort and stamp their feet.
Andaris shivered and looked down the road to the east, hoping to catch a lucky glimpse of Jade. It seemed wrong to stop the search so soon. She could be just around the next bend, he thought.
“We need to go,” Gaven urged.
As much as it pained him, Andaris knew his friend was right. There was something wrong here. He could feel it, sitting like a stone at the bottom of his stomach. “Okay,” he said with a heavy sigh, “let’s go. But when the weather clears, I’m coming back.”
Unfortunately, before they made it past the place where the road was out, it began to snow. At first there were only a few flurries dancing high on the wind, then all at once the sky opened and they found themselves caught smack in the middle of a blizzard.
“We can’t cross in this!” Gaven yelled, voice broken and muffled by the wind. “We’ll have to find shelter and wait it out!”
“What about our tents?” Andaris shouted.
“No. I don’t think they’ll hold up. This is just the beginning. It’s going to get worse.”
“Then where?”
“I saw a spot that might be a cave. It’s not far! Come on!”
After that the world went white, swirling around them as though directed by a conscious will. Andaris could no longer see the edge of the road, nor the yawning chasm below, but knew they were there, perhaps only a foot or two away...waiting. He leaned forward, trying to make himself less of a target for the wind, which at the moment was biting through his clothes with icy teeth. Hope Jade isn’t caught in this, he thought. Thinking of her being hurt and alone was bad enough—thinking of her being hurt and alone in a snowstorm was too much to bear.
Gaven shouted something back through the maelstrom, came to a halt, and pointed.
Andaris brought Del up beside him. “What?” he asked.
“I think it was there!” he said, gesturing towards the side of the mountain.
Andaris didn’t see anything, but nodded anyway.
Gaven dismounted and walked with labored steps through the snow bank, the top of which came just past his knees.
Please, Andaris thought, let it be there.
And then Gaven was gone, lost behind a shifting wall of white. Andaris sat there for several minutes, watching and waiting, trying to be patient. Del heaved a sigh, shifted his weight, and began chewing noisily on his bit. Andaris leaned down and patted the side of his neck. “I know, I’m cold too,” he said. “But don’t worry. He’ll be back soon.” I hope, he thought.
***
Years ago, one sunny summer afternoon, Andaris and his older brother, Blakeland, went swimming in the pond behind their house. After diving in, Blakeland got his ankle tangled in some brush and didn’t come back up for over two minutes. Andaris, who was only six at the time, and not a very accomplished swimmer, stood alone at the edge of the pond, peering into its murky depths with mounting alarm, too afraid to go in after his brother, too afraid of what might be lurking beneath that still water. Blakeland could have died that day, and Andaris had just stood there, paralyzed by fear.
***
Can’t wait any longer, he thought. “I’m going to go have a look,” he told Del. “You stay here. I’ll be right back.” That said, he dismounted, made sure both pant legs were outside his boots, and began following Gaven’s wide trail.
After taking only a couple of steps, he spotted the big man trudging back his way, so he turned around and, with a dramatic flailing of arms, slipped and fell face first into the snow. Feeling foolish, he stood up, clung to Del, and began brushing off the front of his clothes. Del stared at him with a questioning look in his eye and, with what sounded suspiciously like laughter, whinnied.
“Yes, yes,” Andaris said as he climbed into the saddle. “I’m sure I looked quite ridiculous. But then who are you to judge? Getting around on two legs is trickier than you might imagine.”
When Gaven returned, he peered at Andaris with a mixture of doubt and disappointment in his eyes, shook his head and, as though it pained him to meet his gaze any longer, looked away. His defeated expression said it all. He hadn’t found the cave. Once back on his horse, he snapped the reigns and shouted, “Yah!”
A hundred yards or so later, he came to a stop, dismounted, and once again went trudging through the snow—and once again returned shaking his head. “I know it’s around here somewhere,” he yelled. “I just can’t find it.”
Three more times he tried, his defeated expression becoming more pronounced on each occasion. The fourth time, however, he came back with a broad smile on his face. “It’s over there,” he shouted, “but the opening’s not big enough for the horses. They’ll have to fend for themselves. Take your saddlebags and follow me in.”
Andaris dismounted, slung his saddlebags over his shoulder, started to follow, then stopped and turned around. What about Del? he thought. They’d been through a lot together, and now he was just going to leave him here—abandon him to the storm.
He reached out and stroked Del’s mane. “Sorry,” he said, “but there’s no other way.” Del stared at him with a look of complete trust, which, of course, made Andaris feel despicable. “You have no idea what’s about to happen, do you boy?” Del rubbed his nose up and down against Andaris’ chest, and then began nibbling at the back of his hand. Andaris pulled a sack of dried apricots from his saddlebags, took one out, placed it on his open palm, and watched with satisfaction as Del gobbled it up. By the time he put the sack away, half of the apricots were gone.
What Andaris did next was not the wisest thing he’d ever done, but it certainly did make him feel better. With a chivalrous expression befitting a knight from a fairy tale, he unclasped his cloak and laid it over Del’s back. “Th…there,” he said with a shiver, “that should help. Now go. Ride east. Back to Tinar. Go find blue skies and warm breezes. Go find Puck, your old stable master.”
Del just stared at him, looking as unconcerned as ever, so Andaris slapped him hard on the rump and yelled, “Go!” This startled Del so much that he took off down the road as though shot from a cannon. Ga
ven’s horse reared up and sped after him. Andaris watched until they were out of sight, and then, feeling some better and much colder, hurried after Gaven.
By the time he caught up to him, the big man was bent over a small opening in the side of the mountain, furiously digging out the snow. When the opening was large enough, he returned the shovel to his pack and crawled inside. Andaris waited a moment and went in after him, into a long tunnel not much wider than Gaven’s shoulders. They crawled until the wind was nothing more than a muffled howling, until it was almost too dark to see.
“This is far enough,” Gaven said with a groan. “The deeper we go the harder it will be to get out, and I don’t think there’s room for me to turn around in here. How ‘bout you?”
“I think I could manage it if I had to,” Andaris told him. “I’ve always been pretty flexible. That’s one of the advantages of not having much muscle.”
Before Gaven could respond, there came a great rumbling from outside the opening. Dust fell from the ceiling, making them cough. The tunnel shook as if on the verge of collapse, the entire mountain seeming ready to give way.
“Avalanche!” Gaven yelled.
Andaris squeezed shut his eyes and covered his head. A minute or so after the rumbling ceased, he opened them again, surprised to be alive and unharmed. What little light they’d had was now gone. It was as black as the Lost One’s heart, and just as still. The mountain pressed in from all sides. The avalanche had completely blocked the entrance, sealing them inside, burying them alive beneath countless tons of rock and snow.
***
The storm had come upon the Sokerrans suddenly, right around dawn, dropping several inches of snow in a matter of minutes. They’d worked fast to secure their camp, spending the past couple of hours bundled in their tents. The worst appeared to be over. Soon they would dig out, pack up, and be on their way, but not yet, not until they were sure it wasn’t just another lull.
The Eight Walls of Rogar: An Epic Fantasy Adventure Series! (The Lost Kingdoms of Laotswend Trilogy--Book One) Page 26
