by Wacht, Peter
The Sylvan Warriors and Marchers watched the fire catch, lulled by the flames, the adrenaline of the fight finally wearing off. They were proud of what they had accomplished and thankful. It had been a large war band, yet none in their ranks had been seriously injured. Nevertheless, all who now studied the flames realized just how close they had come to a potential disaster.
Maden, tall and lanky with an easy grin, frowned as he watched the pyre’s black, oily smoke drift toward the south, the strong Highland winds gusting off the mountain peaks and through the narrow pass that had just served as what was likely the largest battle with the forces of the Shadow Lord the Highlands had seen in almost a decade. Yes, they had succeeded in defeating the dark creatures. But something about the events of the past few hours bothered the Sylvan Warrior. The Ogren had approached as expected, stumbling more than climbing up the loose scrabble of one of the few traversable passes in the far western Highlands. Seneca had ordered a shield wall — Marchers with shields and swords formed the wall, fighters with spears right behind to jab over the shoulder, a few dozen archers standing a bit farther back to slow the Ogren advance and pick off any attackers that might force their way past the defensive perimeter — at the point where the pass met a long plateau that extended from between the sheer sides of the two, towering mountains that tightened the approach.
A good strategy and one that he would have put in place as well if he were charged with defending the pass. The Marchers had held against the Ogren, whittling down the fearsome beasts and preventing a breakthrough, Maden and the handful of other Sylvana supporting their efforts by using the Talent to call down lightning or shoot bolts of white energy into the dark creatures to ensure the Marcher line remained intact. Yet it was almost all for naught once the pack of Fearhounds had arrived. At first blocked from coming up the pass by the hundreds of Ogren massing in front of them, the pony-sized beasts quickly lost patience. Fast and strong, their top two canine teeth extending beyond their lower jaw, the Fearhounds dug their sharp claws into the steep hillsides that funneled the Ogren toward the Marchers, threatening to sweep around the Marchers’ flanks and attack them from the rear.
Maden feared that if the Fearhounds succeeded in getting behind the Highland men and women defending their homeland, the battle would be over. The only sure way to kill a Fearhound because of their thick almost armored hide was with an arrow through the eye. The huge beasts could shrug off almost any other blow from a sword or battle axe. Maden had no doubt that some of the Marcher archers would strike true, respecting their skills after having seen the damage that they could inflict from a distance. But the Fearhound pack numbered more than a hundred. There was no way the archers, even with the help of the Sylvan Warriors, could keep the dark creatures from tearing into their compatriots from behind.
Initially, afraid that the Ogren might break through the Marcher defensive line if he turned his attention and that of his fellow Sylvan Warriors toward the Fearhound pack as the frighteningly fast dark creatures scrabbled along the steep canyon walls with ease, he realized immediately upon judging the speed of the Fearhounds that he had no choice. The risk had to be taken. Calling out to the other Sylvan Warriors, they split their attention between the two sheer slopes that narrowed toward the Marcher defensive line. Maden and Daran Sharban, a tall Sylvan Warrior with curly red hair and beard, eyes always twinkling with mischief even in the direst of circumstances, focused on the western slope. Elisia and Aurelia Valeran, twin Sylvan Warriors from Kashel, one with midnight black hair, the other with shocking white, took the eastern slope.
Their approach was a simple one. The Fearhounds were too fast and too many to try to slow down with individual bolts of energy. But the pack was tightly bunched together along both slopes, so the Sylvan Warriors decided to use that weakness to their advantage. Calling upon the Talent, the Sylvan Warriors released the natural magic of the world in the form of shards of white light well ahead of and above the charging Fearhounds. At first nothing happened other than several large holes appearing in the mountainsides where the bolts of energy had struck. But then a rumbling began along the slopes as small stones started to shake loose and then slide down the steep hillsides, followed by ever larger rocks until boulders the size of small houses began tumbling down the mountains from where they had perched for millennia, undisturbed but for the wind and the rain.
