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

by Woodward, William

The Journal

  Ironshield sat erect in his high-backed mahogany chair, quill poised above the page, gathering his thoughts. After a moment, he began to write.

  It is the year of the Bull, the forty-third day of the seventh cycle of Argonis, and I have dire news to record. Last night, despite all our efforts, we lost the fourth wall. No enemy in history has pierced so deep. It was a fierce contest, one in which thousands of shapelings died, but in the end, regardless of their losses, they overwhelmed us. They cannot use their ladder beasts—monstrosities as the men call them—between the walls. At first we were heartened by this, until we saw what little difference it made. The shapelings just raised their ladders atop the backs of their dead and kept coming—wave after wave of them, until we had no choice but to fall back. If this keeps on, soon there will be nowhere left to fall back to.

  The Lost One apparently has enough troops to keep the attack raging day and night. I honestly don’t know how much longer we can hold. We were not prepared for an assault of this magnitude. Though in truth, even if we’d had a year to fortify our defenses, I don’t know that it would have been enough. No matter how entrenched, the sheer size of this army would have eventually worn us down. There are just too many of them. I find myself surrounded by bleary eyes and ashen faces. No one speaks of defeat, but it is on the tip of every tongue.

  The lines have grown so thin that I have been forced to draw from the civilian reserves. I never thought I would see the day when farmers and tradesmen were fighting alongside soldiers. But thank Rodan for their courage, for without them we surely would have fallen to ruin by now. It is a dark evil that besieges us. I have seen so many twisted mutations. It’s as though all of the creatures in the world have been thrown into a giant cook pot. It’s obscene. Yesterday, I saw a shapeling with the heavy, square head of a lamari, and the gangly body of a kaizon. The thing looked so ridiculous that it nearly made me laugh—that is until I saw it slaughter ten of my men. Something has to change. We cannot keep on like this. I keep thinking things would be different if King Laris were here, the men draw so much strength from him; but he was wounded in a heroic stand defending the first wall, and is now fighting his own battle against fever and infection.

  Ironshield stopped writing, remembering what Doctor Terrell had told him two days earlier. “Between the sedatives and his injuries,” Terrell had said, “he shouldn’t even be awake, much less sitting up in bed trying to put on his armor.” Ironshield sighed and, as a deep weariness washed over him, dipped the tip of the quill into the ink jar and again began to write.

  If things keep on as they are, Rogar and the Alderi Shune will be no more. Our women, children, and elderly are fleeing east. We fight for them now, to guard their escape. Every hour we hold the line gives them another hour to reach Sokerra. That’s what keeps us going, thinking of those children—of that long trail of refugees trying to cross the Onnari’s. Because of them, we will fight to the last man.

  Most of the soldiers on this wall are married, and many are newly married. When I think of all those children having to grow up without a father, it breaks my heart. And more die every day. We have lost so many of our young men, men with pregnant wives, men who should have their whole lives ahead of them. I would weep for them if I could, but I find myself strangely bereft of tears. I feel only hatred and rage for those who have caused this. It frightens me, for I can feel that a part of me has died. I can see it in the eyes of those around me as well—cold, emotionless eyes, even above the beardless cheeks of those in their teens. It isn’t right that they should be deprived of their youth, and because of that, above all else, I intend to make these shapelings pay.

  I have dispatched two more scouts. I don’t expect them to return, but still, I must try. This may be my final journal entry. If it is, and if Rogar has fallen, then I pray we at least were able to make a difference. Please, do not forget us. The men, women, and children who fought here were brave and true to the end. Remember for them all.

  May Rodan bless and protect you,

  General Donoven Ironshield,

  Acting Commander of the Alderi Shune

  The Skeleton

  Andaris stared at the doorway. “So, what now?” he asked.

  Gaven shrugged. “I don’t really know. Just because I’m from here doesn’t mean I know my way around.”

  “I didn’t like the sound of those burrowing creatures,” said Andaris with a sigh. “I say we get moving, even if it’s in the wrong direction.”

  Gaven nodded. “Agreed. Hopefully, if we keep our scales out, they won’t bother us. If they do….” He reached back and touched the hilt of his sword. “We’ll see how well they burrow with a belly full of steel.”

