The Call of the Sylvana (The Sylvan Chronicles Book 2)

by Peter Wacht

  Many Sylvana shouted their approval for the idea. They were warriors first and foremost. They all knew the advantages of surprise, particularly with an opponent as deadly as the Shadow Lord.

  “Will the Kingdoms stand with us?” asked Tiro. “If they don’t, can we hold?”

  The two simple questions touched off an explosion of argument. Thomas listened to it all, surprised at the vehemence of some of the Warriors. For several minutes the verbal battle raged. Some Sylvan Warriors argued for warning the Kingdoms and enlisting their aid, while others just as strongly voiced their opinions that the Kingdoms would not listen and would not care. What had started out as a calm discussion degenerated into a shouting match. The arguments continued until one of the twins, Aurelia he thought, spoke up.

  “I’m sure the Kingdoms would listen if we rode up to the gates of Eamhain Mhacha and blew them apart.” Her words were met with chuckles of laughter that helped to tone down the discussion, though the arguments continued.

  Thomas was surprised by what was going on. He had always thought that the Sylvana were a dignified people, and above such things as petty disagreements. Rynlin easily interpreted his expression.

  “They are Sylvan Warriors,” said Rynlin, leaning over to whisper in his ear. “But they are also men and women. Like other men and women, they often fall prey to their own egos, misperceptions and fears.”

  Thomas continued to listen to the verbal sparring for more than an hour, until it finally petered out with nothing really decided. The Sylvana would watch and wait. When the attack came they would be ready to defend at the Breaker as they had in the past.

  For some reason, that strategy bothered him. Maybe it was his youth getting in the way of reason. Yet, waiting for an attack didn’t seem like the surest path to victory. After the gathering broke up, the Sylvana made their way back into the forest to their separate camps. Thomas followed along behind Rynlin and Rya, who were deep in discussion. Though their voices were muffled, he picked up a few words.

  “A leader must emerge,” Rya said to Rynlin, her arms crossed over her chest because of the cold.

  “Yes, but it’s too soon. That’s not something that can be forced. It will have to be worked out in its own time.”

  Usually, when Rynlin and Rya whispered when he was around, it never led to anything good. This time whatever they were talking about didn’t seem to apply to him. At least he hoped it didn’t.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Bringing the Chains

  Once the foothills were the breadbasket of the Highlands, providing more than enough food for the people who populated the rugged land. Yet, this bountiful region now bore the scars of war. The burned-out husks of farmhouses had replaced once thriving orchards and fields of wheat and barley. Known for its rich bounty only a few years before, it had become the most obvious symbol of the collapse of Highland power. Although the Highlanders were still the most feared warriors in all the Kingdoms, their numbers were dwindling at a rapid rate.

  Much of the responsibility for that fact lay at the feet of Lord Johin Killeran. He was, actually, quite proud of it. Normally a practical people, these warriors vainly hoped that the true heir to the throne of the Highlands — the Lost Kestrel — would return. The Highlanders saw this boy — the Lost Whelp, as Killeran liked to call him — as their savior, who could give them back the freedom they had lost when the Crag fell. Killeran had a much keener insight than most into the question of whether the boy lord still lived. He knew the truth of the matter. The Lost Kestrel was only a myth.

  Yet, that did not keep the Highlanders from hoping for a miracle. And he did admire their persistence, though it was wasted effort. But enough was enough. It was time for them to admit that they were a conquered people and to begin acting as such. He had enough to do as it was without having to worry about bands of Marchers coming down from the higher passes to harass his men.

  As he saw it, he was only doing his duty. If he had a natural prejudice against the Highlanders, well, they had only themselves to blame. If they had done as he had ordered — asked, really — he would not have been forced to take such extreme measures. Didn’t these Marchers understand the pressures he faced as the Regent of the Highlands?

