Abigail drew her last breath while holding her newborn baby in her arms—her newborn son. No matter how they tried, they had not been able to stop the bleeding. “Love him for us both,” she had told the king, somehow managing a wan smile, face pale, eyes sparkling with a future she would never know.
“But how can I?” he had asked. “How can I live without you?”
“You will, my love, for a part of me shall live on through our child, and I will be with you both, always. Shortly after uttering these words, Abigail, the most beloved queen Rogar had ever known, died.
Laris’ son had begun to cry almost immediately, so he had picked him up and cradled him in his arms, weeping right along with him. A few minutes later, his little lungs laboring for air, the baby had died as well. The fates, as too often is the case, had decided to be cruel. Laris was devastated, shaken to his very core. Without Trilla, he might not have had the strength to go on. But he never told her that.
Trilla had often wondered if her father didn’t, on some level, blame her for their deaths. After all, she had been misbehaving the day they had died, failing to pick up her room as her mother had asked. Trilla would never forget that day. It had been a clear spring morning full of promise. Abigail was six and a half months pregnant, chasing after Trilla, half laughing, half scolding, when she had tripped over the corner of her daughter’s largest dollhouse and pitched forward. Trilla could still hear the shriek her mother released right before she hit the ground, when she realized what was about to happen—that she was about to crush her baby.
I should have done my duty, Trilla thought, and married Prince Palden, as father instructed. He didn’t need any more disappointment in his life. If only she had listened to him, much of what was happening now could have been avoided. Her selfishness had put the entire realm in jeopardy. The words she’d spoken with such ease to Gaven echoed through her mind. If they were after me, then that would make it my fault. There was nothing any of us could have done. My guilt is no more rational than yours. Is it?
The fact was, regardless of mounting evidence to the contrary, she had not really believed they were after her, not specifically anyway. If she had, she would not have been so calm.
Poor Ashel, she thought. He’d be alive today if only I hadn’t run away. And what of Gaven and Andaris? Where were they? Were they safe? “They have to be all right,” she whispered. “They just have to be.” She had no illusions of rescue. She just prayed they still lived. She’d seen Gaven go down after he’d been struck on the head by the shapeling’s hammer. She didn’t think it was a killing blow….
Andaris, on the other hand, was another story. Andaris she had shot in the back. He’d been wearing his scale mail shirt. He rarely took it off. Even so, the bolt had stuck and he had dropped. Could it have pierced his armor? His arms had been raised, and the bolt had hit him just above the tailbone. Could it have missed his armor altogether? She had been trying to save him…and he had jumped up just as she was firing. The image of him falling, bolt imbedded in his back, would be forever emblazoned upon her mind—as was the image of her mother lying on the floor of her bedroom, bleeding from between her legs and crying for help. Trilla had been so helpless, sitting there, watching her mother bleed to death. She had sworn she would never again be so helpless, that she would never again just sit and watch while someone she loved died.
And I wasn’t even there to heal Andaris, she thought. I failed Ashel, and now Andaris. She was the one who’d convinced him to come to Rogar so he would be safe. If he was dead, it was her fault. She thought she had cried all her tears, but now she shuddered and felt the familiar wetness on her cheeks. He would have been better off alone. They all would have. Better off if they’d never met me.
Unwelcome Guest
Ashel had been walking for days now, dragging himself along the best he could, surviving on wild mushrooms and linberries. West, he thought. I must reach them in time. He now knew who he was, but also knew that who he was had changed. The three people he’d seen in his mind’s eye were his friends. Of the three, the big man and the girl were the only family he’d ever known.
He had absorbed some or all of the other wizard’s energy. This is what had brought him back, what had literally raised him from his shallow grave. Moment by moment, he could feel the magic within him growing stronger, the flow turning from a trickle into a torrent. The trouble was, magic wasn’t all that he’d absorbed. He had at first thought the transference of power to be an accident, but now knew the truth. Grindark, the other wizard, had done it on purpose, in a desperate attempt to save himself. That, ironically enough, was the only reason why Ashel still lived.
