The prince showed the scroll to Trilla. “Is this written in your father’s hand?” he asked.
She glanced at the hastily scrawled words and, without looking up, nodded.
The man with the raspy voice stared at Trilla intently for a moment, then his eyes widened. “You have come back to us!” he exclaimed. “After all this time, Rogar’s first daughter has returned!” He brought his hand up in a crisp salute and bowed his head. “Captain Morgani and bowman Myer at your service, my lady. It is an honor to be speaking to her Majesty, and a miracle beyond miracles to see her alive and well.”
“You may approach as friends,” Palden told them.
Trilla struggled to maintain her composure as they neared, for these were her people, and they had obviously suffered a great deal. Morgani was older than she’d first thought, probably around sixty. His armor was battered and bloodied beneath a face that was drawn with exhaustion.
“Thank Rodan you’ve arrived,” he said with a sad smile. “Though I fear it may be too late. We’ve killed so many of them…. But…as King Laris said…they just keep coming…day and night. Myer and I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep for days…. But we can’t complain…. Some, like General Ironshield, have gone longer.”
Ironshield’s sturdy image came to Trilla’s mind. He’d been like a favorite uncle to her growing up, always greeting her with a warm smile and a kind word.
Morgani paused, as though lost in thought, took a steadying breath, and then went on. “We’d all but lost hope,” he said, “but here you are, as if Kolera-sent.”
“Tell me,” Trilla asked tentatively. “How is my father?”
“Oh yes, of course, forgive me, my lady…how stupid of me. King Laris was alive, last I saw him. He fought like one of the kings of old, leading the Alderi Shune in glorious battle. He fell, though only after carrying a wounded man across the field to safety.” Seeing the sudden concern on her face, he raised his hand and shook his head. “Do not fret, my lady, his wound was deep, but I have no doubt he will recover.”
Trilla let out her held breath as quiet tears began to stream down her cheeks. She didn’t care who saw, for right now she was not a princess, neither of Rogar nor Sokerra, she was a girl who’d just been told her father was alive.
Looking somewhat uncomfortable with her public display, Palden patted the back of her hand, drew himself up to his full regal stature, turned to Morgani and said, “Well, don’t just sit there, Captain. Lead the way! As you said, Rogar needs us!”
Morgani gave him a hearty salute, five years seeming to slip from his face, then turned his mount and headed back towards Rogar.
Hold on, Father, Trilla thought, we’re coming.
Sarsallis Bush
“I will not lie still,” the king grumbled. “Not any longer. Not so long as my people need me.” When Terrell had walked in, Laris had been sitting up in bed, grunting and cursing as he struggled to strap on his armor.
“How do you expect to fight in your condition?” Terrell asked. “As much as you hate to admit it, you’re not twenty-five any more.”
Laris scowled at him. “I know you mean well, old friend, but I promised them I would be by their sides, and I intend to be.”
“Yes, I remember, but you didn’t say you would be by their sides even if you were near fatally wounded, did you? No one can ask any more of you, my King. You have already done much more than anyone would have thought possible, including me. What you need now is bed rest, and plenty of it. You are an old man. If you keep pushing yourself like this you’re going to give out. It’s only a matter of time.”
Laris shook his head in defiance. “I heard,” he said. “I was briefed shortly before you arrived. By the sounds of things, I’m no worse off than anyone else. I’d rather die out there, with a sword in my hand, than cower in this damned bed. I’ve seen enough of this bed to last me a lifetime, however long or short that might be. There must be something you can give me. Help me, Doctor. Please. Help me…so that I can help them.”
Terrell uncrossed his arms and studied the king. His piercing blue eyes narrowed. “Very well,” he said. “It will probably kill you, but if you are determined to do this thing, I cannot stop you. There is a powder I make by grinding the root of a mature sarsallis bush. You know, the ones that grow in the desert with the yellow and red blooms.”
Laris nodded impatiently.
“A spoonful of this powder will mask the worst of your pain without clouding your mind or slowing your reactions, but the effect is only temporary. When it wears off, you will be worse than before. Because of its highly addictive nature, I usually reserve it for patients who are near to death. After just one use, you will crave more.”
“How long will it last?” Laris asked.
“It varies from person to person,” Terrell answered, “but at least a few hours.”
Laris’ expression softened. “I’m grateful,” he said. “Now, how about giving me a hand with these straps.”
Terrell noted the king’s haggard face and sunken eyes with concern.
“I see what is on the tip of your tongue, Doctor. You have never been able to hide your thoughts from me. The debate is over, as you well know, so I suggest you keep your lips closed, lest whatever you have to say accidentally escapes your mouth and gets you into trouble.”
Terrell kneeled before the king and began changing his bandages in silence.
Despite everything, Laris chuckled, for the man looked like a petulant child being forced to eat his greens. Terrell was one of the most respected individuals Laris had ever known. He was well into his sixties, a pillar of the community, and yet here he was, sulking as if someone had just stolen his lollypop. This merely confirmed something that Laris already knew. Deep down, beneath all the cultural differences, everyone was the same. At their core, from the lowliest peasant to the ruler of the most powerful kingdom in the land, people ate, slept, loved, lived, and died. All else was illusion.