  Andaris stepped in front of the big man and went through the doorway…then immediately came to a stop. Before them stretched a wide, dusty hall that hadn’t seen human feet for a very long time, perhaps since it’s construction. The light of their scales was too pale to reach more than a few feet, beyond which, for all they knew, lurked a whole host of monsters, lying in wait, ready to spring from the shadows when the moment was right.

  “This must be one of the very lowest levels of the catacombs,” Gaven said, his deep voice echoing down the hall. “If not the lowest. Look at how crude these walls are. I wonder why they never finished? Suppose it could have something to do with the water.”

  “How many levels are there?” Andaris asked.

  Gaven shook his head. “Good question. But I’m afraid I don’t have an answer. I’m not sure anybody does. This part of the castle hasn’t been used for centuries.”

  Andaris raised his scale and squinted his eyes, trying to penetrate the gloom. “I just hope they didn’t seal this section off. If they did, we might be sealed in.”

  “Yeah,” Gaven said in a low voice, “I’ve been trying not to think about that. There’s something else I’ve been trying not to think about, too. What if Marla isn’t really a mermaid? What if she’s a sorceress and the mermaid thing is just a front, an illusion to ensnare unsuspecting prey? I mean, for all we know she’s that Watcher within the Stone person. Could be she’s watching us right now. Could be we’re not even in Rogar.”

  “I can’t believe that,” Andaris snapped, surprised by how protective he felt. “And I don’t think you do either. You experienced the same thing I did when she kissed you. Don’t bother denying it. I saw it in your eyes. How can your mind deny what your heart knows to be true?”

  “True?” Gaven asked. “But how can we know what’s true? Even if she really is a mermaid, how can we know what she might be capable of? I’ve heard things that would curl your toes, Andaris. Merfolk are full of trickery, especially the females. Illusion and misdirection are their stock and trade. They believe humans are their playthings, toying with their hearts and minds just for the fun of it, to fend off boredom. Are you sure that feeling you’re speaking of wasn’t put into your heart with malicious intent? Look, I’m not saying she definitely isn’t who she says she is. I’m just saying it’s possible. And even if she is who she says she is…does that make it better…or worse?”

  Andaris frowned, taking a deep breath to suppress his irritation. Why did he feel so protective? He barely knew her, and yet…. “Well, you can think what you want,” he told him, “but I choose to believe her.” The ensuing silence was punctuated by the steady clopping of their heels against the stone floor, the metronomic beat echoing down the passage to announce their coming.

  “You know,” Gaven eventually said, his voice casually prodding, “there’s a story behind these catacombs.”

  “I’m not sure I want to hear this,” Andaris replied.

  “Some say that once, long ago, criminals were sentenced to the lowest levels of this maze, to where we are now. They say they were given a loaf of bread, a skin of water, and a single candle. If they could find their way out, they were granted a full pardon.”

  “And if they couldn’t?”

  Gaven shrugged. “I suppose they j
ust wandered around down here until their candle burned out, until they finally died of thirst, or until one of those creatures got ‘em. It would be a terrible thing, dying alone in the dark like that.”

  Andaris could imagine it all too well. “So…how many made it?” he asked.

  Gaven cleared his throat. “I don’t know. I don’t even know if it’s true. When I was a boy, my mother told me that the souls of the ones who didn’t make it were doomed to walk these corridors forever. Said if you listened close enough, you could hear their wails coming up from the ground.”

  “What a charming little story, Gaven. Thanks for sharing.”

  “Don’t worry,” he replied with the beginnings of a grin, “it’s probably just a myth. I’m sure there’s nothing to be concerned about.”

  “Concerned? Who’s concerned? I’m not concerned.” But his wide eyes and anxious tone told a different tale. Not only was he concerned, he was afraid. Andaris strained to see beyond the light of the scales, searching for the slightest movement in the darkness. Foul creatures burrowing through the earth. Wayward apparitions walking down abandoned halls. Mermaids who might not be mermaids rising out of pools in lost cities. It was all getting to be too much.

  “Gaven,” Andaris said after heading down yet another featureless hall, “maybe we should start leaving some marks behind to make certain we don’t go in circles. I’m somewhat of an expert on the matter, you know.”

