Looking at them, Laris found himself having to fight back tears, deeply touched by their devotion and heart. It was an amazing sight, the likes of which his old eyes had never seen. So many men, ready to give their lives to stand by their king, staring at him with complete faith, the sort a child shows their parent before the disillusionment of adolescence. Laris set his jaw and cleared his throat. When he was certain he could speak without his voice breaking, he began to make his selections.
The king’s blade bore little resemblance to a sickle. Nevertheless, he was dealing out death as surely as Kolera’s own executioner. He knew it, and they knew it, too. Keeping this in mind, he chose grizzled old veterans who’d led full lives in service to the crown—steadfast men who would not break under the pressure. He thought it fitting his sword be named Shadow, for it was that which he used to point out his victims. Woe is he upon whom the reaper’s shadow falls.
“Let me remain, as well, my King,” pleaded Ironshield. “It’s too dangerous. We can’t afford to lose you.”
Laris took the general aside and in a low voice said, “I will determine what is and what is not too dangerous.”
“I won’t leave you behind,” Ironshield insisted. “If you stay…I stay.”
“You are as stubborn as any mule, old friend, but we don’t have time for this. You see…the truth is…I’m not sure how long my strength is going to last. I don’t want to die, but if I fall in a heroic stand I will become a martyr to be avenged. If I collapse, if my heart gives out, what will I be then?” Ironshield didn’t answer. Laris could tell by his grim expression he understood, so he put his hand on his shoulder and, with a weary smile said, “Now go. Before it’s too late. The Alderi Shune need their general.”
Ironshield snapped to attention with the vigor of a first year cadet, clicked the heels of his boots together, saluted crisply and, with glistening eyes, hurried down the steps.
As night descended, five ladders scraped over the rampart. The curtain of mist glowed with a ghostly light, lending the scene a dreamlike feel. Laris gripped his sword hilt tightly, bracing himself as he watched the twisted shapes come scurrying up the ladders, their snorting and snarling becoming more feverish as they neared, their fury unquenchable, their every movement a profanity.
Come on! he thought. Shadow will deal out death for you, as well. “Come on!” he yelled. “Come spill your guts on my sword!”
Ironshield, now safe on the second wall, fingered the magical device that would detonate the flash bombs—a short iridescent rod shaped like a serpent with emerald eyes and golden scales. The serpent had three sections, each of which could be twisted into a variety of positions. Only Ironshield, the king, and Elkar knew the one position that would bring it to life, the one out of the hundreds of combinations that would cause it to emit a high-pitched cry from its nostrils and detonate the first of ten flashbombs.
Once detonated, the lead bomb would begin a violent string of explosions, each bomb triggering the next, until the top of the wall, along with everything on it, was decimated. But Ironshield would not twist it, not yet, not until the king had either fallen or was out of range.
The fifty fought till their arms burned and their swords grew heavy in their hands. Ironshield marveled at their valor, for regardless of the silver in their hair, they moved like young men with fire in their hearts, strong of sinew and fleet of foot, their spirits buoyed by purity of purpose. The general clenched his teeth, knowing at any moment they would be overwhelmed.
And thus would pass King Laris IX—the last Danodren to wear the crown. The ancient line was as good as broken, marking the end of an era, writing the final, bloody chapter in the book of warrior kings. Rogar had always had a Danodren sitting the throne. What would become of her when the seat was left empty? Whose brow would the crown grace then?
Unnoticed by all, Elkar struggled up the steps towards the battle. When he came to within a few feet of the king, he stopped, thrust Minorian into the air, and began to chant.
Laris saw him and cried, “Elkar, no!”
But it was too late. Multicolored bolts of energy shot from the end of the staff, arced over the king’s head, and impacted into the center of the shapeling ranks. The night sky flashed with a heavenly light, beautiful and terrible to behold, as the air filled with the unholy screams of those being consumed. Laris shut his eyes and raised his hand, recoiling from the light.
