The Eight Walls of Rogar: An Epic Fantasy Adventure Series! (The Lost Kingdoms of Laotswend Trilogy--Book One)

by Woodward, William

  I can return you just as easily, the Lost One cooed.

  Elkar felt the invisible bonds tighten and, with a violent jerk, was back in his body. He raised his head, trying desperately to summon his magic. He could feel that it was still there. It was merely blocked, held just beyond his reach. As he struggled, a figure emerged from the shadows and walked slowly towards him.

  The Lost One wore a fine burgundy robe draped loosely over his ravaged frame. “The only magic you will be doing,” he said aloud, voice as brittle as crumbling parchment, “will be for me.” The skin of his face, which had both the tint and texture of cured meat, stretched tight as his jaw worked, looking ready to split open at any moment.

  His teeth, in stark contrast, were strikingly white, polished to a high luster. The effect was unsettling, to say the least. But Elkar knew, regardless of how brightly they gleamed, that they were only a facade masking the corruption within, for the Lost One’s breath reeked of decay, wafting from the back of his throat as though he’d been dead for a week.

  Elkar had once found the bloated remains of a man who’d had the misfortune of getting lost in the desert. His bladder and bowels had released the moment he’d died, saturating, along with the other fluids that had seeped from his skin, every inch of his expensive cloak. Vultures had plucked out his eyes and dug large chunks of meat from his corpse. By the time Elkar had found him, those holes had turned into maggot-filled lesions, each a pus-ridden pocket of disease. The smell that had come from those lesions had been, until now, the rankest stench he had ever encountered, the sort of stench that can only be purified with fire.

  Elkar cringed as a black-shelled beetle with a red design on its back crawled from the Lost One’s mouth, scurried across the top of his lip, and disappeared into his right nostril. The Lost One raised his arm and gestured with a skeletal finger to the wall. “Behold,” he hissed. The spot at which he pointed began to swirl together. A moment later, from the center of the vortex, Rogar castle appeared.

  At first, Elkar was shown a bird’s eye view of things—charred, dismembered bodies strewn amidst the destruction atop and between the walls, the shapeling’s unfaltering advance against the still formidable backdrop of the castle. Ironshield, the king, and a few thousand others were fighting desperately to hold the line. Has it come to this? he thought. The Lost One zoomed in on Laris’ face. Elkar could see the stoic resolve in the king’s eyes, his unwillingness to yield no matter what the outcome.

  “You see how close my beloved servants are to victory?” the Lost One asked. “You might as well give yourself over to me. The battle is already won. I admit that King Laris and his legendary Alderi Shune have held on longer than I expected…but really, after waiting and planning for more than two centuries, what difference does a few days make?”

  Staring at the hopeless exchange, Elkar felt a deep despair welling up within him. I should be there, he thought, to die with them.

  “You will pledge allegiance to me, my pet. Body, mind, and soul.”

  “I will not!” Elkar yelled. “You cannot force me!”

  “At one time that might have been true, but not now. You are not what you were two hundred years ago, and while you have diminished, I have grown strong!”

  Elkar shuddered as the Lost One, slimy and black, pushed deeper into his mind. He fought him with everything he had, but soon the throbbing between his temples became more than he could stand and, slowly, haltingly, his lips began to move without his leave.

  “I swear…my allegiance…to you,” he said, “body, mi…mind, and…and soul.”

  “Now you understand?” the Lost One croaked. “Exertion is wasted. Why not surrender and end your misery.”

  Elkar was horrified how quickly he had succumbed. He was helpless to do anything but lay there, breath rattling from his chest, body shivering with fever, as if all the warmth had been sucked from his bones, leaving him hollow inside.

  Again, the Lost One laughed, a harsh cackling full of contempt, making him feel weak and small, filling his mind with images of defeat—an old woman drawing her last breath beneath the cruel gaze of a great horned beast, a stillborn child being delivered to a girl who had no legs and only one deformed arm, plague victims covered with boils glibly walking into a sea of lava. Famine, pestilence, war, it was all there, thrust into his mind like a barbed sword. Elkar knew the spell being cast was designed to emotionally disarm its victim. This knowledge, however, did not aid him. He felt powerless to resist. He was so tired. More tired than he’d ever been. A worn out fool who couldn’t even guard his own thoughts. Rogar needed their wizard now more than ever, and he could do nothing. How could he help them, if he could not even help himself?

