No! his mind screamed. Death is peaceful!
And again he forced them back open, but this time it was harder. Something was very wrong here. He tried in vain to move his hands, to shake the reins, to do anything. He could see Trilla and the prince—bodies as motionless as ice sculptures, thin wisps of breath escaping their nostrils. Must help her, he thought.
Just then, a man wearing a black cloak stepped around the bend in the road, his movements fluid and graceful, like a dancer’s. As he drew near, Andaris realized there was something about his face that looked…wrong. His skin was too smooth, stretched too tight over his skull. He walked towards Trilla with a purposeful air, reached his hand inside his cloak and pulled out a slender, wickedly curved longknife. The blade had bluish swirl marks forged into the steel, concentric circles glinting with a silver light.
Andaris tried to call out a warning, but could manage only a dry whisper. As the man drew close, his body began to flicker in and out of existence, disappearing and reappearing with each step he took. He’s after Trilla, Andaris thought. Then at last he found his voice. “To arms!” he rasped. “The princess is in danger!”
The man stopped and stared at him, face contorting with pure malevolence. Those closest to Andaris began to stir. The spell was broken.
“To arms!” Andaris cried again. “To arms!”
But the man would not be denied. Taking three quick steps, he leapt through the air towards Trilla, traveling much faster and farther than should have been possible.
Trilla screamed and, from somewhere within the folds of her dress, produced a throwing knife. Her hand darted out as the prince buried his sword into…nothing. The assassin was gone, vanished without leaving so much as a footprint behind.
“Lieutenant Mudan!” ordered the prince. “I want that man found! Now!”
Mudan saluted and shouted, ”Sergeant Greenberg, you and your men come with me! Corporal Donaly, you and your men head to the rear!”
The prince pulled a blanket from his saddlebags as his orders were being carried out, wrapped it around Trilla’s shoulders, and began rubbing his hands up and down her arms to try and warm her.
What must it be like, Andaris wondered, to wake and find a man flying through the air at you? Hopefully, I’ll never find out.
“What in the blazes just happened?” Gaven bellowed.
“Yes, what did just happen?” asked the prince, sounding shaken. Only blank faces answered him—that is, until he saw Andaris. Palden motioned him forward.
Andaris began to dismount.
“Stay on your horse,” called the prince. “I want to be able to move at a moment’s notice.”
Andaris sat back down, rode over to him, and bowed his head.
The prince sat astride a sleek white steed several hands taller than Del, an animal bred from the finest stock in a kingdom renowned for its horses, an animal as beautiful as Del was dumpy. “It was you that woke us,” Palden said, making it more a statement than a question.
Andaris nodded. “Yes…your Majesty. That’s right.”
The prince smiled at his self-conscious delivery. “Your name is Andaris, is it not?”
Andaris could feel everyone’s eyes on him. “Yes, sire, that’s correct. Andaris Rocaren of Fairhaven.”
“Hmm, I see. Well, Andaris Rocaren of Fairhaven, it seems we owe you a debt of gratitude.”
Andaris shifted in the saddle, uncomfortable with all the attention. “I only did what anybody would have done,” he said.
The prince’s smile broadened. “Such modesty is rare, but tell me, how did you resist it? I mean….” His smile faltered. “That was a rather nasty bit of magic. To be awake, yet not be able to move….” He shook his head. “How did you overcome it?”
Andaris shrugged. “I don’t really know, your Highness. When I was poisoned, I was affected much in the same way. Could be my body developed some resistance…. Though I don’t know, somehow that doesn’t seem right.”
“Go on,” Palden urged.
Andaris’ brow creased. “Do you remember feeling like you were out of sync with things,” he asked, “separated from everything around you?”
Palden nodded slowly, as did Gaven and Trilla. “Yes. I assumed it was the mountain air playing tricks on me. I see now I was wrong.”
“I think,” Andaris continued, “that may be the difference. If you’re unaware of the danger, how can you fight it? Because of my previous experience, I was quick to react. In the future, you will be, too. It might be as simple as that.”
