by Wacht, Peter
“I know you do, but I still worry about you, particularly because Rynlin will be with you. He’s not always the best influence.”
“Hey,” protested Rynlin. “You do realize that I’m standing right here?”
“Of course I knew you were there, my darling,” replied Rya. “I wouldn’t have said it otherwise.”
Rya stepped forward with a smile, then a quick hug for her grandson that he returned, which was out of character for him. His grandfather, who prided himself on his roguish appearance, gave Thomas a clap on the back before Rya released him, as she saw over Thomas’ shoulder that someone else wanted to talk with him before he and his Marchers headed west.
“Thomas, can I speak with you for a moment?”
Kaylie stood there, hands clasped in front of her, lines of worry creasing her forehead. Her black hair danced in the cold gusts of air coming off the Highland peaks, forcing her to push it away regularly from her elfin face. Normally self-assured, she appeared to be nervous. Rya had talked with Kaylie earlier that morning, catching up with her student on the progress that she had been making in learning the Talent. But it wasn’t long before that conversation had become more personal, touching on several sensitive topics that Kaylie didn’t feel that she could speak about with anyone else. With that in mind, Rya realized that now was the time to take their leave.
“Come along, Rynlin, we have much to do, particularly if you still mean to accompany your grandson. Thomas, if you have need of me during your travels, don’t hesitate to reach out.”
Rya fingered the silver amulet that hung around her neck, shaped in the form of a unicorn’s horn. Each Sylvan Warrior wore one, and it allowed them to know when those who had earned the honor and right to wear the ancient necklaces were well or in danger and in need of help.
“If things go well, we won’t have need of you.”
“Let’s hope that proves to be the case,” said Rynlin, following grudgingly after his wife. “Just don’t count on it.”
Kaylie stepped forward then, initially reluctant to meet his gaze. Once again, Kaylie’s beauty struck Thomas, a soft ache forming in his chest. He remembered the first time that he had seen her in the Burren. She had stood at the edge of a secluded waterfall, brandishing a dagger at two approaching Ogren. The massive dark creatures, twice the size of a man and standing at least ten feet tall, large, sharp tusks protruding from their lower jaws and curling upward, their hands shaped more like claws but still able to grasp swords or maces, had roared in triumph as they charged toward her. Her friends had stepped farther back into the pool, terrified by the monsters rushing toward them. Nevertheless, Kaylie had stood her ground, refusing to be an easy kill. Based on his experience, she was a courageous and confident young woman. Yet now, at this very moment, she seemed unsure of herself, nervous and uncertain. Thomas didn’t know how to respond to the Princess of Fal Carrach’s uncharacteristic behavior, so he simply stood there quietly, waiting patiently.
“Yesterday, your grandfather talked through the prophecy. Do you believe the role that he laid out for you is correct?” Kaylie finally turned her eyes to his, her fears for him now clearly on display.
“You mean in terms of having to fight the Shadow Lord?”
“Yes.”
Kaylie knew such a requirement was a death sentence. No one had ever challenged the Shadow Lord and lived.
Rather than confirming her fears, Thomas wanted to tell Kaylie something that would make her feel better, that would allow her worry to drain away. But he felt that doing so would be a disservice to her. Instead, he tried to change the subject.
“Thank you for your help during the fighting, Kaylie. We couldn’t have succeeded without you. You’ve come a long way in your use of the Talent.”
“Thank you, Thomas.” She smiled at the compliment, experiencing a growing pride in her ability to master the natural magic of the world. “But please don’t try to take this conversation down a different road.”
Thomas nodded reluctantly, knowing that Kaylie’s tenacity would never have allowed him to derail her focus, though he at least had to try. “Yes, as I said yesterday, I believe that I will have to fight the Shadow Lord if we are to have any chance of surviving what’s to come. That’s assuming, of course, that I can make it into Blackstone alive.”
