The Eight Walls of Rogar: An Epic Fantasy Adventure Series! (The Lost Kingdoms of Laotswend Trilogy--Book One) by William Woodward Page B
Authors: William Woodward
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The Bony Man
W ho am I? the bony man asked himself. Why can’t I recall? He was lying atop a mound of freshly tilled earth. He’d been lying there for quite some time, watching the stars fade as the world slowly brightened. It’s cold , he thought. But it wasn’t before. Before it was warm and…quiet. He sat up with a groan and looked around, his body exceptionally stiff. What has happened? he wondered. He was in the center of a small clearing, encircled by lush forest. Turning his head to look behind him, he saw three tiers of neatly stacked stones. A grave, he thought. But whose?
Draped over the stones, attached to a heavy silver chain, hung a blue disc no bigger than his palm. He felt strangely drawn to the disk, so after a brief hesitation, he reached out and picked it up. Etched into the shimmering metal was an inscription. Ashel Tevellin, he read. Magi of the Blue Circle. A conjurer, he thought. This must be his grave . So familiar. But why ?
He felt connected to the amulet, as though it were a part of him, like one of his hands or feet. He rubbed his fingers across its smooth surface, intrigued, then turned it over to look at the other side, which was, as he knew it would be, bereft of print or design.
A moment later, almost without meaning to, he put it on. The chain pulled uncomfortably against the back of his neck, the disc, oddly heavy for its size, hanging against his heart like a stone. Why did he feel so compelled to wear it? It seemed a great burden to carry. He hoped this Ashel Tevellin—whoever he was—did not mind. He would hate to gain the animosity of a dead man, much less a wizard.
“Ashel,” he whispered, testing the name out on his tongue. “Ashel.” He knew that name, but why? The answer was right there, just beyond his reach, at the very tips of his fingers, teasing him. Trying to remember was like trying to catch shadows in the dark. If he could only stretch a little further, he might be able to…and just like that it was gone, whisked away to some remote corner of his mind. He rubbed his head and closed his eyes—then popped them right back open. After taking several deep breaths, he closed them again, amazed to discover that somehow, even with his eyes closed, he could see. How can this be? he questioned. Everything around him had a vague feel to it, a misty, veiled quality. Yet it was definitely there. The trees, the grass, and the grave—it was all there.
Suspecting the amulet was to blame, he opened his eyes, took it off, and tried again. No difference , he thought. But if the amulet isn’t to blame, then what is?
During the next few minutes, he raised and lowered the lids of his eyes dozens of times, endlessly astounded. Is it possible this is normal, he wondered, and I just don’t remember? But that can’t be right . If this is normal, then how do I sleep? I was just asleep a few minutes ago. Wasn’t I? Though why would I have been sleeping on top of someone’s grave ? No, something else must have happened. Did I know this Ashel fellow? Was he an enemy, or perhaps a friend? Did I bury him? And if so, where is the shovel?
As he struggled to piece it all together, an image flashed in his mind. More curious than frightened, he kept his eyes shut. In the image, he saw three people walking down a tree-lined path. Ahead of them, down the trail and around a bend, crouched ten shapelings, vile beasts that served as foot soldiers in the Lost One’s army. The shapelings snarled and hissed as they lay in wait, fangs dripping spittle and snot, fur bristling in anticipation.
The image filled Ashel with fear. The three travelers seemed to have no idea what they were walking into. They looked tired and sad, moving as if the weight of the world rested upon their shoulders,
The Bony Man
W ho am I? the bony man asked himself. Why can’t I recall? He was lying atop a mound of freshly tilled earth. He’d been lying there for quite some time, watching the stars fade as the world slowly brightened. It’s cold , he thought. But it wasn’t before. Before it was warm and…quiet. He sat up with a groan and looked around, his body exceptionally stiff. What has happened? he wondered. He was in the center of a small clearing, encircled by lush forest. Turning his head to look behind him, he saw three tiers of neatly stacked stones. A grave, he thought. But whose?
Draped over the stones, attached to a heavy silver chain, hung a blue disc no bigger than his palm. He felt strangely drawn to the disk, so after a brief hesitation, he reached out and picked it up. Etched into the shimmering metal was an inscription. Ashel Tevellin, he read. Magi of the Blue Circle. A conjurer, he thought. This must be his grave . So familiar. But why ?
He felt connected to the amulet, as though it were a part of him, like one of his hands or feet. He rubbed his fingers across its smooth surface, intrigued, then turned it over to look at the other side, which was, as he knew it would be, bereft of print or design.
A moment later, almost without meaning to, he put it on. The chain pulled uncomfortably against the back of his neck, the disc, oddly heavy for its size, hanging against his heart like a stone. Why did he feel so compelled to wear it? It seemed a great burden to carry. He hoped this Ashel Tevellin—whoever he was—did not mind. He would hate to gain the animosity of a dead man, much less a wizard.
“Ashel,” he whispered, testing the name out on his tongue. “Ashel.” He knew that name, but why? The answer was right there, just beyond his reach, at the very tips of his fingers, teasing him. Trying to remember was like trying to catch shadows in the dark. If he could only stretch a little further, he might be able to…and just like that it was gone, whisked away to some remote corner of his mind. He rubbed his head and closed his eyes—then popped them right back open. After taking several deep breaths, he closed them again, amazed to discover that somehow, even with his eyes closed, he could see. How can this be? he questioned. Everything around him had a vague feel to it, a misty, veiled quality. Yet it was definitely there. The trees, the grass, and the grave—it was all there.
Suspecting the amulet was to blame, he opened his eyes, took it off, and tried again. No difference , he thought. But if the amulet isn’t to blame, then what is?
During the next few minutes, he raised and lowered the lids of his eyes dozens of times, endlessly astounded. Is it possible this is normal, he wondered, and I just don’t remember? But that can’t be right . If this is normal, then how do I sleep? I was just asleep a few minutes ago. Wasn’t I? Though why would I have been sleeping on top of someone’s grave ? No, something else must have happened. Did I know this Ashel fellow? Was he an enemy, or perhaps a friend? Did I bury him? And if so, where is the shovel?
As he struggled to piece it all together, an image flashed in his mind. More curious than frightened, he kept his eyes shut. In the image, he saw three people walking down a tree-lined path. Ahead of them, down the trail and around a bend, crouched ten shapelings, vile beasts that served as foot soldiers in the Lost One’s army. The shapelings snarled and hissed as they lay in wait, fangs dripping spittle and snot, fur bristling in anticipation.
The image filled Ashel with fear. The three travelers seemed to have no idea what they were walking into. They looked tired and sad, moving as if the weight of the world rested upon their shoulders,
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