In just a matter of seconds, it was over. The landslides on both slopes crushed the Fearhounds under hundreds of tons of rock and took the bulk of the Ogren still stuck in the pass as well. The Marchers only had to finish off a few dozen of the dark creatures that had escaped the falling rock and debris. Maden should have been pleased. They had succeeded in stopping another raid by the Shadow Lord’s servants into the Highlands. But that nagging concern remained with him, dampening the relief that he felt. This Ogren raiding party was larger than any other that they had faced during the long weeks they had been fighting in the Highlands. And for the first time the Shadow Lord had sent more than Ogren and Shades at one time with the pack of Fearhounds following in the wake of the other dark creatures. The new strategy suggested that time was growing short. That the Shadow Lord was growing stronger and preparing for a larger attack, perhaps one that the Marchers and Sylvan Warriors would struggle to contain. If a pack of Fearhounds or, even worse, Mongrels, got past the Marchers, they would be hard-pressed to regain control of the countryside. Maden shook his head in frustration, unable to put his fears to rest. There was nothing to be done at the moment. He would need to talk with Rynlin. Maden sensed that it was time for the Sylvan Warriors to play a larger role in the affairs of the Kingdoms if they were to have any chance of keeping the Shadow Lord and the Dark Horde to the north of the Breaker.
“A bloody business,” said Maden, still shaken by how close they had come to a devastating defeat.
“Aye,” responded Seneca. “And a close thing. Our thanks to you and your friends. Without you, I don’t know that we’d have been able to hold.”
Maden nodded his acknowledgement, not feeling the need to say more. The taciturn Marcher had grown on Maden during the last few weeks. They had partnered well together, and he appreciated a man who only spoke when necessary, something that Maden valued all the more because of his own natural loquaciousness.
As the blaze sizzled and crackled, the flames reaching for the sky, howls echoed off the surrounding peaks. Both men turned their heads toward the east.
“Probably two leagues off,” said Seneca.
“It seems that Thomas’ furry friend has found more prey,” replied Maden. “Shall we try to catch up to him?”
Not bothering to answer, Seneca started to trot to the east, Maden falling in beside him, the other Marchers and Sylvan Warriors following suit.
“More and more of these bastards are coming,” said Maden. “Despite our best efforts, we can’t seem to stop the flow.”
“It’s to be expected,” said the grizzled Marcher.
“Yes, if they can establish a foothold in the Highlands, they can bypass the Breaker.”
“We’ll just have to make sure they can’t get through. How long do you think before the Shadow Lord attacks?”
The Sylvan Warrior glided silently through the forest for a few moments before replying.
“Judging by the number of attacks and reports of increasing activity in the Charnel Mountains, probably a few months at most. Not much longer than that.”
“We’ll be ready,” assured Seneca, rubbing his palm across the haft of his war axe, relishing the opportunity the future would offer. “Have no fear of that.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Simple Task
Burnt ash and crushed rock swept through the abandoned promenades and streets, swirling into small tornados that appeared and disappeared at the whim of the wind. Grey clouds remained fixed over the city, a dark, misty fog seeping in between the deserted and decrepit buildings as the dim glow of the sun that fought the murk with surprising success began
to dip beneath the western horizon. The only sound came from the scraping of loose and broken stone pushed by the frequent gusts of cold air across the cracked stone of the streets.
A tall, cowled figure stood on the western battlements of the circular fortress that rose in the very center of the city. Covered in black robes that mixed with the oncoming night, the figure blended with the rapidly descending darkness. As night fell, the only way to see the man-sized shape at all were its blood-red eyes that blazed brightly within the encroaching gloom. The Shadow Lord had remained among the gargoyles and other gruesome creatures carved into the stone of the keep’s parapets for several hours. Not moving, his wispy robes even ignoring the demands of the wind. Simply staring to the south. Thinking. Planning. Seething.