Kaylie stood there for a moment, fighting back the tears that threatened to pour from her eyes. Giving in to the emotions that raged within her, she reached forward, taking Thomas’ head in her hands. She stared into his eyes for just a moment, then kissed him deeply on the lips. She held him like that for a long time, and Thomas was more than happy to stay there, enjoying the private moment. But then she stepped back, letting him go. Tears streaked down her cheeks as she took one last look at him, then she turned and walked away.
Thomas watched her go, mesmerized by what had just happened. It was then that Oso appeared at his side, clapping him on the shoulder as he watched Kaylie lose herself in the preparations going on around them.
“Quite a girl,” the big Marcher said.
“Yes, she is.”
“A bit difficult to understand, though, don’t you think?”
“What do you mean, Oso?”
“Well, the day before yesterday, after you killed that dark creature, she hit you and then kissed you. Today, she kisses you again. The next time she sees you, just to balance things out, she’ll probably hit you. Do women ever act in a way that we’ll understand?”
Thomas smiled. “I’m not one who can say, Oso. In my experience, women do what they want when they want. Questioning it just gives you a headache.”
“I agree with you on that. Trying to figure out Anara and what she wants makes my head want to explode at times.” Shaking his head in bewilderment, Oso slapped Thomas on the back a second time, smiling at his flustered friend. “No matter. That’s a challenge for another day. Let’s go kill a High King. That’ll be much easier than trying to figure out the women in our lives.”
CHAPTER NINE
Anger and Fear
Rodric Tessaril, the former High King and still ruler of Armagh, galloped through the gates of Eamhain Mhacha’s keep as if a demon pursued him, and perhaps one did, at least in his own mind. Pulling his horse up short, he hopped off, slipping as his worn boots hit the wet cobblestones of the courtyard in his haste, only a lucky grab for his mount’s bridle preventing him from falling face first into an ankle-deep puddle of grimy water. Righting himself with a curse and not wanting to wait for the stable hand to come forward to take the reins, he walked toward the huge doors that led into the fortress, the guards pulling them open quickly, unwilling to risk the more than usually irritated High King’s wrath. Rodric’s anger since his ignominious retreat from the Highlands had simmered and then swelled with each passing league that had taken him farther west, finally reaching a point where it threatened to boil over.
After stepping through the spinning portal of black created by their master, he, Killeran, and Chertney found themselves at the northern shore of the Inland Sea where the Armaghians had begun their ill-fated expedition into the Highlands. The destruction that awaited him on that bleak coast had forced him to acknowledge the extent of his failure. The Marchers had wiped out the once bustling camp, the tents torn and shredded, the rickety buildings that had been constructed so haphazardly burned to the ground, the supply depot simply gone, and most likely seized by the Marchers for their own use. Only a few soldiers remained to greet him when he appeared, the rest dead or driven off to the west and obliged to make their way back to their homeland on foot. He had never considered the possibility that the Highland Lord would set his Marchers upon his supply camp. That lack of imagination had cost him dearly, and the thoroughness of the attack unnerved him. Commandeering the only serviceable boat that remained on the shore, they had traveled west across the lake and then started the arduous journey back to the Armaghian capital. The horses were lathered, half dead and starving when he finally arrived in the capita
l, but Rodric didn’t care as he stormed into the keep, Killeran and Chertney following closely at his heels.
Rodric ached to tear into his two companions, to blame them for all that had happened, to place the fault for this devastating failure somewhere else. But his fear won out. Chertney was a tall man, almost wraithlike in appearance, with long black hair and a mustache that curled at the edges. His intense black eyes were both hypnotic and terrifying. He inspired fear and nothing more. But since his dramatic defeat to Rynlin Keldragan right before the Battle of the Highlands, the old man effortlessly combatting his conjuring of Dark Magic, Chertney had appeared diminished in some way, a shadow of his former self. Nevertheless, over the last few days, slowly but surely Chertney had regained his strength in Dark Magic, and with it that sense of menace that radiated from him had returned, aided by the look on his face that suggested that he was not one to be trifled with at that moment. Killeran, his large nose leading, and his normally pristine armor dented, scratched and showing signs of rust, trailed reluctantly behind Chertney, muttering to himself. If not Chertney, perhaps Rodric could lay the blame at Killeran’s feet. Rodric knew that his real master, the one he was truly beholden to, had little tolerance for failure. The debacle in the Highlands put Rodric at risk, and he needed a scapegoat if he couldn’t turn this defeat into something more positive.