Over the last few days, bits and pieces of Ashel’s past had gradually begun to return to him. Unfortunately, parts of Grindark’s past were there as well, vying for attention. It was an uneasy, an unholy, union. The contents of two minds forced into one, bound together like pages in a book, one atop the other.
Ashel had tried very hard to block all but his own memories out, for the man had done unspeakable things while in service to the Lost One. As horrible as they were, however, they now appeared irrevocably linked to his own—the pungent stink of warm blood, the sound of shrill screams echoing down dark hallways, the salty tang of raw flesh on his tongue—it was all far too vivid.
Yes, Grindark had been a very evil man. The joy he’d felt while conducting his experiments was, to say the least, obscene. He’d taken great pride in developing new and ever more horrific methods of torture. One such method involved keeping his subjects conscious while he, one by one, surgically removed their vital organs. The more they suffered, the more pleasure he derived. Grindark’s emotions were so out of control that, at times, Ashel felt overwhelmed by them.
What was that? he thought. He could have sworn he heard something, something like quiet laughter…. He looked around, but there was no one there. He was alone. This was not the first time this had happened. His mental discipline was slipping, allowing room for the occasional aberrant thought, the sort of imaginative disruption he had always detested in others. After all those years of study, it seemed especially abhorrent that he should be thus afflicted. Weak-witted fools were given to fancy—not Ashel Tevellin.
He became more and more disconcerted each time it happened, mainly because he was trying with all his will to maintain focus, a state known as Fey, the art of emptying one’s mind to achieve peace, a kind of meditation, a balancing of the inner harmonics. Ashel used to be a Fey master. Now his mind was an unruly beast, barely recognizable to him, full of overgrown paths and hidden traps.
Thanks to Grindark, he now knew what the Lost One was planning. He had to hold on long enough to warn his friends, both for their safety and so that they could warn Rogar. He had to reach them before it was too late. Unless he intervened, none would survive.
This gave him purpose, a reason to endure, which was good, considering how weak and tired he was…more tired than he’d ever been. He couldn’t sleep, not like he used to. The second sight was always with him when he closed his eyes, and his body still felt awkward and stiff, as though unable to break free from the chill of the grave. He knew he was living on borrowed time—time lent to him by a madman.
Grindark had possessed great physical strength for a wizard. Ashel, by contrast, had always been frail. But now, because of Grindark’s memories, he knew what it was like to rip a man’s arms from their sockets with his bare hands, to stay up for days at a time without becoming ill, and to, in general, be utterly full of vitality.
Ashel had succeeded, after many failed attempts, to contact Andaris. For some reason, perhaps because Andaris was from another place, and or time, his mind was much more open to him than Gaven’s or Trilla’s. The question was, would Andaris remember the dream, and if so, would he heed it? Ashel didn’t dare contact him again, at least not until he had a chance to recover. The strain had almost been too much for him. The magic coursing through him was not easy to control. One wrong step, and
he would be swept away by it, drowned beneath a rising river of raging currents and shifting shores.
Ashel! whispered a voice.
“Who’s there?” he asked.
You know who I am, for I am you and you are me. I’ve been with you all along, Ashel. We’ve talked many times before. Don’t you remember?
“No!” he shouted. “Get out of my head! I am not you!”
Are you sure? asked the voice. Can you really be certain where I begin and you end? What if those memories you so abhor…are in fact your own? Come now, end this foolishness, and embrace what you know in your heart to be true. You cannot hide from yourself, Ashel. Oh yes. I know. I can feel your longing. All you need do is open your heart to me, and all that you desire will be yours!
Several images flashed through Ashel’s mind. He saw himself sitting on an ivory throne in a cathedral full of people paying tribute to him, saw himself leading a great army into battle against the Lost One and his shapelings, saw himself standing at an altar with a golden crown on his head, preparing to say his vows to Trilla—who he had loved since he was a boy, but had always known was beyond his reach. In the images he was respected, even revered, powerfully built and glowing with both happiness and good health. Clearly, he had been shown that which his heart most desired.
