“Thank you,” she said.
For a moment, Andaris just stared at her, drinking her in. “Uh, sure,” he fumbled. “I really am sorry.”
“Shhh,” she breathed, putting two fingers to his lips. “We will survive because we must. Later I will grieve, when my home is safe.” Her voice trembled as she spoke, reminding him how vulnerable she had been. She saw him remember, and started to pull away. He wanted to grab her and smother her with affection, but knew he had to respect her wishes.
She kissed him lightly on the cheek. “It isn’t the right time,” she said, slowly getting to her feet. “Perhaps one day.” With a sad smile that seemed too old for her face, she turned and walked to her tent, pausing at the entrance. “I won’t forget what you did for me,” she said as she ducked inside. “I promise.”
Andaris was left with a head full of jumbled emotions. The kiss, still fresh on his cheek, made him ache. He looked around for Jade or Gaven. Out hunting, he supposed with a sigh. Before long, as was usually the case when he was alone for any length of time, his thoughts turned to home. As much as he didn’t want to accept it, he had to admit that somehow, someway, he’d been transported into another world—whether through a portal or by some other means, it really didn’t matter. The result was the same. It had happened, and now he was here…lost, separated from everything and everyone he loved.
He had wanted to get away from things for a while, to prove himself, but this certainly wasn’t what he’d had in mind. Would he ever get back? Trilla had said Elkar could help him. Could he really? She believed he could, that much was clear. Andaris just wished he could know for certain.
At least their language is the same, he thought. Not only did it make the situation more bearable, it also supported the idea that his ancestors had, as bizarre as it seemed, originated from this world. It was puzzling though, now that he thought about it, for other than the names of things and animals that didn’t exist in his world, like the krikkens, there was no difference at all between his speech and theirs, at least none that he had thus far observed. It didn’t make sense, because even if his people had come from here, wouldn’t their language have since evolved down a somewhat divergent path? What were the odds of something like this happening? It was all so unbelievable that each morning he still half expected to wake in his own bed.
The questions swirled through his mind. Had he been transported while in the caverns? And if so, would he be able to return in the same fashion? Should he have gone back to the caverns to find out, or had he made the right decision to rely on Elkar and search for evidence of his lineage in the Rogarian archives? Could some of the more far-fetched references made in the Shallae actually be describing this world, written by his ancestors more than a millennia ago after they’d passed through one of these so-called portals, perhaps even the same one that had brought Andaris here? Was this where Mr. Krandike had disappeared to all those years ago, and if so, how did he get back?
Months before Andaris had taken that first fateful step into Fingar Forest, all he’d been able to think about was leaving, preoccupied to the point of obsession. And now, after everything that had happened, all he wanted was to find his way back. Sitting on the front porch in the summertime, his grandfather smoking his long-stemmed pipe, his mother’s smiling face at the window, his father working in the fields, the sound of the wood beetles clicking in the trees at night—it had all become much more precious to him than gold. He sighed and threw a rock at the trunk of a nearby tree. Should have never left, he thought.
Trilla stepped from her tent as Jade and Gaven walked into camp. In his right hand, Gaven held two rabbits tied to a string. In his left, a pouch full of berries. Judging, however, by the gray pallor of his face, his good fortune had done little to cheer him. None of them had been sleeping very well, especially Gaven.
Andaris called to Jade, but instead of responding with her usual enthusiasm, she turned up her nose, walked right past him and, without so much as glancing his way, lay down at Gaven’s feet. What’s wrong with her? he wondered. “Hey, girl,” he tried again. “Come here.” She pretended not to hear him. He pretended not to care.
Gaven prepared the food in a daze, eyes looking dull and troubled. When it was ready, he cut the meat into four equal portions, serving it to them with a side of mashed berries and crackers. Andaris made a few feeble attempts at conversation, each of which fell flat, before resigning himself to eating in silence. Gaven picked at his food for a while, making a show of eating for Trilla, then set the rest down for Jade to finish.