  Gaven came to a stop, turned around, walked back to the intersection they’d just passed, and pulled out his hunting knife. “Good idea,” he admitted. “Here, hold my scale.” Using the tip of his knife, he scratched the number one into the wall with an arrow below it, indicating the direction they were going.

  Leaving a mark at every turn, they wandered from one hall to the next, trying to stay alert, trying to keep the unending sameness of their surroundings from dulling their senses. Minutes turned into hours. Time slowed to a crawl. And then, to their great disillusionment, they came across an arrow with the number twelve above it, pointing in the opposite direction. Andaris was sure they hadn’t passed this way before, and yet they must have—there was the arrow to prove it.

  After briefly discussing their options, they backtracked to hall number thirty-two, the last hall they’d marked, and went left instead of right. They’d only taken a couple of steps down the hall, when Gaven came to an abrupt halt.

  “What now?” Andaris asked.

  Gaven pointed, but said nothing.

  Andaris rose to his tiptoes, looked over his friend’s broad shoulders, and gasped. The reason for his discomfiture was a human skeleton sitting about five feet away, back propped against the wall, legs drawn up, head turned their direction.

  Andaris struggled to find his voice. “Could that be…?” he managed. “Could it be one of those prisoners?”

  Without answering, Gaven walked forward and knelt beside the bones, calm as ever. “Look here,” he said, waving him over. Andaris admired the big man for his courage, which made him loathe his own cowardice even more than usual. He wanted to do as Gaven instructed. He tried. The trouble was, his legs seemed unwilling to cooperate. Indeed, at present, he doubted a harem of beautiful women would be enough to move him.

  “He’s got his thumb in his mouth,” Gaven reported, “like a baby…and a dagger in his guts.”

  “But where are his clothes?” Andaris asked, surprised to find himself creeping a bit closer.

  Gaven looked up. “Oh, I guess I didn’t tell you that part, did I? Supposedly, the poor bastards were sent down here naked. As far as the dagger goes, I don’t know. Maybe they gave it to them along with the candle, sort of as a final courtesy, if you catch my meaning, to use if and when the time came.”

  Andaris averted his eyes, wondering if he would ever rid his mind of the scene—the skeletal hand clenched around the ivory-hilted dagger, the blade gleaming brightly behind the ribs, the white teeth locked in a death grip on the thumb. Obviously, before the end, the man had reverted back to a childlike state, which, to Andaris, made the scene infinitely more disturbing. It would have been gruesome enough, but the tragic poignancy of a grown man, a hardened criminal at that, sucking his thumb while shoving a blade deep into his guts, elevated the scene from merely gruesome to horrific, ensuring that the skeleton would haunt not only this hallway, but also the hallways of Andaris’ mind for the rest of his life.

  Gaven reached down, pulled the dagger from between the poor fellow’s ribs, and held it up to his scale. The blade was as perfect and free of corrosion as the day it was forged. The dark, blood red ruby set into the center of the handle flashed when it caught the light.

  “I’m not sure you should do that,” Andaris said.

  “I just want to see when it was made,” Gaven assured him. “If it’s old enough, it’ll make a nice addition to my collection.”

  Andaris frowned. Something didn’t add up here. There was some discrepancy that he couldn’t quite perceive. Phantom fingers tickled the back of his brain, teasing him. It was like when you step into a familiar room and realize something is either missing or out of place. What is it? he thought. But try as he might, he couldn’t bring it to the fore.

  “There,” Gaven said, spotting the make and date etched into the base of the blade. His eyes narrowed—then widened. “This thing’s over eight hundred years old!” he exclaimed. “If we make it out of here, it’ll fetch a pretty penny, to say the least.”

  “Like, how pretty?” Andaris asked.

  Gaven smiled, looking like he’d just hooked the biggest fish in the lake. “I’m no expert,” he said. “I just collect for the fun of it, but if this is what I think it is, it could make us rich. Very few blades this old still exist, certainly very few of this quality. It’s possible this is a Grinari, a blade made using the forgotten art of spell layering. The process was said to make the metal ten times stronger, impervious to corrosion, and ever sharp.”

  Andaris finally realized what was bothering him. “Where’s the blood?” he asked. “Shouldn’t the floor and dagger be stained red?”