You need not use what I have given you for evil, cooed the voice. Unite with me, and together we will fight the Lost One. For you see, as I have darkened your soul, you have lightened mine. I promise you, do as I say and all that you have seen will come to pass! But deny me, and you will be consumed, and darkness will cover the land forever!
“Leave me alone!” Ashel yelled. “I do not believe your lies!”
No matter, Grindark said. I do not require your belief. Besides, there is plenty of time to convince you, for we are joined for life. Resist all you like. It will avail you not. In time, you will come to accept what I am telling you.
“Never!” Ashel cried. “I would sooner die!”
Grindark chuckled. Tsk, tsk, Ashel. You know better than to lie to yourself.
Tinar!
The shapeling snarled, tightened its hold on Trilla, and surged forward. What was happening? Was it running from something, or towards something? Its heart pounded in her ears, its breath ragged and foul against her skin, reeking of rotting meat. She gagged from the stench—then screamed as the end of a blade jutted through the back of the shapeling’s mouth. Blood gushed onto her upturned face, burning her eyes.
And then she was falling, spilling from the shapeling’s arms as it hit the ground. She rolled to the side, somehow avoiding being crushed, rose to a knee, and rubbed the steaming gore from her eyes.
There, walking slowly towards her, was Gaven. He held his sword loosely, point dragging on the ground behind him. When he reached her, he stood over her, as if to make certain she was all right. He tried to speak, then the light left his eyes, and he crumpled to the ground.
***
Feeling Jade’s nose snuffling in his ear, Andaris laughed, opened his eyes, and reached out to pet her. The sun shone bright, making him blink, but he could see well enough to determine that he was in the center of a small clearing, surrounded by forest, lying on a pallet of damp leaves. This part of the forest was comprised almost entirely of oaks--old ones, with deep roots, thick bark, and squat trunks--interrupted only occasionally by the rogue evergreen. Andaris supposed they had been standing here long before he was born, and would remain standing here long after he died.
“It’s kind of a comfort, isn’t it?” he asked Jade, turning onto his side.
Trilla clapped her hands together in excitement. “He’s awake!” she yelled, running to him. Once there, she bent down and kissed him on the cheek.
Andaris wrapped her in his arms.
“Thank Rodan,” she said, somewhat out of breath. “We weren’t sure you were going to make it.”
“Me? What about you? How did you get free of that beast?”
Her eyes went to Gaven, filling with gratitude. “He ran it down and stabbed it through the back of the head.”
“You collapsed shortly before we reached her,” Gaven explained. “The strain was too much on you, after everything else. Jade stayed with you while I kept running, but even I fell after bringing the thing down. Trilla says the elixir uses energy the body doesn’t have to spare. As long as you’ve been out, we were afraid it had taken too much. I thought sure…. Well, that is to say, we thought….” Gaven cleared his throat and, with glassy eyes, looked to Trilla for help.
Andaris didn’t mind. He knew it was just the big man’s way. When it came to fighting, Gaven was fierce as a lion. When it came to expressing tender emotion, he was timid as a mouse.
“I was so relieved to see you alive, curled on the ground beside Jade,” Trilla said. “I thought I’d killed you. Another inch down and—”
“No,” Andaris interrupted, lifting her chin so that he could look her in the eyes, “without you, I wouldn’t have been alive to have been shot.”
Trilla smiled through her tears and hugged him even harder.
“Now,” Andaris said as they pulled apart, “where are we?”
“No more than a couple hours from Tinar!” Gaven announced. Grimacing, he touched two fingers to his right temple. “I shouldn’t talk so loud,” he whispered.
Jade sidled up to Andaris and enthusiastically began to lick his face.
“Yes, yes, I know,” he told her, pulling away. “I love you, too.”