After washing the tin plates and flatware, they packed their things and left the small clearing behind, grateful to be on the move again. The day was sunny, and the path was broad and level, made bright by the newly fallen leaves of autumn, a dappled patchwork of yellows, oranges, and reds.
But no matter how lovely their surroundings became, nothing could penetrate the gloom within. Their steps remained as labored as if they walked uphill through knee-deep mud. Their hearts and minds remained overcast, the paths connecting the two overgrown with sorrow. And for that, there was but one remedy--time.
“I have to wonder,” Trilla began, speaking into the persistent silence as though already in the middle of a discussion, “who was behind that attack on us.”
“What do you mean?” Andaris asked.
She seemed surprised. “Well, look at it. Master swordsmen and a mage all dressed up like common thieves. Doesn’t that seem a bit odd to you?”
“It occurred to me,” Andaris said, ruffling at her tone, “but how do you expect me to know? What is true where I come from might not be true here. For all I know your thieves are all like that.”
“Oh…I guess I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Trilla admitted. “Sorry.”
“That fellow I was fighting was more than competent,” Gaven said. “And the magician…. He shook his head, his expression full of self-loathing. Few could match Ashel, let alone best him. He was only able to take that bastard down because Andaris distracted him. He knew he was finished. I could see it in his eyes. After all the times he saved me…and I just stood there.”
“If they were after me,” Trilla said, “that would make it my fault.”
Gaven stuck out his jaw. “Don’t be foolish,” he snapped. “It wasn’t your fault. There was nothing you could have done.”
“I understand that,” she said. “I really do. My guilt is no more rational than yours. Is it? There was nothing any of us could have done.”
Gaven narrowed his eyes, but said nothing more.
Over the course of the next couple of days, they scarcely left the trail except to eat and sleep. On and on they went, through deepest forest, into and out of sunny clearings blanketed by wildflowers, over shallow streams, up and down hills heavy with moss-covered boulders and broad shelves of rock. On and on, from dawn till dark.
The last remnants of summer held off autumn with blue sky and bird song, Gaven alone seeming immune to their soothing effects. During the day, the big man stared down the path as if he expected an army, hardly sleeping at night for the same reason. Andaris often woke to find him watching over Trilla from the shadows, sword across his knees, body tense.
She had said nothing about it yet, but Andaris could tell Trilla was beginning to worry. She would sometimes stare at Gaven when he wasn’t looking, eyes shining with concern for him. She no doubt saw the same thing Andaris saw, which meant she no doubt grappled with the same question. How long could Gaven, stout as he was, keep up this pace? Until recently, he had seemed larger than life, as though invulnerable to the physical and emotional failings of other men.
Now he bore only a passing resemblance to his old self. It was remarkable to Andaris how much a person’s emotions affected their appearance. Gaven had dark circles beneath his eyes, his usually jovial face drawn with pain, his indomitable spirit replaced by brooding silence. Regardless of prior evidence to the contrary, he was apparently flesh and blood after all, possessing the
same weaknesses as everyone else.
Talk of War
“About time,” said the king, frowning down at at his council as they filed in and took their places at the table below him. When they were seated, he cleared his throat, straightened his spine, and tried his best to look regal. “What wonderful news do you bring me today?” he asked, eyeing four of the five men with open annoyance. They knew better than to be late. But then discipline had become lax since the onset of Laris’ illness, shamefully lax. The fifth man, around whom the king had never felt fully at ease, was a wizard, the oldest and most powerful of his order. Laris tried to avoid his eyes without being obvious about it. Looking into those intense, blue-gray eyes, even if only for a moment, made him feel like a child.
The wizard’s name was Elkar. Some called him Elkar the Great, others Elkar the Wise. He preferred just Elkar. He had been middle-aged when the king was born, but still looked as rosy-cheeked as a young man. It was unnerving—that too-smooth skin, that knowing smile. It wasn’t natural.