  No, he thought with sudden rage. I will not submit! I will not allow this to happen! “I am Elkar Linderen!” he announced in a booming voice. “Guardian of the Seven Laws of Criciless! Keeper of the Holy Amulet of Kolera! Protector of the light! In the name of our lord and savior, Rodan, I cast you from my mind into the yawning abyss! Out demon! I command thee! Out!” Tears streamed down his cheeks as a searing agony, like hot needles, stabbed his eyes. “Out!” he cried. “Oouut!” His face became livid as he struggled against his restraints. His throat swelled shut. And then suddenly, like breaking through an invisible wall, the pain vanished and he could once again breathe.

  “My, my,” his captor praised with a sneer, “that was impressive. You have more strength left than I gave you credit for. Your focus is rare, indeed, but it will avail you not.” He frowned. “Hmm. What a shame. If only you had accepted my offer all those years ago, just think what we could have accomplished. Oh well, it’s too late now, isn’t it? You had your chance. You made your decision. Though don’t be surprised if you come to regret it; that is, if you don’t already.”

  Elkar was too spent to do anything more than glare at him. He had done all that he could, and it hadn’t been nearly enough. He had forced the Lost One momentarily out of his mind. That was all. He was just as much a prisoner now as before. What will become of us? he wondered, glancing back to the image on the wall. The king and the Alderi Shune fought on even though they knew it was hopeless. If the Lost One was showing him this to break his spirit, he had miscalculated. Elkar’s chest swelled with pride. If his countrymen could stand tall in the face of certain annihilation—then so could he.

  “Sorry to disappoint,” the Lost One said, “but you will not be allowed a noble death like your brethren there. No indeed, your fate will be quite different from theirs…yet irrevocably linked, as is my own.” He smiled, looking very pleased with himself, as though he’d said something clever. A beetle broke through the skin on his left cheek and crawled around to the back of his neck. His smile broadened as he casually, almost unconsciously, caught the beetle between his thumb and forefinger and popped it into his mouth. “I plan to keep you alive for a very long time,” he said as he chewed it up. “Every few hundred years or so, I will put your parasitic soul into a new shapeling host.”

  Elkar averted his eyes, trying to hide his alarm. Death was one thing, but this….

  “Oh, don’t look so glum,” the Lost One said. “Here, I have something for you, a present to cheer you.” With trembling glee, he opened his mouth, hocked up a glob of black snot, and spat it onto Elkar’s face.

  Elkar could feel something crawling through the muck, but was powerless to wipe it off, powerless to do anything. He tried not to think about what it might be. What if one of those beetles crawled inside of him and laid its eggs? What then?

  “It’s quite an honor, really,” the Lost One continued. “You see, Elkar, you are to be my greatest general, leading my shapelings against your own kind until there is not one of them left. The irony is delicious, don’t you think? For even if by some miracle the world survives my beloved shapelings, it will never survive you.”

  Elkar felt his body de-animate as the horror of the Lost One’s words began to sink in. The last thing he heard before slipping under was the sound
of cackling laughter.

  Reunion

  Prince Palden and the Sokerrans galloped into Rogar’s main square, bearing witness to an incredible sight—King Laris and a few thousand others holding back the brunt of an overwhelming force. The Sokerrans had passed the fleeing civilians on their way in, so they knew things had become desperate, but they had not expected this. Trilla heard her father’s voice raised above the clamor.

  “We must hold!” he yelled. “For the children!” Injured or no, Laris’ sword struck out like a snake, felling any enemy foolish enough to come within five feet of him.

  Prince Palden hesitated, stunned by what he saw. For all his training and skill, this was the first time he had glimpsed the full brutality of war. In part because of that training, and in part because of the man he was fast becoming, his hesitation lasted only a moment.