He had a niggling suspicion that had blossomed into a full-fledged fear as he traveled west back to Armagh that the Shadow Lord might view his usefulness, now that the Highlands had confirmed their independence and several other Kingdoms had declared war on Armagh, as having come to an end. If that proved to be the case, then he knew that there was only one possible outcome, one that he decidedly didn’t want to consider. So he had to find some way to demonstrate his continued value. He was still the King of Armagh. He would not give up his birthright without a fight. Besides, if he could hold Armagh, perhaps the Shadow Lord would have cause to view his defeat in the Highlands as only a temporary setback and something that could be turned to his advantage.
“I might have lost the battle, but they’ll have to take my crown from my lifeless body,” Rodric whispered to himself, his drawn features suggesting that the madness that seemed to appear now and then had found a welcome home in the High King. Having already taken root, it was beginning to bloom.
“I believe that’s the Highland Lord’s plan,” said Chertney in a scratchy voice, having heard the comment.
Killeran glanced at Chertney with a worried expression, the rat-faced Dunmoorian lord thinking that the High King’s mind, unstable to begin with, finally had been pushed too far over the edge by this latest disappointment. Chertney ignored him, no longer caring what pronouncements came out of the deposed High King, sensing the change that was coming over the land.
Yes, the cold was seeping into the Kingdoms. His master would be coming soon to reclaim what belonged to him. But that boy and his allies had slowed that progression down tremendously. At the moment, how events would play out were balanced on a sword’s edge, and the next few months would determine which way that balance would shift.
Chertney would have preferred to leave Rodric and Killeran in the Highlands to rot, allowing the Highland Lord to have his vengeance. But for whatever reason, his master still had some use for them, fleeting though it may be. Therefore, he would have to continue to work with these two cretins for a while longer.
General Brennios, a tall, ascetic man, wearing the full-dress uniform of the Armaghian Home Guard, strode into the great hall just as Rodric sat heavily on his uncomfortable throne. Brennios, a protégé of General Chengiz, led the small fighting force based in Eamhain Mhacha. Rodric always worried about threats to his authority, whether real or imagined, and Brennios’ army served as his primary defense to any danger that could place the capital in peril, whether from within or without. Now, Rodric realized, the Home Guard was also his last defense.
“My king, we had not expected you for quite some time. What news from …”
“We have no time for pleasantries, General,” interrupted Rodric. “Thanks to General Chengiz, our army in the Highlands is lost. He was a fool and a traitor.”
“My king? I don’t see how that’s possible. General Chengiz …”
“Enough, Brennios. Enough!” Rodric’s shout echoed throughout the chamber. “We have no time for this. Leave a strong force here at Eamhain Mhacha to defend the citadel, but you are to take the remainder of the Home Guard to the eastern border and repel any invading force. I expect that it will only be a matter of weeks before the Marchers and their allies attempt to take this Kingdom from me, and that will not happen. It will not! Armagh is mine. It will always be mine! Do you understand me, Brennios?”
General Brennios had served in his position for several decades, and like General Chengiz had mastered the art of dealing with the High King, as demonstrated by his ability to maintain his position and keep his head, literally, while serving Rodric for such a long period of time. Much like his friend and mentor Chengiz, Brennios was loyal to Armagh, not necessarily to the High King. But now was not the time to consider that distinction. Now was the time to act as he had so many times before during Rodric’s tirades, understanding the possible consequences of being perceived as an obstacle to the High King’s wishes.
“Yes, my king. I will leave a force as you suggest and take the Home Guard to the east. We will leave by midday tomorrow.”
“Make it sooner, Brennios,” replied Rodric. “By tonight. It must be tonight. We don’t have time. We don’t know how quickly the Marchers will be able to mount their assault. Better you catch them in the open. Now off to it!”