  Gaven’s smile slipped, his eyes darting back to the skeleton. The bones were bleached white, as though they’d spent years baking in the sun. “Could be…he’s as old as the dagger,” Gaven pointed out. “Anything could have happened in eight hundred years.”

  “I don’t know,” Andaris said. “I don’t like it. It feels wrong. I say we just…leave it behind. Walk away as if we never saw it.”

  For a moment Gaven just sat there, gawking at him. And then, for the first time since the honey water, he laughed. “Don’t you worry, my friend. I’m sure his thieving spirit won’t mind. We’re not royalty after all.” That said, the big man winked at the skeleton, slid the dagger into an empty slot on his belt, stood up, and proceeded down the hall.

  What am I so frightened of? Andaris asked himself. It’s just a skeleton. We all have one. He stared intently into its eye sockets while feeling of the bone around his own eye sockets. A shiver went down his spine. A thin layer of skin is all that separates us, he thought. I’m not afraid of you, I’m afraid of what you represent. Andaris averted his eyes from those empty sockets, from the harsh truth buried within, then turned and hurried after Gaven. What else will we find down here? he wondered.

  Call for Aid

  When the prince saw the two riders approaching, he raised his hand and reigned in his horse. “Be ready!” he yelled.

  “It’s all right,” Trilla said, relief mixing with excitement. “They’re wearing the blue and white. They’re Rogarian!”

  The prince squinted his eyes. “It could be a trick,” he warned. “I don’t want to take any chances, especially after…well you know.”

  Trilla wrapped her fingers around the handle of one of her throwing knives, face darkening with the memory.

  The two riders brought their horses to a walk as they drew near. The man on the right saluted them. “You can’t know how relieved I am to see the Sokerran flag,” he said in
a raspy voice.

  “We too are heartened to see the colors of Rogar,” the prince answered, “though I fear we need further proof of your identities before you come any closer.”

  The man frowned, ran his thumb and forefinger along the sides of his drooping moustache, reached into one of his saddlebags, and brought out a tied scroll. “I can understand your co—” Before he could finish, he began to cough.

  Trilla winced, for the cough sounded raw and painful, like it was tearing his throat to ribbons.

  When the fit passed, he held up his free hand, cleared his throat, and said, “Forgive me, I can’t seem to shake this cold. Now, as I was saying, I can appreciate your concern. During times like these, one cannot be too careful.”

  The prince nodded and cut his eyes to Lieutenant Mudan.

  Understanding the gesture, the lieutenant dismounted and walked towards the scout to retrieve the scroll.

  “It has the royal seal stamped upon it,” the man with the raspy voice explained, holding it out for him to take.

  Mudan kept his right hand on the hilt of his sword as he reached up with his left.

  “Be ready,” Palden whispered to Trilla.

  Mudan snatched the scroll, turned around, and brought it to the prince, walking with slow, measured steps, as though carrying a great weight.

  Palden leaned down, took the scroll from him and said, “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  Mudan saluted him and went back to his horse.

  The prince turned the scroll over in his hands. Frowning at its crumpled appearance, he drew a dagger from his belt, using it to break the wax seal and cut the ribbon. After returning the dagger to its sheath, he unrolled the scroll, cleared his throat, and began to read.

  “To our Sokerran neighbors,” he said, his voice swelling with sudden fervor, “this is Rogar’s final plea for help. Our lines have grown too thin. Our strength is failing. We have been under siege for close to two weeks, and are now on the verge of collapse. This foe is like nothing we have ever encountered. Without aid, we will soon fall. Our casualties number in the thousands. We estimate the shapeling’s casualties to be much higher…and yet still they come, seemingly without end. If you cannot reach us within a week of the date on this letter, then do not bother, for there will be no one left to reach. Our women and children are fleeing east. Please, do what you can for them. I implore you, fortify your borders, and gather what strength you can. The hour is late and the storm is nigh. If the kingdoms do not unite, darkness will cover the land. Against this foe we are not Rogarians, Sokerrans, Minderians, or Nelvinians—we are humans. Against this foe we are brothers, for they do not merely want our surrender. They want our extinction. Rodan bless you and keep you. King Laris Danodren IX.”