The Eight Walls of Rogar: An Epic Fantasy Adventure Series! (The Lost Kingdoms of Laotswend Trilogy--Book One) by William Woodward
Authors: William Woodward
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until your last ounce of strength and will is gone, no matter how futile that struggle becomes.
Wildflowers would soon blanket the mound with vivid color. The thought brought a wan smile to his face, yet also made him realize the need for a marker. After a brief search of the cottage, he found a wooden plaque hanging on the wall with Shamilla’s family name and crest carved upon it. He chopped the base of the plaque to a point using his hand axe, and then pounded it several inches into the earth, stacking stones around it for good measure. Like his father always said, “Do a job right or do it twice.”
“Goodbye,” Andaris whispered, turning from the grave with red-rimmed eyes. “And thank you...for everything.” The long hours of exercise had proven cathartic, helping him center his thoughts and work through his grief. His muscles ached and sweat poured from his brow, but all in all, certainly in the ways that mattered most, he felt much better. While digging the grave, he had decided to try and find Shamilla’s friend in Stonegarden, for his own sake as well as to let someone else know what had happened here. It seemed the least he could do, considering everything Shamilla had done for him.
Still feeling numb, he began gathering supplies for the trip—dry provisions, the maps, a skin of water, and a purse of square copper coins. Andaris had no doubt that, under the circumstances, Shamilla would have wanted him to take whatever he needed, remembering how the old man had lamented having no family to whom he could leave his house and belongings. What Andaris didn’t take would just sit and gather dust, serving no use to anyone, presuming, that is, no one came along and looted the place.
It wasn’t until he was on his way out the door that he noticed the crossbow hanging in the entranceway. He stared at it a moment, then lifted it from its hook. Light and compact, the weapon looked small enough to carry on his belt. Andaris marveled at the fine craftsmanship. Made of polished cherrywood, it had twin serpents carved into either side of its slender stock, darts of fire shooting from their open jaws. That alone made it a thing of beauty, and no doubt one of Shamilla’s most prized possessions, but because its curving end was capped with silver, silver into which the old man’s name was ornately stenciled; it was likely a thing of considerable value as well. Shamilla had mentioned that he sometimes took a crossbow with him when he was traveling. In fact, he’d bragged about what a fine shot he was, describing several instances when the weapon had saved his life.
After clipping the crossbow to his belt, Andaris spotted a brown leather bag sitting on the floor in the corner. He leaned down, untied its neck, and looked inside, pleased to see that it held a number of iron-tipped bolts. He loaded two of the bolts into the crossbow, straining to stretch the cords back, and then dumped the rest into his pack.
He didn’t really know how to use the thing, yet even so, just having it made him feel better. The next macradon that tangles with me , he vowed, is going to get a pop in the eye. Realizing that he was at last ready, he stole a final look around the room, took a deep breath, and walked out the door.
A fierce barking stopped him as he reached the property line. Jade came running up to him, rubbing her head on his leg and licking his hand. “Where’d you disappear to?” he asked her. “Yes, all right,” he said, very glad for the company. “You may come.”
The forest closed around them after only a few steps, blocking their view of the cottage. In a way it was a relief to leave it behind, along with all the memories that Shamilla’s death had now made bittersweet, but in a way he regretted it, for the cottage represented the only safety he’d known since leaving home and venturing into the wilderness. Jade loped along beside him, head hanging in
Wildflowers would soon blanket the mound with vivid color. The thought brought a wan smile to his face, yet also made him realize the need for a marker. After a brief search of the cottage, he found a wooden plaque hanging on the wall with Shamilla’s family name and crest carved upon it. He chopped the base of the plaque to a point using his hand axe, and then pounded it several inches into the earth, stacking stones around it for good measure. Like his father always said, “Do a job right or do it twice.”
“Goodbye,” Andaris whispered, turning from the grave with red-rimmed eyes. “And thank you...for everything.” The long hours of exercise had proven cathartic, helping him center his thoughts and work through his grief. His muscles ached and sweat poured from his brow, but all in all, certainly in the ways that mattered most, he felt much better. While digging the grave, he had decided to try and find Shamilla’s friend in Stonegarden, for his own sake as well as to let someone else know what had happened here. It seemed the least he could do, considering everything Shamilla had done for him.
Still feeling numb, he began gathering supplies for the trip—dry provisions, the maps, a skin of water, and a purse of square copper coins. Andaris had no doubt that, under the circumstances, Shamilla would have wanted him to take whatever he needed, remembering how the old man had lamented having no family to whom he could leave his house and belongings. What Andaris didn’t take would just sit and gather dust, serving no use to anyone, presuming, that is, no one came along and looted the place.
It wasn’t until he was on his way out the door that he noticed the crossbow hanging in the entranceway. He stared at it a moment, then lifted it from its hook. Light and compact, the weapon looked small enough to carry on his belt. Andaris marveled at the fine craftsmanship. Made of polished cherrywood, it had twin serpents carved into either side of its slender stock, darts of fire shooting from their open jaws. That alone made it a thing of beauty, and no doubt one of Shamilla’s most prized possessions, but because its curving end was capped with silver, silver into which the old man’s name was ornately stenciled; it was likely a thing of considerable value as well. Shamilla had mentioned that he sometimes took a crossbow with him when he was traveling. In fact, he’d bragged about what a fine shot he was, describing several instances when the weapon had saved his life.
After clipping the crossbow to his belt, Andaris spotted a brown leather bag sitting on the floor in the corner. He leaned down, untied its neck, and looked inside, pleased to see that it held a number of iron-tipped bolts. He loaded two of the bolts into the crossbow, straining to stretch the cords back, and then dumped the rest into his pack.
He didn’t really know how to use the thing, yet even so, just having it made him feel better. The next macradon that tangles with me , he vowed, is going to get a pop in the eye. Realizing that he was at last ready, he stole a final look around the room, took a deep breath, and walked out the door.
A fierce barking stopped him as he reached the property line. Jade came running up to him, rubbing her head on his leg and licking his hand. “Where’d you disappear to?” he asked her. “Yes, all right,” he said, very glad for the company. “You may come.”
The forest closed around them after only a few steps, blocking their view of the cottage. In a way it was a relief to leave it behind, along with all the memories that Shamilla’s death had now made bittersweet, but in a way he regretted it, for the cottage represented the only safety he’d known since leaving home and venturing into the wilderness. Jade loped along beside him, head hanging in
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