“Yes, my king.”
Bowing stiffly, Brennios walked swiftly from the throne room, happy to have escaped the High King’s temper. He would need to learn more about what happened in the Highlands, but from sources that he could trust not to turn on him.
His primary task completed, Rodric started to murmur to himself once more, Chertney and Killeran only able to understand snippets of what he was saying. Clearly the High King had become fixated on the “upstart boy” who had “destroyed everything he sought to accomplish.” Then, abruptly, Rodric stood and walked unsteadily from the throne room, ignoring Killeran’s questions about what additional preparations needed to be made.
“If that whelp has the audacity to follow me, it will mean his head!” shouted Rodric as he exited the chamber, his shriek sounding more petulant than fearsome.
Killeran stood there for a moment, dazed, and not sure what to do next. He was certain, though, that the mental breakdown he had expected from Rodric had just begun.
“What shall we do, Chertney? We don’t …”
Chertney’s angry glare cut short Killeran’s questions. Finally, after a week of hard travel, Chertney had the silence that he craved, and this dolt, this sorry excuse for a lord, had ruined it within seconds. Chertney struggled to control his rising temper and his coinciding desire to kill this conniving, useless Dunmoorian lord. But he couldn’t. Not yet. Not until he was granted permission. There were still ways to salvage the situation. His master demanded that he try, and he would obey, understanding the consequences for failure, though he believed that it would all be wasted effort in the end.
“We have been defeated, Killeran. But we can still fight. Once Brennios assigns the Home Guard soldiers to stay here, you will assume command and see to the castle’s defenses. Am I clear?”
“Yes, Lord Chertney.”
For the first time, however reluctantly, Killeran offered some deference to his one-time rival. He finally understood where the real power in Armagh lay and had no desire to upset the often mercurial Chertney.
“Brennios will be taking most of the castle guard. I’ll bolster those who remain with some of my forces.”
“Your forces?”
“You needn’t worry, Killeran,” replied Chertney, a malicious smile bringing a disconcerting gleam to his eyes. “Just leave it to me. My troop
s will stay out of sight unless they are needed.”
Killeran nodded, then walked quickly from the throne room, for the thousandth time regretting his decision to seek an alliance with the Shadow Lord. He knew that his greed had gotten the better of him. He cursed himself daily for this weakness. But he couldn’t help himself, even if his life depended on it. Besides, it was too late to do anything but tread the path that he had chosen.
Chertney stood there for a few minutes lost in thought, once again enjoying the momentary silence. An uncomfortable feeling settled within him, one that he rarely experienced but had become all too common the last few weeks. Fear. That irritating whelp, the new Highland Lord, had destroyed the Armaghian host. But Chertney didn’t think that the boy would be satisfied after everything that had transpired between the Highlands and Armagh during the last decade.
The Highland Lord would want more. He would want to finish this once and for all. If Chertney were in that boy’s position, he certainly would. Killeran could see to the defenses, and Chertney would provide an extra layer of protection if needed. But he would also make sure that he had an escape route in place. Just in case.
CHAPTER TEN
Bloody Business
After defeating the soldiers of Armagh and as Thomas took his raiding party toward Eamhain Mhacha, the Marchers had turned their attention once again to the northern Highlands, seeking to defend against the continuing incursions by dark creatures. The Sylvana continued to assist, as did Beluil. The massive wolf led his packs on regular sweeps through the northern peaks. Blood enemy of any dark creature, the wolves took particular delight in eliminating the Shadow Lord’s servants.
Maden Grenis and a few other Sylvan Warriors working in partnership with Marchers led by Seneca, one of Thomas’ Highland chiefs, had just slaughtered a war band of Ogren at the very edge of the Highlands. Leaving no Ogren alive, they had built a fire to dispose of the bodies. Once the pyre was complete and the bodies dragged into place, Maden used the Talent to set the wood ablaze. In a matter of hours, only ashes would remain.