The first one to speak sat at the opposite end of the table from Elkar. His name was Fenton Maldigar, the king’s best friend and boyhood companion. Time had not been as kind to Fenton as it had been to Elkar. Far from rosy, his cheeks were sunken and gray, hanging loose beneath his pale, watery eyes like the jowls of one of Laris’ hound dogs. The king knew Fenton was deeply embarrassed by his condition. He had been quite vain in his youth, looked up to by men and admired by women. Now it seemed that willpower alone kept him going. What has become of us? Laris thought, watching sadly as Fenton cleared his throat, coughed into his hand, and began to speak.
“There is now no doubt, my King,” Fenton managed in a quavering voice. “The reports are irrefutable.” Despite their close friendship, Fenton still addressed Laris formally in public. Everyone knew how much the two men respected one another. Before Fenton could continue, a violent fit of coughing doubled him over. The man to Fenton’s left, Donaven Ironshield, looked at him with a mixture of pity and admiration. The council meetings were all Fenton had left. If he were no longer healthy enough to attend, what then?
“It is a massive force arrayed against us,” said Ironshield in a clear, strong voice. Ironshield was the king’s military advisor, a sturdy man in his mid-fifties with short-cropped hair that was just beginning to go gray. His eyes filled with regret. “Several scouts lost their lives gathering this information. We cannot let it be in vain.”
“Go on,” the king urged.
Ironshield straightened in his chair. “Their numbers are nothing short of staggering. There are thousands upon thousands of them, and their total swells daily.”
A hush fell over the room.
Be strong, Laris thought. “A hundred thousand or a hundred million,” he said, using his most authoritative tone, “it matters not. We will stand, and we will win, for we are Rogarians.”
“Yes, of course, my King,” Ironshield said. “We will stand, no matter what the odds.”
Laris nodded, clearly expecting no less. “What news of reinforcements?” he asked.
A diminutive man with a perpetually shrewd expression spoke up. His name was Lennay Glenwold, the king’s financial advisor. “As you know,” Lennay said in a nasally tone, “we have sent riders to each of the three kingdoms, carrying with them enough gold to, if necessary, buy support.” He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “So far, we have heard no word.”
The king sighed, knowing that without help Rogar would surely fall. Be strong, he thought again, but all he said was, “I see.”
“We may only have a matter of weeks,” said Elkar.
“Are we ready?” Laris asked, struggling to hide his despair. “Have the battlements been reinforced and the walls fortified? Have the standards been raised?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” replied Ironshield. “All the necessary preparations have been made. The men are ready. As you said, they are Rogarians. They will do well.”
“We cannot prevail without aid,” Elkar argued. “I think it is time to consider other options. Our military is not what it was at the Battle of the Reckoning. The Lost One’s forces, by contrast, are many times stronger. It is a new world. If we hope to survive…we may have to change our thinking.”
The king had been feeling so ill that for months he’d been wallowing in a pool of depression and self-pity. He had not been nearly as involved in the affairs of state as he should have been, especially considering the circumstances. He had tried, but simply hadn’t felt well enough to do more than hold the occasional meeting. For everything else he’d been relying on his advisors, which at this point had reduced him to little more than a figurehead. Usually he was too addled to care, yet every once in a while something would rouse him, like now, and for a short, painful time, he would see things as they really were, see just how useless he had become.
Laris fixed Elkar with his boldest stare. He was as angry with Elkar as he was disgusted with himself. The man had been speaking down to him, and worse, Laris had been letting him. They didn’t have the right to take advantage of him just because his mind was going. He felt his face grow hot.
“What would you have me do?” he demanded. “Open the gates and invite them in for tea? Abandon the only home that any of us has ever known? Give the Lost One’s evil seed fertile Rogarian soil in which to take root and grow? If we run, his army will follow us to the ends of the earth, sweeping through Sokerra, Mindere, and Nelvin in the process. Do you want the blood of their women and children on your hands? I certainly don’t. Do not forget who we are. They do not call us the Alderi Shune for nothing. We cannot abandon our post. You should know that as well as any, Elkar.”