  Once the Marchers realized that they could not save the Crag from the surprise attack, they had begun a rearguard action to allow as many people as possible to escape into the mountains, where his men dared not follow. After the destruction of the Crag, Killeran had gained marginal control of the lower Highlands. Though lesser in number, the Highlanders still controlled the higher passes.

  The Marchers blended into the forest as if they were a part of it, striking swiftly and then disappearing. Their anger at the loss of their Highland Lord, their homes, their families, their freedom, only served to fuel their rage. Fighting a Marcher was deadly enough. Taking on an angry Marcher was suicidal. Then again, Killeran didn’t really have to worry about that. He didn’t actually have to fight the Marchers himself — one of the prizes of leadership.

  In the beginning, the Marchers were no more than minor annoyances, coming down from the mountains to hound his men and hinder his mining operation. He had hoped that they would stay in their villages, satisfied that they still controlled a portion of their beloved Highlands. Killeran wiped his hand underneath his rather large nose, using his shirtsleeve as a handkerchief. He had suffered colds and chills ever since he came to this cursed land. Ah, well. There was no sense in wishing for an impossibility. He could think of no more difficult people than the Highlanders. Stubborn and strong-willed to a fault, they refused to admit defeat.

  The High King had named him Regent seven years before, giving him charge of the Highlands to rule as he saw fit until Rodric assumed control as the law allowed. That day was only three years away. The rulers of the other Kingdoms had acquiesced to his selection, as most viewed him as a neutral party. Why would a Dunmoorian lord care about the Highlands? They were always more interested in acquiring lands by the border with Armagh.

  That misguided perspective, and the fact that virtually none of the other rulers demonstrated much concern about the fate of Talyn Kestrel and his family, allowed him to take control. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. Gregory of Fal Carrach and Sarelle of Benewyn had vigorously protested his selection. They had been in the minority, though, and a good thing too.

  The High King had given him two charges: exterminate the Marchers and extract from the Highland mines as much wealth as he possibly could. Killeran had learned quickly that the former was virtually impossible because of the tenacity of these uncivilized barbarians. The latter was working out quite well, however.

  The mines located within the foothills had proven to be spectacularly profitable, for both the High King and himself. Rodric certainly didn’t expect him to keep his hand out of the pot, did he? Especially when his hand was tied to that bastard Dinnegan. A worry for another day, though. The spoils that he had taken for himself had made him a wealthy man, and even more greedy. That was now one of the problems.

  He had used captured Highlanders as his miners, working them until they died. Whether it was a man, woman or child didn’t matter to him. All he cared about was how much they produced. Unfortunately, his methods were beginning to work against him. As a result, finding it more of a challenge to enslave Highlanders, he had sent his reivers into Dunmoor and the Clanwar Desert on occasion in search of new workers, but without much luck.

  Most of the mines were in the same general location, so Killeran had built a fort in a strategic location that now served as his point of command. After seven years, though, the lowland mines were beginning to run dry. Consequently, he had found himself out in the cursed Highlands, leading his men on raids into the higher passes and valleys hunting for new workers and new veins. Even if Killeran could only work a mine for a few days before the Marchers disrupted his activities and forced his men back into the foothills, what he could gain from those few days exceeded months of labor at the lower e
levations.

  To remedy the situation, and to exert greater influence on the Marchers, he had requested assistance from the High King. Rodric had been less than happy to provide it, but did so nonetheless. Killeran’s men were no match for the Marchers. That had been proven time and time again. The Marchers, however, were no match for the warlocks Rodric had given him.

  Just thinking about those shadowspawn made his blood run cold. He had heard of sorcerers before, but thought they were relics of the past; of a time when the power of nature was much more than it was now; of a time when evil had not yet been discovered. Every time he thought about it, Killeran found the whole idea slightly preposterous. Where there was man there was evil. That was a simple truth.

  The handful of warlocks Killeran took with him this morning made him wonder if the gold and silver he was stealing from the Highlands was worth it. Though he commanded them, he knew it was only because Rodric had ordered it. The power they controlled was immense, and worst of all, Killeran had no concept of where it came from or its limits, or perhaps Rodric did and just didn’t care.