  “Full attack!” he shouted. “For Rogar!” They were Sokerrans, which meant they were best when fighting from the saddle; but mounted or afoot, they were a force to be reckoned with.

  Laris heard the ringing of trumpets as Prince Palden and his men ran up the steps. He could scarcely believe they were real until they were there, streaming past behind him, filling the length of the wall with color and vitality, pushing back the shapeling army with the strength of ten thousand swords.

  Trilla could only watch from below as they fought, trying not to lose sight of them—husband at one end of the wall, father at the other. She winced as a giant, bat-like creature came swooping in towards Laris. “Look out!” she cried. Over the booming of cannon and clashing of swords, he couldn’t possibly have heard. And yet, just before the foul thing buried its claws into his back, he spun and hacked off one of its wings.

  Thank Rodan, she thought. It was amazing, at his age, that he could still move so fast. She remembered watching him practice in the courtyard below her bedroom window when she was a little girl. To her he had been larger than life, a mythical hero who could vanquish any foe. Indeed, even when he’d taken on more than one opponent at a time, which was often, he never lost. She remembered clapping her hands and waving as he smiled up at her, as he took off his helmet and bowed low.

  He’d been so strong and full of life in those days, but that was before her mother died, when the world had been filled with laughter and light, when it seemed the warm sunny days of her youth would last forever. Looking at him now, she almost felt like that little girl again, sitting high up on her window seat, eyes full of admiration and love.

  The battle continued a few minutes longer before the drums signaled the shapelings to fall back. The sudden appearance of the Sokerrans had taken them off guard, but Laris knew it wouldn’t last. They’d return, and in greater numbers than before. And when they did, Rogar would have to be ready. All around him, soldiers shook hands, patting each other on the backs, exchanging words of praise. For the first time in centuries, Rogarian and Sokerran troops had fought side by side, defending the realm against invasion.

  Laris smiled, taking it all in. The Sokerran army had always been a bit gaudy for his taste, what with their crisp gold and green banners and bright, gilded armor. At the moment, however, they were the most beautiful sight his old eyes had ever glimpsed.

  The king walked up to one of the more distinguished looking soldiers, a man with long blonde hair and a high, sloping forehead, removed his helmet, and said, “Please, I must speak to your commanding officer.”

  The soldier bowed low. “Follow me, your Majesty; I will take you to the prince.”

  Laris nodded and gestured for him to proceed. The last time he’d seen him, the prince had been an awkwardly built young man with limbs that seemed too long for his body, a lanky youth who still had the rosebud cheeks of a boy. As they approached, Laris could see that much had changed. Palden had matured into a fine young man, resplendent in a flowing emerald green cloak and gleaming armor. The prince removed his helm, the sides of which had twining roses stenciled into the gold, and turned to greet him.

  “We are in your supreme debt,” Laris said, coming to stop. “I’d given up hope that our messengers had reached Sokerra.”

  “They did not, your Majesty.”

  Laris’ eyebrows drew together. “Then how…?” he asked.

  The prince smiled and looked down at Trilla, who was watching anxiously from the courtyard. When Laris’ eyes met his daughter’s, his face went slack, expression becoming childlike. Trilla’s chest heaved and her lips parted in a hesitant smile.

  “My daughter?” he asked. “My beloved daughter?”

  All stood aside as he turned and made his way down the steps to the ground. Trilla could tell he was working hard to keep his composure, as was she. Despite her efforts, silent tears began to stream down her cheeks. He looked so much older, walking with a limp, armor battered, face bruised and cut.

  When he reached her, he just stood there, staring at her, as though she were a porcelain doll too fragile to touch.

  Unable to stand it any longer, Trilla flung her arms around his neck. “I missed you so much,” she sobbed.

  “I’m sorry,” he said in a gruff voice. “I drove you away, I see that now. I allowed my pride to come between us.”

  She pulled back and looked into his eyes. “I’m sorry, too,” she sniffled.