Laris knew he was not the first to have these thoughts, nor would he be the last. Everything that he could think or do probably had been thought or done before. But he was not some despondent philosopher who had reasoned himself into a corner and was now content to do nothing while his world collapsed around him. He was the king of Rogar, the leader of the Alderi Shune, and though he was also just a man, or perhaps because he was just a man, he would struggle on to the bitter end, no matter how pointless that struggle became, for that’s what being human was all about.
When King Laris stepped into the courtyard, he could scarcely believe his eyes. All except the last wall had fallen to the shapelings. The men fought with grim determination, yet were clearly on the verge of being overwhelmed. He spotted Ironshield amidst the fray, battered and beaten, but alive, standing in front of one of the dozen or so ladders attached to the rampart, atop which flowed a dark river of misshapen flesh. The few thousand Rogarians left moved methodically, as if chopping wood, eyes glazed, faces haggard.
“By Rodan, we will hold them!” the king bellowed, running up the steps to join in. “For Rogar, we will not surrender! Come on, men, dig deep!”
Ironshield and many of the others stared at him in astonishment as he drew his sword and took the place of a thin young man who’d just been stabbed between the ribs. They had all seen Laris fall, and yet here he was, wading into the thick of battle as though fully restored, striking down his enemies with a rising fury, fearless and larger than life.
“What of the women and children?” he yelled.
“They are safe,” Ironshield answered, “fleeing by the thousands towards Sokerra. We are all that is left to guard their escape.”
“Then guard it we shall!” boomed the king. “Come on men! Let’s show these monsters how Alderi Shune die!”
The Keyhole
When they rounded the next corner, Gaven’s hand shot up.
“Not another skeleton I hope?” Andaris asked.
Rather than answering, Gaven turned to the side to le
t him see for himself.
Andaris held up his scale. Thick, dust covered drapes covered the walls of this hall, interrupted every few feet or so by low wooden benches. Above every other bench hung an oval mirror in a golden frame. The benches without mirrors had oil paintings above them, what they could only assume were portraits of deceased members of the royal family—proud eyes gazing across the centuries, so bold and fearless, as if they believed they would live forever.
Andaris found the visual effect created by there being a mirror opposite every portrait somewhat disconcerting. What vanity, he thought, to spend eternity staring at yourself.
“There’s no dust on the mirrors…or paintings,” Gaven pointed out, “but the drapes are covered.”
“I noticed,” Andaris replied. “And there still aren’t any doors. The other halls I can understand. They weren’t finished, but this…. He shook his head. “Why’s it all here? Is it a memorial to the men and women in the paintings, and if so, in recognition of what?”
“Who knows,” Gaven said. “At least we seem to be heading in the right direction. There’s probably some rooms farther down. Come on. Let’s go find out.”
The light of their scales cast shadows before and behind as they walked, lending motion to that which was still. The painted eyes followed them from both sides. Gaven quickened his step. Andaris matched his pace—until, that is, the light touched upon the seventh portrait in line, causing him to gasp and come to a stop.
Gaven turned around. “What’s the matter?” he asked.
Andaris pointed to the painting, too startled to speak. It was a portrait of a young man wearing a flowing burgundy robe, standing atop a hill, overlooking a vast expanse of desert. His features were slender, even elegant, but it was his expression that had made Andaris stop. It was arrogant to the extreme, and his eyes…. They were cruel, pitiless, and most of all, insane, taking in all that he saw with a kind of feverish hunger that was disturbing, especially on the smooth, unlined face of one so young.
Andaris resisted the urge to look into the painting’s mirror, fearing, for some reason, that the expression would be different. He could feel the man in the mirror staring at his back. In his mind’s eye, he was smiling.
“Just keep moving,” Gaven said in a whisper. “I don’t think he…likes us looking at him.”
Andaris nodded and forced himself to face forward. Breaking eye contact with the painting was surprisingly difficult, and now the urge to glance at the mirror was almost overwhelming. Andaris felt sweat pop out on his forehead. He could see the man in the mirror, there in his periphery, smiling at him without mirth, those insane eyes peering straight into his soul. If he made eye contact with him, somehow he knew it would be impossible to break away.
Gaven crept forward, trying not to vibrate the strands of the web, a burglar moving furtively in the night to avoid waking the master of the house. Andaris followed, legs lead cylinders, leaving the painting to be reclaimed by the darkness from which it had sprung.
Was it possible the man had really seen them? Had, in fact, committed their faces to memory with some sinister purpose in mind? It’s just a painting, Andaris told himself. Don’t be foolish. And yet…he’d sensed…something. Hadn’t he? There’d been a presence behind those eyes. Hadn’t there? Something evil and full of hate?
Soon the frames began to appear without mirror or canvas, with nothing more than a name marked in the center of where they hung. It was a great relief to have a break from all those staring eyes. A relief, however, that was tempered by the apparent endless length of the hall—which just went on and on without interruption.