  He didn’t like it when he didn’t know something. It made him uncomfortable, and nervous. It was difficult to tell the sorcerers apart, as they all wore dark, black robes with their hoods up, even on a warm day. The temperature, whether hot or cold, didn’t seem to affect them. Killeran found that to be particularly alarming. Their only visible feature most of the time was their eyes, which were cold and black.

  Those eyes had been human once, but no more. Perhaps it was the lack of humanity that unsettled him. It was rumored that the warlocks received their dark powers from the Shadow Lord himself. Glancing at them as they stood off to the side and slightly behind him, he decided that was one rumor he didn’t need proven.

  Nevertheless, it was because of them that his raiding parties were becoming more effective. The Marchers had no sorcerers of their own, and therefore no way to fight back. Finding new workers was simply a matter of locating the Highlanders’ current hiding places. At least the warlocks served a purpose — making his life easier.

  Killeran lowered his spyglass, rubbing his eye with his hand. Rising from his place on top of a small crest, he wiped off several spots of dirt from his gleaming silver breastplate before turning around. It was early morning, and the sky to the east slowly turned a dusky red.

  He had just finished positioning his men for the morning’s raid, though it did not look to be particularly promising. He had counted only a dozen small huts hidden among the trees below the ridge. He needed new workers desperately, but he doubted he would find many this morning. Still, he would take what he could get.

  After the warlocks had eliminated the dogs, the Highlanders’ first defense, they had captured the three sentries guarding the village. The Marchers had no chance against the power of the warlocks. In fact, this morning’s raid, if all went as planned, would be more like a cattle roundup. With his men surrounding the small hamlet, their primary task was to make sure that no one escaped. Other than that they had little to do. The warlocks would do the rest, using their black arts to render the opposition unconscious.

  He had taken him several hours to explain to the warlocks that a dead worker was a useless worker, but he had finally gotten it through to them. Now, rather than blowing a Highlander apart with a bolt of energy, they had refined their technique somewhat. By the time the Highlanders awoke, they would be in chains. All in all, Killeran thought it was a rather ingenious system, both efficient and ruthless.

  Killeran brought the spyglass up again and surveyed the soon-to-be battlefield below him one more time. There was no reason for his men to hide. He wanted them to be seen. It would encourage the Highlanders to escape, and the only direction that was free of his reivers’ presence led directly to his warlocks. He grinned in spite of his cold, not realizing that as his cheeks rose up, his resemblance to a rat became even more pronounced because of his long nose.

  “You know what to do?” asked Killeran in a high-pitched voice.

  Kursool and his other sergeants, standing behind him and well away from the warlocks, answered in unison. “Yes, milord.”

  “Good, then be about it. We have little time to waste. The warlocks have discovered two more villages within a day’s ride of here. I mean to have them as well by the end of the day.”

  “Yes, milord.” His three sergeants, all hardened veterans, ran off to their posts, each one in charge of a different compass point.

  He, too, would have preferred to be away from the warlocks. Though they appeared to be less than human, they did retain certain human desires. He had heard the screams of women coming from their barracks many times. Bloodcurdling screams. Screams of despair. He had never gone to investigate, afraid of what he might discover. The remains of the women that were found one morning had sickened him. Those that still lived looked as if their companions, the ones who had not survived the night, were the lucky ones.

  Killeran tore his mind away from his dark thoughts. The attack would begin in fifteen minutes, in plenty of time to retain a measure of surprise. Full light was still an hour away. Killeran tried to wait calmly, though his agitation only increased as each second passed.

  A letter from the High King had arrived just a few days before, demanding to know why the shipment of gold from the Highlands had dwindled to almost nothing. He’d have to think of a good reason for that. Maybe he could blame the Highlanders, and say that they had intercepted several of the wagon trains. Yes, that might be the way to do it. Then Rodric might be persuaded to send him even more men.

