by Wacht, Peter
“A good victory, but this isn’t over,” said Rynlin, trotting up to Thomas, a tired but satisfied smile on his face.
“This pack was not acting as I would have expected,” said Thomas. “Something follows in its wake. I can feel it.”
“Dragas are known to track the Mongrel packs looking for an easy kill,” offered Rynlin.
“That gives us good cause to be away,” replied Thomas.
Thomas charged Oso with caring for the wounded. He would lead the Marchers tasked with burying the dead. Then the men and women of the Highlands would move into the forest quickly, now less than a league away, mourning their lost comrades later.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Ultimate Goal
Ragin Tessaril, heir to the throne of Armagh, stood on a windswept balcony looking out over what had once been a great city, but was now a ruin. The stone was worn and rotting, at least the stone that he could see as most of it was covered in a light, black ash. For the thousandth time, he thought the name of his temporary home, Blackstone, quite appropriate.
Before the coming of the Shadow Lord, the city was a major metropolis that connected the Kingdoms with the lost lands to the north, a region known as the Free Cities of the North, though supposedly these great cities existed in a world of perpetual ice and snow. But no more. The Shadow Lord had chosen this city for his capital, and it and the surrounding countryside had paid the price over the millennium. Once a vibrant landscape of farms and industry situated among the peaks, it was now nothing more than a dead land, the blackened peaks of the Charnel Mountains dominating the Northern Steppes, their shadows extending almost to the Breaker during the late hours of the day. And with the Shadow Lord came the dark creatures, searching for a way to conquer the Kingdoms to the south as their master demanded.
That’s why Ragin was there now, and why he had survived the Dark Magic encircling the barren city. He had sold his soul to serve the Shadow Lord. For only with the Shadow Lord’s help could the Armaghian prince achieve his ultimate goal. Revenge. He knew his enemy and had paid a terrible price for confronting him. And his failure, his weakness, gnawed at him, burning a hole in his gut that had filled with self-loathing. When Malachias, the Shadow Lord’s right hand, presented him with a way to gain unheard of power, a power that would match that of his archrival, he jumped at the chance. He had to have his revenge. It was the only thing that mattered to him. It was that driving obsession that kept him sane. But he had never considered that the gift of Dark Magic came with a price, and that cost was only now becoming clear to him.
He felt a strange itchiness just beyond his senses, as if something crawled beneath his skin, eating him from within. But whenever he looked or scratched or rubbed his arm or between his shoulder blades or his belly, there was nothing there but unmarked skin. Yet, as his strength in Dark Magic increased, so did that sensation, sometimes his entire body feeling as if he’d fallen into a patch of pricker bushes. In addition, he found that he was becoming more short-tempered and unable to control his emotions, as if the Dark Magic that now coursed through him magnified the less pleasant aspects of his personality.
Physically he was changing as well. The scar that Highland whelp had given him, running from his eye down to his jaw, would never fade, the ragged, weeping skin burning incessantly. But even worse his once handsome features now had turned more sallow, almost pasty. It seemed as if his attributes were becoming more malleable, as if the Dark Magic was reshaping him both physically and mentally, making him into whatever it wished. Or whatever his new master required.
He should have been worried. Perhaps even frightened. But he didn’t care. When he was younger, he cared about his looks, about what the girls he pursued thought of him. He cared about his place in the world, and the role that he played as son of the High King. But no longer. None of that mattered. Now he cared for only one thing, and one thing only. And he would do whatever was necessary to attain it.
“It’s time,” whispered a raspy voice.
A wispy black shadow that towered above him appeared at his back. Two eyes, burning with blood-red fire, stared down at him, giving the shadow surrounding him its only substance.
“You know where he is? You will let me do this?” Ragin tried to speak with steel in his voice, but even his fervor failed to keep a tremor of fear from trickling into his words.
The shadow continued to stare at him silently, weighing him, judging him. Hopefully not finding him wanting.
“You are stronger, more skilled, but the boy still has the advantage of you. You could be going to your death.”
“I don’t care!” screamed Ragin.
He realized the price of his insolence instantly as a fiery pain shot through every nerve in his body, forcing him to the ground. He curled into a ball, weeping, as the agony intensified. Just as quickly as the pain began, it came to an end.
“Remember your place, boy. Remember what I have given you. I do not throw my tools away uselessly.”
Ragin pulled himself to his knees, then bowed deeply, bringing his head to the stone. The burning was gone, but the memory of that fire remained.
“Yes, Master. Forgive me. I’ve just been waiting so long, Master. So long. If you give me this chance, I know I will not fail you.”
The Shadow Lord stared down at the cringing Ragin for what seemed like hours, but was only seconds.
“You will not fail me, Ragin Tessaril. For no matter what your enemy could do to you, I can do much, much worse.”
Ragin nodded his head, still keeping it close to the stone.
“Yes, Master. I will not fail you. I will not fail you!”
Ragin tried to contain himself, but he couldn’t. The madness that seemed to be just a breath away had gained a foothold within him. The Shadow Lord didn’t appear to notice or care.