“You impress me,” Palden said. “I shudder to think what would have happened if you hadn’t intervened. Obviously, the Lost One and his agents don’t want us to reach Rogar. We must be hyper-vigilant if we are to prevail.” The prince pursed his lips, considering. “Is there some reward I can offer you?” He glanced at Del with the beginnings of a smile. “A new horse perhaps?”
Andaris patted Del protectively on the neck, then cut his eyes to Trilla.
She beamed back at him, her face glowing with pride and approval.
He felt his cheeks flush. He couldn’t ask for what he really wanted, so he said, “Her safety is reward enough.”
The prince’s flawlessly manicured eyebrows raised. “And on top of it all, he’s noble.”
Andaris’ flush deepened.
“Do not worry,” Palden said, “I think between the two of us her safety is well in hand, but truly, if there is ever anything you require, do not hesitate to ask.”
Andaris nodded. “Thank you, your Highness.”
A moment of silence passed between them.
“You may return to your place in line,” the prince said, sensitive to his discomfort. “And again, thank you. We are all in your debt.”
Andaris bowed and turned Del around, relieved to be off center stage. After conducting a thorough yet fruitless search of the area, the prince gave the order to move out. Gaven spurred his mount forward. Andaris followed, lost in thought. He didn’t want to like the prince, but was beginning to anyway. Why did the man have to be so darned cordial? He wasn’t nearly as bad as Gaven had made him out to be. Why, under different circumstances, Andaris and the prince might have been friends. Even Jade seemed to like him, and she was usually a pretty good judge of character. Andaris had seen Palden feeding her scraps from the front of his tent. She’d eaten right out of his hand, which was something she wouldn’t do with just anybody.
Speaking of Jade, he thought, where is she? When did I see her last? He couldn’t remember. “Gaven, have you seen Jade?” he asked.
Gaven looked around as if expecting her to be walking beside his horse. “No, now that you mention it, can’t say that I have. I wouldn’t worry, though. She’s probably just out exploring.”
“Yeah…I know,” he said, “she can take care of herself….” But his words sounded empty, even to him.
Within the hour, Andaris began to call out for her. The Sokerrans took it upon themselves to carry the call down the line. Trilla glanced back, her blue eyes troubled. Andaris had just about decided to go look for her, when the line came to a sudden halt.
Gaven stood in his stirrups. “They’re dismounting,” he announced.
A few minutes later, the man in front of them—a dour-faced fellow with sharp cheekbones and deep crows feet, turned and said, “There’s a ten-foot section where the road’s out. We’re going to have to lead the horses across one at a time.”
Gaven relayed the news, then faced forward and folded his arms, tense with impatience.
“I think I’m going to hold back,” Andaris said in a low voice. “I’m really getting worried about Jade. It’ll take a while for everyone to cross. This would be as good a time as any to look for her.”
“Do you really think you can find her?” Gaven asked. “It seems foolish to separate from the others, especially after what just happened. I don’t want you to end up missing, too.”
Andaris sighed. “I don’t know. But I have to try. I can’t just le
ave her behind.”
Gaven set his jaw, eyes haunted by painful memory….
***
Digging Ashel’s grave while the sweet scent of morning still lingered on the air. Folding his slender hands over his stomach, hands that were now lifeless and cold. Placing his cherished flute on the center of his chest. Covering him forever with earth…and then walking away…leaving him behind to rot alone—defenseless against the destructive whims of nature.
***
Guessing what Gaven was thinking, Andaris frowned. He had not meant to remind him of Ashel. The big man felt far too guilty as it was. He didn’t need him going and making it worse.
“All right then,” Gaven said, his voice thick with grief. “We’ll both go.”
Anthem
At the heels of our king we ride,
In rains of liquid fire,
And seas of clashing swords.
We tramp on the dead and dying,
O’er the crumbled walls
Unto the breach…..
Oh for a day of peace,
Where the only blades that surround me,
Are made of grass,
Where the smoke drifting on the breeze,
Bears only the scent of the hearth.