  The High King had been reluctant so far, worried that the other Kingdoms would notice and question his motives. But if Killeran had more men, he’d have a much easier time forcing his way into the higher passes. If he could win the higher passes, the wealth he could reap from the mines there would double, perhaps even triple his monthly output. Yes, that was an excellent idea. Motioning to the warlocks behind him, he began making his way down the crest.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Learning His Trade

  The smell of cinnamon rolls baking in the oven forced Thomas’ eyes open. The morning sunshine was just beginning to push its way through the window. Rising from his bed, he leaned on the windowsill and looked out into the Shadowwood. A promising day. A clear sky, if a bit chilly. Thomas walked over to the washstand and splashed water left from the night before on his face and brushed his teeth with soda. After pulling on a new shirt, a relatively clean pair of breeks and his boots, he grabbed his cloak and the pack he had prepared the night before, then headed down the stairs.

  He remembered quite vividly the first time he had gone across to the Highlands on his own. It happened almost a year before, soon after he had joined the Sylvana. Rya hadn’t liked that at all, and he could even recall her exact words.

  “You think you’re going across by yourself?” The surprise in her voice set off a chord within him.

  “Why can’t I?” he replied. “The Highlands are my responsibility.”

  Rya didn’t respond. She couldn’t think of a valid argument, and Thomas knew it. That didn’t keep her from trying to do what she thought was best, though.

  “Fine,” she said. “But Rynlin is going with you.”

  Up until then, Rynlin had sat calmly at the kitchen table, eating his breakfast and trying not to draw any attention to himself. Now, he had been caught in the middle of a war of wills. He had looked from Rya’s fiery eyes to Thomas’ flashing with anger, and once again knew that regardless of what he said, he was going to get himself into trouble.

  “Thomas will have to go across on his own. I’ve got too many things to do today as it is.”

  He had then buried himself in his meal. Rya’s shock at his response was clear as her eyes threatened to pop out of her head. Seeing his opportunity, Thomas quickly gathered his things and left the house before Rya could berate her husband into changing his mind.

  That day had turned out to be more exciting than h
e had ever expected. No sooner had he set foot in the Highlands when a feeling of evil drew him off to the west. He had never forgotten the sense of darkness that came from the Nightstalker, but this was a sharper, unfamiliar feeling. Nevertheless, it was not to be confused with any other. Dark creatures wandered the Highlands. His Highlands. As a Sylvan Warrior, keeping his homeland free of the Shadow Lord’s minions was his responsibility. He tracked the evil for most of the morning, finally finding the source some two or three leagues from where he landed on the coast.

  A pack of Fearhounds had attacked a small farmhouse hidden away in a valley, most likely built there to avoid Killeran’s reivers. Unfortunately, it wasn’t very well protected, and the farmer’s closest neighbor lived several miles away. The farmer had gotten his family inside before the Fearhounds attacked. Despite their repeated attempts the Fearhounds couldn’t break in because of the stone walls and stout wood doors, so they had taken up residence in the yard.

  Moving on silent feet through the surrounding forest, Thomas climbed a small hill rising above the farmhouse. The huge dogs were oblivious to everything around them except their selected prey. After scanning the area to ensure that there were no other dangers to worry about, he pulled several arrows from his quiver. He shot three Fearhounds before the beasts even realized they were under attack. By the time they discovered from which direction, six lay dead in the short grass with arrows through the eye.

  Thomas had been very careful with his shooting. The only sure way to kill a Fearhound because of their thick almost armored hide was with an arrow through the eye. They could shrug off any other blow. The remaining three made a futile charge up the hill, never thinking to circle around and come through the trees, which would have made it more difficult for Thomas to get a clear shot. Most sane men ran at the sight of a single Fearhound, much less stood their ground against three. But Thomas’ feet were rooted to the soil. So caught up in his task, the thought of fleeing never crossed his mind.