Within the hour, Gaven halted and turned around. “Seems like we should have come to an intersection by now,” he told Andaris.
“Yeah. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”
Deciding to take a break, they sat cross-legged on the floor, and each had a strip of jerky and a sip of water, conserving the bulk of their rations for just in case. Andaris hoped he didn’t come to regret letting Del gobble up so many of his apricots. They kept the conversation light, talking about their sore muscles, their rumbling stomachs, about anything but the elephant in the room—the man in the painting.
A few minutes after they started walking again, Gaven pointed and said, “Look there!” giving Andaris a start. “To the right. Do you see it? It’s covered in dust…and has no handle, but it’s there.”
“A door!” Andaris exclaimed, as though beholding something miraculous.
When they were close enough, the big man reached out with his right hand and wiped some of the dust off the door. “It’s stone,” he said with a cough. “And there are symbols carved into it.”
“Can you read them?” Andaris asked.
Gaven grimaced at the markings. “I’m not certain,” he answered, “but those might be magical letters, runes of power. They’re different from the ones I saw Ashel studying, but the same, too. I can’t explain it.” A moment later, his fingers brushed over a small, hourglass-shaped symbol on the right side of the door. “What’s this I wonder? Could it be…why yes, it is. It’s a keyhole.” Gaven leaned down, put his eye to the hole, and peered through. “It’s an old bedroom,” he announced. “There’s a four-posted bed with tattered curtains around it, a double wardrobe, a chest, and a door on the far wall. Looks like it used to be a little girl’s room. There’s a mirror and a table with a hairbrush on it, and a doll wearing a…yellow dress. At least I think it’s yellow. It’s hard to tell with all the dust.”
Andaris tapped Gaven’s shoulder. “Let me see,” he said.
Gaven moved out the way.
Andaris kneeled and pressed his eye to the hole.
Gaven chuckled, for the expression of wonder on Andaris’ face reminded him of an eager child about to have his first look into a kaleidoscope.
But then Andaris’ brow furrowed, his mouth turned down, and he pulled back.
“What’s wrong?” Gaven asked.
Instead of answering, Andaris squinted back into the hole, confirmed what he had seen, or rather had not seen, and turned to face his friend. “Why would you lie?” he demanded, glaring up at him.
“What are you talking about?” Gaven asked.
“You know very well what I’m talking about!” snapped Andaris. “There’s nothing there...only darkness.”
Gaven just stared at him, dumbfounded.
Andaris stood and said, “Come on, Gaven, it’s a mean joke. Why tell me there’s a bedroom, get my hopes up, when there’s not.”
Gaven shook his head. “But there is a bedroom,” he insisted, leaning back down and looking through. “I don’t under….” He jerked away as though burned. “Andaris,” he said, voice thick with shock, “look through the hole, quickly.”
Andaris opened his mouth to argue, saw that Gaven’s face had gone pale, then kneeled down and peered through.
“Do you see a field with an oak tree?” Gaven asked.
Andaris turned his head and stared at his friend, seeing his own astonishment mirrored back to him.
“Yes,” he murmured. “What’s happening?”
The Lost One
Elkar remembered enough about what had happened to him to know that he should have never woken again. It went against all things natural. The phenomenal strain of using the staff twice in one day should have been more than enough to end his life. And yet here he lay, wrist and ankles bound to a table, left hand strapped to Minorian.
I brought you back, said a crackly voice in his mind, so that you could help me finish what I began.
Elkar could not see who was speaking to him. The lighting in the room was too dim, but he did not need to see—he knew. The voice belonged to the Lost One, a foul beast that had once been a man, a beast that had sustained itself with its dark arts for hundreds of years, committing unspeakable atrocities against any who opposed it. Elkar could feel the malevolent power permeating the air, its ancient evil like a boil against his soul, festering and black, making hi
m gag.
I will not serve you, he thought, swallowing the bile in his throat. I will not betray them! The room filled with cackling laughter, surrounding him, mocking him from all sides.
Funny, that’s the very thing Fenton Albigard told me. But in the end, he broke quite easily. The simple-minded fool didn’t even know he was under my control until it was too late.
Elkar strained against his bonds. “Fenton is an old man,” he said. “I am not!”
Was an old man, the Lost One corrected. I’m afraid the strain of captivity was too much on poor Mr. Albigard.
“You will be held accountable,” Elkar growled. “I will—”
You will what? he interrupted, sounding amused. You cannot even move or speak unless I allow it. I alone animate your lifeless body. I alone move your strings. And your soul, Elkar, your soul I hold in my hand. All I need do is close my fingers and….
Elkar went limp. His head dropped to his chest and, his soul, like a tapestry torn asunder, was drawn from his body. What sweet ecstasy, he thought as he drifted towards the ceiling, towards freedom. What release. But just before he was away, some invisible force caught him and held him in place.
The Eight Walls of Rogar: An Epic Fantasy Adventure Series! (The Lost Kingdoms of Laotswend Trilogy--Book One) Page 32