When he opened them, he saw the staff slip from Elkar’s fingers, drop through a crenellation in the rampart, teeter on the edge, then cartwheel end over end through the air into the writhing throng. The wizard swayed, crumpled, and fell sideways through the same crenellation.
Laris ran to where he had fallen through and peered over the side, staring in astonishment at Elkar’s broken body fifty feet below, at the bright red blood pooling around his head. Can’t be, he thought. Over the years, he had begun to think of Elkar as immortal, or at least close enough as to not matter. And now, just like that, he was gone.
A small group of man-like shapelings with black armor and auburn hair picked up the wizard and whisked both him and the staff away. Unlike the shapelings they had seen thus far, this group looked well organized and efficient, an elite unit with top-notch armor and weaponry. As they rushed Elkar into the curtain, thousands of other shapelings rushed out—the disorderly variety, pouring forth to cover the charred ground left by Minorian. Towering above them, shambling along as though without a care, were several more monstrosities. At first, the beasts moved forward at a walk. Then, like the first four, they lowered their heads, let out a guttural roar, and charged.
“Follow me!” Laris yelled. “Let’s see if we can’t make it!”
By the time the king and his men were to the bottom of the steps, the top of the wall was covered with shapelings, and still more swarmed up the ladders. Ironshield turned the head of the snake one notch to the left, and its tail two notches to the right. Its eyes lit, a piercing cry issued from its nostrils and, with a series of thunderous booms, the bombs unleashed their wrath. Mangled flesh flew everywhere. Jets of flame shot into the air, forming a solid wall of fire, a blue white inferno that reduced all it touched to ash. The shapelings closest to the inferno were pushed forward by those farther back. Hundreds were incinerated, sent howling into the abyss from whence they came.
Ironshield allowed himself a moment’s satisfaction, a faint smile playing across his lips. Precious seconds passed before, as was inevitable, the blaze dyed down and the shapelings burst through, running and snarling, crashing over the battlements like a wave over a dam.
Laris ran as hard as he could, with as much speed as his old legs would allow, but he was tiring fast.
“Give those men some cover!” Ironshield ordered.
The king looked over his shoulder and saw the outer gate beginning to open, the shapelings rushing in to close the gap. He knew some of the men could easily outrun him. He also knew they would not leave his side, even if it meant their lives, which meant their lives were once again in his hands.
Faster, thought Laris, sure that his heart was going to burst. Mustn’t fail them. Arrows whistled over their heads, arcing into the foremost shapeling ranks. The cannon fired as quickly as they could be loaded, booming out shot after shot, some on the verge of overheating. Screaming Redheads tore into the enemy lines with grisly results, stone heads smashing, iron claws slashing.
And then, somehow, Laris and his men were inside, the slab of ancient stone closing behind them, sealing the shapelings out. They had made it. They were safe…at least for the present. Winded and battered, Laris came stumbling from the tunnel mouth. He went to one knee, bowing his head, giving thanks to Rodan. His silver haired troop who, including himself, now numbered only twenty-two, followed his example—twenty-two men down on one knee, heads bowed, chests heaving, forming a solemn circle. Their brothers in arms gathered round, stifling their cheers out of respect. Everyone sensed the profundity of the moment, a profundity made more poignan
t by the sound of the shapeling army clamoring on the other side of the wall.
Twenty-two, Ironshield thought. Eleven and eleven. It is a sacred number. A prophetic number. A message from Rodan. When Laris finished his prayer and looked up, he saw Ironshield standing above him. “It’s a miracle you’re alive, my King,” Ironshield said, clasping his hand and pulling him to his feet. “I am relieved beyond measure. But tell me, what has become of Elkar?”
“Gone,” Laris rasped, voice thick with loss. “And his body…they took it…and…and Minorian too.” Ironshield frowned at the bloody gash on the king’s shoulder, wonder widening his eyes, for despite the enchantments forged into the armor, something had cleaved through it as cleanly as if it were made of tin.
Marla
Trilla froze as the two Sokerran scouts rode into view. She and the prince sat in high-backed chairs on either side of a small square table, preparing to eat lunch. The scouts had two horses in tow, the owners of which were conspicuously absent.