  “Trilla, my dear,” Laris said, holding his side, “will you help me into the castle? I don’t want the men to see.”

  “But why?” she started to ask. Then she realized how ill he looked—bloodshot eyes buried into pale, clammy flesh. She put the back of her hand against his cheek. “You’re burning up!” she exclaimed.

  “It’s my shoulder,” he told her, touching the vertical slash on the side of his breastplate.

  She wiped her eyes. He had always been so strong, and now needed her to be strong for him. This was no time for crying. “Here, Father,” she said, “lean on me.”

  Laris chuckled weakly and put his arm around her. “Thank you, my dear. You’ve always been tougher than you look, haven’t you? Reminds me of your mother. Rodan bless her soul. You know…it’s strange. Even after all these years, I still sometimes wake and, for a moment, forget that she’s gone. Then I realize and…well…I miss her so much, Trilla. More than I can say.”

  “I know, father, so do I.” All eyes were on them as, step by arduous step, they made their way into the castle. A hush fell, the mood becoming tentative. On one hand, the Rogarians were delighted to see their princess again—not to mention the ten thousand Sokerrans she’d brought with her. On the other hand, they were deeply troubled about their king.

  Doctor Terrel rushed to Trilla’s side as they hobbled into Laris’ bedchambers. “I tried to stop him,” he told her, face flushing with shame.

  She nodded and, together, they eased him onto the bed.

  “Let’s get this armor off,” Terrel suggested.

  Trilla frowned as they un-strapped his breastplate, noting the large purple bruises blossoming on his stomach and chest. They paled by comparison, however, next to the six-inch-long gash on his shoulder. The stitches had come loose, and now the mouth of the wound gaped wide, spitting up dark yellow pus. Most of the flesh around the gash was an angry red, puffy and full of fever, but the skin on the inside was beginning to turn black. Oh Father, she thought, what have they done to you?

  “Wouldn’t be surprised if a couple of those ribs are broken,” Terrell told her in a matter of fact tone.

  Trilla didn’t answer.

  Laris’ eyelids fluttered shut and he began to snore.

  Trilla turned to Doctor Terrell. “Thank you for your help,” she said. “Now, if you’ll give me some room, I’ll do what I can.”

  “That wound must be cleansed and re-stitched,” Terrell pointed out, “perhaps even cauterized, I don’t think—“

  “I know how concerned you are,” she interrupted, “but trust me, I know what I’m doing.”

  Terrell hesitated, weighing her with his eyes, then nodded and backed away.

  Tril
la pressed her ear against her father’s chest. Despite his injuries, his heartbeat was both steady and strong. Relieved, she laid her hands on his shoulder, and began to chant.

  The Portal

  Gaven and Andaris had been sitting in the middle of the hall for close to an hour now, trying to make sense of what they were seeing through the keyhole.

  “There’s probably some kind of pattern to it,” Gaven said, keeping his eye pressed firmly to the hole. “Each image lasts about ten seconds then shifts to another. Might repeat if we wait long enough.” He sighed and switched eyes. “This could be what Ashel used to call a…‘displacement door.’ Supposedly, they had the power to transport a person from one point to another, much like a portal, even across vast distances. All you had to do was walk through and,” he snapped his fingers, “just like that you were there.”

  “Do you think we can use it?” Andaris asked.

  “That’s what I’m hoping, but I don’t know. There must be some way to set it on…. Hey!” he exclaimed. “I see the courtyard and the first wall. The Sokerrans made it! And…I think…yes, there’s Prince Palden and Ironshield.” But then the image wavered, and was replaced by a corridor lined with books.

  They sat there for another hour or so, taking turns at the keyhole, seeing many different places, some familiar some not, until at last the images did in fact begin to repeat.

  “It’s back to that room,” Gaven said. “The one that came right before the courtyard.” Last time he had seen something in the center of the room, but because of the poor lighting had not been able to make out what it was. Now, however, he could see a man wearing a flowing burgundy robe leaning over a table. Someone was on the table. Gaven narrowed his eye. Was he or she strapped to it?