The king sat back, took a deep breath and, with an effort, unclenched his hands and teeth. “Our Sokerran brothers will come, of that I am certain. The Lost One has many spies about; some of whom, no doubt, have already crossed the mountains into Sokerra. Because of this, Sokerra’s messengers may be having trouble getting through. The fact that we have heard no word does not mean that no word has been sent. But whether they reach us in time or not, we must stand firm. It is the only option that is available to us. Anything else would merely be delaying the inevitable. If surrender is a part of this new world of which you speak, then I want nothing to do with it. Sometimes, despite all that we are taught, it is better to break than to bend. There are some things that cannot be solved with diplomacy and compromise, some problems from which we cannot hide. You mentioned the Battle of the Reckoning, Elkar. If, after defeating him over two hundred years ago, we had pursued the Lost One into the Waste like we should have, then we would not be forced to deal with him now, would we?”
He paused, looking each man in the eye. “We must stop them,” he said, his words forged in steel. “We will stop them—here—because we must. The future of the civilized world depends upon it. The faithful will be victorious. We will carry the banner of light in the name of Rodan, and for his glory will cast these infidels from the land. We will prevail. This I promise.”
All present wanted to believe, needed to believe this was true. The wizard looked away with, to Laris’ surprise, a flicker of shame in his eyes. The already pregnant pause came to full term, and for that brief, glorious moment, they almost did believe. It was the most coherent any of them had heard Laris sound for quite some time.
But no matter how convincing, they knew it wouldn’t last. It was only a momentary break in the clouds. His dementia would return, and when it did, it would be worse than the time before. Here they were, on the brink of war, and their king was on the brink of madness. They needed him to unite the people, to lead the Alderi Shune into battle, and half the time he acted as if he didn’t even remember his own name.
As the meeting drew to a close, his advisors shook hands with careful, tentative smiles and, one by one, filed out. After they had gone, the king put his head in his hands and wept, feeling completely drained and sick to his stomach. He had gone most of his adult life without cry
ing, and now almost every day, at times brought on by the slightest provocation, he started blubbering like a schoolgirl. It was disgusting.
He was the king, but he was also a man being faced with the ravages of old age, as well as the possible annihilation of his world. Admonishing himself for his weakness, he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and gritted his teeth. As king, he felt it his responsibility to shoulder their burdens. The trouble was, there was no one to do the same for him, no one in whom he could confide but Rodan. “Help me,” he prayed. “Give me the strength to do what is necessary. Let me die well.”
Lost Friends
Andaris sat on a patchwork blanket beneath a large, especially wizened oak. The tree stood in the center of a ring of lesser oaks that, like a crown, graced the head of the foremost rise in a wandering procession of hills. A gaggle of geese flew in formation across the cloudless sky, then wheeled about over a swiftly flowing river, a silvery ribbon that shimmered and danced the length of the horizon.
What is this place? Andaris wondered. He couldn’t remember, though for some reason it didn’t seem to matter. He felt so at peace, so completely calm. What was I just thinking about? But then the thread was gone and he was smiling, for Gaven, Trilla, and Jade were now there with him, laughing and talking without a care, enjoying the beautiful weather and each other’s company as they ate a picnic lunch. Gone were the circles from beneath Gaven’s eyes, and the pain from Trilla’s. Even Jade, as she demonstrated by rolling over and nuzzling Andaris’ hand with her nose, was back to her friendly self. He rubbed her stomach affectionately, fed her a piece of cheese, and leaned the back of his head against the tree, feeling truly content.
The Eight Walls of Rogar: An Epic Fantasy Adventure Series! (The Lost Kingdoms of Laotswend Trilogy--Book One) Page 9