He could feel the boy. Somewhere in the Highlands. And that connection was growing stronger day by day as the boy gained strength, becoming more than just a nuisance. Becoming a threat. At first a thorn in the Shadow Lord’s side, the boy had morphed from a small prick to a weeping dagger thrust as this newly proclaimed Lord of the Highlands threatened centuries of carefully laid plans.
Fools! Incompetent fools!
So much was at stake, yet his servants had failed him time and time again. They had been given a simple task. Killeran. Rodric. Chertney. Even loyal Malachias. All their schemes. All their intrigues. All their machinations. All had failed. For the boy still lived.
As the days passed into weeks and the weeks into months it seemed more and more likely that the requirements of the prophecy would have to be met. The Shadow Lord had never been defeated. Even during the Great War, despite the fact that the Sylvan Warriors had forced him and the Dark Horde back into the Charnel Mountains, no one had stood against him and lived. That should be no different now, for his knowledge of and power in Dark Magic had only increased as the centuries passed while his enemies had become weaker. Then why was he worried? Was the boy more of a danger than he had judged originally?
The Shadow Lord didn’t know, and that’s what bothered him the most. He was used to certainty. He preferred absolutes. Yet this boy had changed the game and added unpredictability to the mix. As a result, the expected result that the Shadow Lord had seen with unwavering clarity for so long had now become hazy and unclear. To regain that desired certainty, he needed to kill the boy. Yet even the Shadow Lord’s own efforts, distinct from that of his servants, had failed to lead to any success. The Nightstalkers he had sent after the boy had never returned. Would the traitor succeed? Would the Wraith? Both had already failed once. Could he count on his servants after so many had floundered in their many attempts to complete what should have been a simple, straightforward task?
Would it come down to single combat as the prophecy suggested? And if it did, with the puzzle having changed, could the Shadow Lord be certain of the outcome?
The Shadow Lord stood as still as one of the gargoyle statues for several more hours, his rage fueling his brightly burning eyes that blazed in the darkness.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Caves
Before Thomas, Rynlin, and Oso led several hundred Marchers south from the Highlands toward Eamhain Mhacha and their ultimate prize, the former High King Rodric Tessaril, they had agreed on a route that they hoped would allow them to avoid the trouble that they expected would come their way. Skirting the eastern shore of the Inland Sea into western Fal Carrach, they then located ferries to take them across the Gullet close to where the Kingdoms of Dunmoor and Benewyn shared a border for several leagues. They assumed that if, indeed, Rodric had returned to his capital, he would place the Home Guard on the eastern border of the Kingdom. Therefore, rather than tracking the Corazon River west into Armagh as Rodric would expect, they chose to take a longer route that would allow them to avoid that possibility.
Thomas had used the Talent to search as far as Eamhain Mhacha before boarding the ferries to cross the Gullet. He had confirmed that the Home Guard marched to the eastern border of Armagh, unaware of the party traveling south of them. So far, their plan was proving to be a good one. Once across the Gullet they would head west into the Grasslands and then come at the Armaghian capitol from the south with the High King none the wiser.
The ferries, more like huge, flat barges, their sides barely higher than the lapping waves of the Gullet, each carried fifty soldiers and their mounts comfortably. Yet even with the three massive sails that sprouted from the deck of each one, they were ponderous vessels that plowed slowly through the water.
Thomas, Oso, and Rynlin stood in the bow of the first ferry, their eyes on the massive fins of the Great Sharks slicing through the waves alongside them. Thomas had asked Sorrel, the captain of their ferry, if it was safe to sail when they had first arrived at the handful of ramshackle buildings that made up the small port, counting at least five large fins slicing through the water and suspecting that there were several other beasts lurking just beneath the surface. Thomas had some familiarity with the Great Sharks, having watched them from the beach while growing up on the Isle of Mist. The massive beasts could reach a size of fifty to sixty feet in length, their jaws more than capable of crushing the hull of one of the ferries that he saw lined up at the dock.