King Laris watched with a heavy heart as another long, breathless night faded into another painfully dreary dawn. Dark clouds blanketed the sky. Tendrils of mist snaked across the ground and, in places, slithered over the tops of the walls. Sometime after dark it had begun to sleet—and it was sleeting still.
Trying to stay warm, they’d cut half moons out of the sides of some tin lined barrels, the type used for transporting perishable goods such as butter and milk, placed them every few feet along the wall, filled them with kindling, and started some fires. The men huddled around the barrels with clasped cloaks and outstretched arms, expressions bleak, eyes weary.
They feel it too, Laris thought. The morning had brought with it a sense of dread that had little to do with the weather. There was an ill omen on the air that knotted his stomach and tightened his throat. Something was about to happen….
Gooseflesh rose on Laris’ arms as a low harooom came drifting through the mist, its call sounding muffled, lost, and heavy with gloom. My God, he thought. They’re here.
“Your Majesty,” Ironshield asked, “shall I give the order?”
Laris noted the eagerness in his eyes, his self-assured stance, and expectant tilt of his head. After all the days of preparation, it came down to this. It was finally happening. He knew this moment would live in his mind forever—the smell of the wood smoke in his nostrils, the sleet pinging against his armor, the sickly sweet rush of adrenaline.
A young woman with an infant cradled in her arms ran to the top of the steps and called out, “Joseph! My love! You forgot my bracelet! Joseph!”
A chill shot up Laris’ spine, and then he nodded to Ironshield.
“Companies! Form up!” Ironshield yelled.
The trumpets carried his command from one end of the wall to the other, each note ringing out bright and true, filling their hearts with righteous might.
“Pikemen! Stand ready!” one officer called.
“Shield wall! Tighten your line!” cried another.
“Archers! Ready your bows!” yelled a third.
When the watchtower horns sounded, Laris closed an eye and peered through his scope. At first he saw only mist, then his eyebrows rose in surprise, for instead of the great seething mass of an army, there was a single man dressed in a long black robe, reminiscent of a priest, hood raised, heading directly for them—or rather floating towards them.
His feet aren’t touching the ground, Laris thought. And what’s more, his body was flickering in and out of existence, vanishing and reappearing almost too fast to see. It reminded Laris of a picture book he’d had as a child. Each page of the book was illustrated with a woodland scene, complete with trees, a creek, a bear, squirrels, and an owl. In order to make the animals move and the creek flow, all one had to do was flip through the pages. That’s what it looked like to him. Except now, instead of a book, it was as though someone were flipping through the pages of reality.
The man glided to a stop some twenty yards from the gate. A brisk wind was howling in from the west, and yet his robe remained motionless. All present felt a sharp tingling sensation. Only a few, like the king, knew what it meant, knew that a spell was being cast.
“Ready cannon!” Laris yelled.
“You are hereby commanded to open your gates or be destroyed,” the man said in a calm, tinny voice. Those on the wall heard him as clearly as if he were standing right beside them, whispering into their ears. His mouth, however, never moved.
King Laris’ blood boiled. What arrogance, he thought. Open our gates indeed! He turned to Ironshield and, with a twinkle in his eyes said, “Let’s teach this fool a lesson, shall we?”
Ironshield grinned and shouted, “Fire all cannon!”
“One through eight,” yelled the cannoneer’s commander. “Vertical twenty six—horizontal thirty two to eighteen—graduated scale!” On down the line, the cannon boomed out their response, sending shot after shot to explode at the man’s feet.
At first the soldiers on the wall cheered. But as the smoke cleared they fell silent, for above the blackened earth, the man still stood, untouched.
“You will not live to regret your decision,” he said into their ears. And then, with a dramatic wave of his arms, he vanished.
“Magic!” Laris spat. “Have someone go fetch Elkar. Tell him his talents are needed on the wall.”
“Seems he heard you, my King,” said Ironshield, voice betraying a touch of uneasiness.
A shadow passed over Laris’ face, but was gone by the time he turned around, replaced by practiced poise.