With an abruptness that he found odd, she stopped licking him, tilted her head to the side, and scampered off.
“Weird dog,” he said, shaking his head.
After a meager meal of salted meat and stale bread, the three gathered their things and headed down the trail, looking forward to spending the day in the comparative safety and comfort of an actual town. Before long, they left the wilds of the forest behind and entered a region of gently rolling grassland. The open countryside stretched before them, a great valley bordered on either side by twin rivers, dotted here and there by copses of oak trees. The soft blue of the sky and warm breeze worked to quiet their minds, making them feel more hopeful than they had since before Ashel’s death.
Sometime around mid-day, they came to the top of a broad hill, rim wreathed by green grass and little yellow flowers, shoulders slumping away to the north and south. Below them, sprawled out in the center of a wide expanse of flatland, lay a great city.
“There it is!” said Gaven, excitement brightening his tone.
A plain stone wall ringed Tinar’s tangled streets, looking common and tired, leaning out here, slouching in there, as though in dire need of a holiday. Dozens of sandstone buildings peeked above this wall, steep rooftops covered by thick tiles, once-bright colors made pale by the sun.
In spite of its drab appearance, Andaris could not have been more pleased, for Tinar represented safety, which, at the moment, made it as magnificent as any palace.
“I’ll grant you,” Gaven began in a defensive tone, mistaking his silence for disappointment, “it might not look like much from here, but you have to give it a chance. Wait till you see the inside. More goes on within those walls in a single night than most other places in a week. Trust me, there’s much more to Tinar than meets the eye. The food, the music, the--”
“Okay, okay,” Andaris interrupted, raising his hand, “I believe you. I’m sure it’s astounding.”
“Come on,” Trilla suggested, heading towards the gates, “let’s just show him.”
Andaris couldn’t help but notice the mesmerizing way her hips moved as she walked. Sometimes he wondered if she did it just to torment him. Jade barked twice and trotted ahead to catch up to her. Gaven grinned with all his teeth when he saw what Andaris was looking at.
Trilla stopped in front of two guards at the entrance—a thin young man with blonde hair and handsome features, and a grizzled older man with a ruddy complexion and shifty eyes. Smiling shyly at them, she said something in a co
nfidential tone, and walked through the stone archway.
Andaris felt a pang of jealousy as he watched the men ogle her retreating backside. The older man’s shifty eyes followed her with more desire than would have been considered decent where Andaris came from, especially considering the age difference.
As he and Gaven approached the archway, the guards faced forward, lustful expressions replaced by practiced indifference. Once inside, Andaris found that he agreed with Gaven. The city literally throbbed with life, teeming with all manner of folk, most of whom had dark skin and green eyes. Garbed in brightly colored sashes, they wore bangles of gold in their ears, on their arms, and around their necks. They spoke in the common tongue, yet spoke with such thick accents that Andaris had to concentrate to understand. Almost everyone they passed smiled and nodded, making them feel instantly welcome.
“This is a big trading hub,” Gaven explained. “People come from miles around to buy and sell their wares. Tinar is renowned for its hospitality.”
But Andaris was no longer listening. In fact, he’d come to a stop right in the middle of the street, locking eyes with a smooth-skinned girl who couldn’t have been more than sixteen. Luxurious brown hair fell to her petite waist. She combed it in her lap with slow, seductive strokes, flashing her emerald green eyes at him in the most extraordinary way. He felt his body grow warm, almost as if he’d taken another swig of Ashel’s elixir. She shifted, ever so slightly, but enough to rearrange her sashes to be even more revealing. Now, the ornately patterned silk barely covered certain tantalizing areas of her anatomy.
“Come on,” Gaven said, shoving him from behind, “we need to find some rooms.”
“All right…hold on. I’m going. What’s the big rush, anyway?”
“I’ll tell you in a minute. Just keep walking.”
The Eight Walls of Rogar: An Epic Fantasy Adventure Series! (The Lost Kingdoms of Laotswend Trilogy--Book One) Page 14