Trilla stood up, facing them, wringing her hands together. The prince stood beside her, put his arm around her, looking at her with concern. She had grown suddenly pale, her expression a blank canvas awaiting the first brushstroke. The scouts dismounted and bowed.
“Report,” ordered the prince, dreading what picture their words might paint.
The older of the two, bleak-faced and tired, nodded. “I regret to report, sire, we did not find any trace of Andaris or Gaven, that is, save for their horses.”
The prince glanced at the animals, noting their hanging heads and matted manes. “Where are their saddlebags?” he asked.
The man’s beardless mouth turned down. “We don’t know, sire. That puzzled us, too. We assume they removed them and went in search of shelter.”
The prince gave Trilla’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Then they’re alive,” he said.
“Perhaps, sire. The blizzard was much more severe in that area than what we experienced here. I’m afraid we didn’t see any cover that would have been adequate. The snow was several feet deep, and in one place blocked the road entirely. Looked like an avalanche.
Damn the man’s dimwittedness, thought the prince, feeling Trilla begin to tremble. “If the way was blocked by an avalanche, and there was no sign of them before the avalanche, then obviously they sought shelter beyond that point.”
“Oh…yes, your Highness, of course. How foolish of me. I’m sure you’re right.”
“In that case, take a company of men back and make a more thorough search. No matter how long it takes, I want them found.”
The prince felt Trilla shudder. He glanced down at her and found her looking up at him. His breath caught. Tears welled in her eyes, rolling silently down her cheeks. But there was something else welling in her eyes. Love—love for him. He stared at her in amazement, felt his heart swell in his chest, and knew, from that moment forward, nothing would be the same. To be the recipient of something so precious, to have someone so good and pure be looking at him like that…was everything. How he had lived so long without it he didn’t know. With all his money and power, he had been poorer than most peasants.
The scout cleared his throat. “There is one more thing, sire.”
Palden pulled his eyes from Trilla’s. “Yes, speak up, man. What is it?”
“Well,” he said, his tone reluctant, “getting through all that snow is going to be dangerous…and time consuming. It could take days. The height and breadth of the avalanche is extensive.”
“Do what you can,” the prince told him. “Take two companies of men if that’s what you need, and the necessary supplies … shovels, food, blankets, and whatever else. But make haste. They may be in need of our help.”
“Anything else, sire?”
The prince paused to consider the question, seeming older than his twenty-two years—giving them a glimpse of the man he would one day become. “Yes, as a matter of fact there is. Attempt to clear a through route for our reinforcements. If it is difficult for you to get through, it will be difficult for them. When you are finished, catch up to us as swiftly as you can. If you find Gaven and Andaris before you’re done, by all means, send them ahead with an escort so we can stop worrying.”
The scout saluted, neck stiff, chin up, bringing his clenched fist across his chest and straight down. “I will endeavor to serve with distinction,” he promised.
The prince saluted back. “I know you will.”
Once they’d gone, Trilla turned to Palden and smiled. “Thank you,” she said. “I won’t forget this. Gaven and Andaris are like family to me. If not for Rogar, I’d be out there myself.”
Seeing the conflict raging within her, he bowed his head and replied, “It is the least I can do, my lady. After all…your family is my family.”
At this, the dam broke, and a flood of tears began to stream down her cheeks. Chest heaving, she reached up, put her arms around his neck, and kissed him. In that moment the world dropped away, and there was only her, her lips wonderfully warm and soft and salty from her tears, her hair filling his nose with the heady scent of summertime, with a revitalizing bouquet of rolling green hills drenched in sunshine. He held onto her with a need that surprised him, relishing the feel of her—the heat coming off her body, her trim waist and soft skin, the gentle slope of her back. She was a flower in full bloom and, even more remarkable, she was his, to have and to hold until death did they part.