Elkar wore his finest turquoise robe, the material shimmering from top to bottom as he walked. A silver amulet in the shape of a star hung from his neck, and in his right hand he carried a staff.
Laris’ eyes widened. “Minorian,” he whispered.
The staff was a remnant of a bygone era, created by an advanced society called the Lenoy, a race of manlike creatures who once ruled unopposed in an age of boundless magic. For reasons unknown, the Lenoy’s great civilization had ultimately fallen to ruin, and was now remembered only by a scholarly few.
Many wonders had been lost to the press of time, and yet somehow, through the ages, Minorian had survived. Loosely translated, Minorian meant “New Light.” How Elkar had come to possess the staff, the king did not know. Until now, the wizard had kept it in a locked case in his study, speaking of it rarely and in reverent tones.
Laris nodded to Elkar as he approached…and then his eyes gravitated back to the staff, drawn irresistibly to its pale shaft of purest ivory, held captive by its rainbow hued gems. Below each gem, burned deep into the skin of the ivory, was the same rune—a circle within a circle bisected by a vertical line.
As far as the king knew, Elkar had never used the staff. Laris had asked him about it once, asked him what power it contained and why he kept it locked away. Elkar had laughed hollowly and said, “My King, I promise you, when I discover a way to fit an ocean into a thimble, you will be the first to know.”
Laris had never brought it up again. It did no good to talk to the man about such things. He’d have better luck out-coiling a serpent than making sense of one of Elkar’s infernal riddles.
The king cleared his throat when he realized how long Elkar had been standing there, and forced his eyes from Minorian to the wizard’s overly youthful face. “Minorian,” he said, sounding sterner than he’d intended.
Elkar’s thin lips tightened. “It is by necessity, not preference.”
Laris pointed west to where a sea of luminescent mist was forming, billowing forth from the clouds to the ground, roiling up and out towards the wall. “I hope it has the power to summon the dragons of old,” he said, “for the time draws near.”
Elkar winced as
though struck, and for several seconds neither moved nor spoke.
“Do you require assistance?” asked the king.
The wizard took a deep breath and, with what looked to be a considerable effort, regained his composure, face once again a blank page. “If only that were all,” he replied in a low voice, “I would be grateful. But alas, the circle cannot hold. The cycle begins anew.”
Laris watched with growing concern as the color drained from Elkar’s cheeks and beads of perspiration popped out on his forehead and upper lip.
“Even now it calls to me,” Elkar whispered, “but I must wait. If I am early, I might as well be late. And if I am late….”
The wizard was clearly in pain, almost more than he could bear. Unfortunately, it was not the sort that could be relieved with herbs and bed rest. Whatever forces he struggled against, he would have to struggle against alone. Such was the fate of all who walked his path.
“I want you on the wall from this point forward,” Laris told him. “By my side.”
Elkar turned his eyes west. “It would be an honor to die with you, my King. Perhaps between Minorian and the Alderi Shune, we will put a thorn in the Lost One’s foot that will give the other kingdoms more time.”
The king scowled deeply at the encroaching storm. “I’ll hack that foot off!” he vowed. Once again the watchtower horns sounded, so Laris pulled up his scope and saw, marching from the curtain of mist to the steady beating of drums, the foremost ranks of the shapeling army. “The time has come,” bellowed the king, drawing Onoray and holding it high, “for Rodan’s children to defend the motherland! We must not fail! We must stand firm! We must hold this wall!”
And so it was, for the first time in more than two centuries, that the Alderi Shune stood braced for the attack, summoned to war by their sovereign, as well as their god, the call resonating through them, awakening within them the blood of their ancestors—the blood of warrior kings.
Hundreds of plate mail clad soldiers stood in an uninterrupted line behind the battlements, holding triangular shields as tall as their bodies, each with Rogar’s flag painted upon it. “Shield wall! Bare your teeth!” ordered their commanding officer.
The Eight Walls of Rogar: An Epic Fantasy Adventure Series! (The Lost Kingdoms of Laotswend Trilogy--Book One) Page 25