Sorrel had assured him that there was nothing to fear. “We’ll be sailing in a shallow channel about a quarter mile wide,” he had said in a rolling tone that seemed to mimic the movement of the waves that splashed against the hulls of the ferries. “Those monsters can’t get in there. That’s why the barges have such a low draft. If those water devils try to come after us, they’ll get stuck on the sandbars. They’re simply hoping that we miss the channel.”
“What happens if we miss the channel?” Oso had asked, then instantly regretted it.
“Then we die, young man,” replied the crusty old captain. “A painful, horrible death.” The seaman had then turned with a laugh, stomping off to make sure that his sailors stowed the Marchers’ gear and horses properly for the voyage across the river.
“That filled me with confidence,” the large Highlander had said, his face turning a pasty white at the thought of coming face to face with one of the massive beasts swimming not too far from the channel. Oso had only stepped onto the ferry when Thomas had assured him that he and Rynlin could offer some protection against the Great Sharks if it proved necessary. But so far it had not. Though the wind proved erratic as they made their way slowly toward eastern Benewyn, their ferry and the other vessels had stayed to the center of the channel, well away from the Great Sharks that stalked them from afar.
Rynlin used the quiet as an opportunity to explain the naming of Eamhain Mhacha, and what he viewed as their best chance for success.
“Eamhain means brooch, a large wheel of gold or bronze crossed by a long pin. The great circular ramparts surrounding the fortresses of old might well be likened to a giantess’ brooch guarding her cloak, or territory.”
Thomas smiled, remembering that just a few short years in the past, he would have endured a lesson such as this in his home carved from the trunk of a heart tree. On a cold day like this, Rya would have had a fire going in the kitchen, preparing dinner, Beluil curled up as close to the flames as possible without getting singed. And Rynlin would be in his element, weaving story after story into a vivid history, leaving Thomas with the task of identifying the point to his teachings. Rynlin’s pedagogical process often devolved into a dialogue, sometimes a debate, his grandfather thriving on the intellectual exchange.
The tall Sylvan Warrior continued. “Mhacha married Brian, one of the early High Kings who assumed power after the death of Ollav Fola, who at the time ruled as the lord of all the land. It was very different from the way it is now. All the other monarchs were vassals of the High King, serving at his pleasure. The histories say that it was a peaceful and prosperous time. That is, until the High King died. Brian and Mhacha didn’t have any children, but Brian had two brothers, and traditionally the throne would have passed to the oldest surviving brother. In this case, Tergo
n. But there was a problem …”
“Mhacha wanted the throne,” interjected Oso, remembering some few pieces from his history lessons.
“She did.”
“How did Brian die? Did they suspect Mhacha of foul play?”
“An excellent question, Oso,” said Rynlin, warming to his role. “No one knows for sure. The only thing certain was that Mhacha craved power. Perhaps she tired of ruling next to Brian, who was said to be a strong High King, or perhaps Brian died of natural causes and she saw an opportunity. No one really knows how Brian died, but they do know what happened next. Before the oldest surviving brother, Tergon, could assume the throne, Mhacha challenged him to single combat, claiming that the brother had besmirched her honor and that she had a right to defend herself and her reputation.”
“How did Tergon respond?” asked Oso, clearly taken with the tale.
“The stories say that the duel took place. At first, Tergon expected an easy victory. But then as the combat stretched on from one hour to the next, and then from morning into the late afternoon, he realized that he had made a mistake. A grave mistake. Mhacha had greater skill as a fighter than he did. As the duel continued, he grew tired, weaker, while Mhacha appeared to become stronger. Nevertheless, Tergon fought on even though his suffocating exhaustion slowed his movements. Mhacha’s blade finally slipped through his defenses as his weariness became too much, Brian’s queen driving her sword through Tergon’s chest with the sun disappearing below the western horizon, killing the heir to the throne and winning the duel after almost a full day of combat.”
“Quite a woman,” said Oso.
“Indeed, Oso,” replied Rynlin. “And a dangerous one.”