***
Gaven and Andaris had passed through dozens of doorways, each with a different symbol above, before finding the source of the dripping water. They stood in a large, round room, watching the water drip from a network of small holes on the ceiling into a shallow pool at their feet. For the past couple of hours, the temperature had been on the rise, going from a comfortable seventy something, to a sweltering ninety something. Each room they entered felt a degree or two warmer than the last. If the trend continued, they’d soon have to turn around.
From a blizzard to a furnace, Andaris thought, licking his chapped lips. What little was left of their water had grown stale. The pool, on the other hand, looked sparkling, fresh, and altogether inviting. Andaris knelt and, with a tentative expression, stuck in a finger. “It’s cold,” he said. “Do you think it’s safe to drink?”
Gaven knelt beside him, leaned forward, and scooped some up with his hand. “Only one way to find out,” he answered. Dropping his chin, he took a sip, his mouth curving into a smile. “It’s sweet!” he declared. “Like honey!”
Andaris dipped his finger in again and, eying it with distrust, touched it to the tip of his tongue.
“It’s fine,” Gaven assured him. “See?” Grinning like a fool, the big man scooped up a double handful of water and tossed it at him.
Andaris recoiled. “Hey!” he gasped, raising his arms. “What’d you do that for?” Then a few drops of the stuff ran into his mouth, and his irritation vanished. He licked his lips and grinned back at Gaven, feeling a surge of giddiness welling within him. “You’re right!” he exclaimed. “It is good!” In fact, it was better than good…. It was the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted. Unable to stop himself, he belted out a laugh, raked his fingers through the pool, and splashed Gaven right in the face.
Gaven responded in kind and, in a matter of seconds, both were drenched. It occurred to Andaris, at some point during their splash war, that they were behaving strangely, but he felt too good to care—so alive, absolutely euphoric, his senses honed to a razor’s edge. Judging by the way Gaven was dancing about and yelling, “Hah!” while kicking his feet through the water, he felt the same.
At length, they found themselves sitting on the ground beside the pool, exhausted. Gaven’s chest, even though he was obviously having trouble catching his breath, once again began to shake with laughter, a deep guffawing reminiscent of a braying donkey. Andaris imagined what the big man would look like with long furry ears and a tail, which, of course, started him to laughing again, as well.
“I�
�think…think,” Gaven sputtered, “there may be something wrong with…with the water.” This struck them as so hilarious that they laughed until they cried.
Andaris felt like his sides were actually going to split. “Can’t breathe!” he gasped. If they didn’t stop soon, it was going to kill them. Death by laughter, he thought. To his horror, he found this to be the most outrageously funny thing yet. Go out with a smile on your face, that’s what I say. Don’t let death get ya down. No, sir! Just laugh it off! His vision blurred, and began spinning about him like a mad top. Faster and faster and faster it went, spurred by Gaven’s maniacal guffawing. Finally, Andaris’ eyes rolled back into his skull, his legs buckled, and he fell.
Sometime later, he woke with a full bladder and an aching head. He sat up, relieved to discover that his physical discomfort didn’t strike him as even slightly humorous. Was it his imagination, or was the room brighter than before? Gaven lay on his side a couple of feet away, his thunderous snoring echoing off the walls. How long have I been out? he wondered.
“Gaven,” he whispered.
No response.
“Hey Gaven!”
The big man mumbled something in an aggravated tone and rolled onto his back. Andaris nudged him in the ribs with his foot.
At last, Gaven opened his eyes. “I was sleeping,” he complained, “and having a very nice dream, too, about the Johansen twins.”
“I’m sorry for disturbing you, but….” Andaris glanced meaningfully around the room. “Does it seem brighter to you?”
Gaven squinted his eyes and nodded. Not only was it brighter, but the purple glow had been replaced by a clear, sunny kind of light. The gems on the walls sparkled to life and began casting rainbows about the room.
“It’s the pool,” Gaven said. “It’s coming from the pool!”
The Eight Walls of Rogar: An Epic Fantasy Adventure Series! (The Lost Kingdoms of Laotswend Trilogy--Book One) Page 29