“So be it,” said the Shadow Lord. A portal of spinning blackness opened up before Ragin, and through it he could see a different room, a brighter room of light and air. “Find your quarry, Ragin. Destroy your enemy. If you don’t, you will answer to me.”
Before the Shadow Lord could change his mind, Ragin leapt through the portal, a look of manic glee illuminating his face. Finally. Finally he could hunt the one who had done this to him. The one who had caused all his misery and pain. The one who had taken so much from him. Finally, he could kill the Highland Lord.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Gentle Rebuke
“I should have gone with him,” repeated Kaylie for the hundredth time. “I could have helped.”
Gregory tried to avoid rolling his eyes, having had to hear the same from his daughter for most of the morning. He looked to Sarelle, who rode her horse next to him, his eyes pleading. The Queen of Benewyn, normally so sure of herself and never afraid to make a hard decision, could only shrug. She didn’t think that her initial instinct for addressing the Princess of Fal Carrach’s sulkiness would prove useful, so she kept her thoughts to herself and her mouth shut.
The council had come to an end the morning Thomas and his Marchers left on their raid into Armagh. Chuma, chief of the Desert Clans, had headed west shortly thereafter, first to position his troop that would support the Highlanders from any incursions by dark creatures near the Breaker, and then to call the other Desert Clans to war. Rendael had gone with him, his Kingdom farther west. The monarch of Kenmare enjoyed the company of the gregarious desert chief, and it would give him an opportunity to see the sands for himself. Despite his long rule and the fact that his Kingdom abutted the Clanwar Desert, he had never traveled deeply into the sandy, arid, dangerous land. This would be his chance to do so.
Gregory and Sarelle had decided to travel together, heading south out of the Highlands and then east, and they were now no more than a day from Ballinasloe. From there Sarelle would send word through one of her ship captains — there were always Benewyn traders in the Fal Carrachian port city — to her ministers in the capital city also named Benewyn with instructions to bring her small army north in
support of the Highlands.
“We’ve been over this before, Kaylie,” replied Gregory.
“It’s still not fair,” declared the Princess of Fal Carrach.
“Life isn’t fair,” her father countered. “You should know that by now. Besides, you have duties to fulfill in Fal Carrach. I’ll need your help to prepare the army to move north. It’s something you need to learn how to do.”
Kaylie huffed in response. “You don’t need me for that.” She nodded behind her, toward the Swordmaster of Fal Carrach who rode just a few paces away from Gregory. “Kael can manage that. I would simply get in the way.”
“Yes, but you need to learn …” Gregory didn’t have a chance to finish his thought, his daughter cutting in.
“You know I can fight,” she said. “Kael can confirm it. And you’ve seen what I can do with the Talent. Rya says that I’m one of her better pupils and that it won’t be long before I’m called to become a Sylvan Warrior.”
“I understand that, Kaylie. I’m not disputing Lady Keldragan’s assessment, but …”
“I should have gone with …”
“Are you done, child?” asked Sarelle, interjecting herself into the conversation with a voice that suggested that she, indeed, was speaking to a child. The Queen of Benewyn’s tone stopped Kaylie short. “We’ve had to listen to the same complaint all morning. You don’t seem to realize that there are more important things to deal with right now than what you want.”
Kaylie opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came out. Though Sarelle had delivered the rebuke gently, it was a rebuke, nonetheless. Something that the Queen of Benewyn had never done to her before, and that made Kaylie think for a moment before responding.
“I understand, Sarelle. It’s just …” She knew what she wanted to say, but she didn’t know how to say it.
“You worry for him,” said Sarelle, offering a commiserating smile.
Kaylie slumped in her saddle, all her energy leaving her. “Yes,” she mumbled.
“What’s that saying the Lady Keldragan uses, the one you like to quote so frequently?”
“You must do what you must do.”
“Yes, that’s certainly appropriate,” said Sarelle. “We all must do what we must do. Right now, Thomas must do as he must, taking on the task of rousting the High King from Armagh once and for all. No one can question your ability with the blade, and your growing skill in the Talent is impressive. I have no doubt that you could be of assistance to Thomas. But have you thought of the other side of the coin?”
“What do you mean?” asked Kaylie, not understanding what Sarelle was suggesting.
“You just said that you worried about him. Don’t you think that if you were on this mission with Thomas that he might worry for you as well? Perhaps that worry would get in the way of what he must do? Distract him at a critical moment?”
Kaylie stared at Sarelle, never having considered that possibility. After almost a minute, she took a gulp of air, not realizing that she had been holding her breath.
“You’re right, Sarelle,” Kaylie whispered, her cheeks turning red. “I hadn’t considered that. Do you really think Thomas …” She left the rest unsaid, afraid to put it into words.
Sarelle gave Kaylie a warm smile, nodding her head. “Of that I have no doubt, Kaylie.”
“Then what would you suggest that I do?” asked Kaylie. “I feel the need to do something. To help Thomas in some way. But how am I to do it from here?”
“Do as your father suggested, child,” said Sarelle, this time her use of the term warm. “Help Kael. Learn what needs to be done to put an army into the field. Be ready for when Thomas needs help, because he will need help soon. He’ll need as many swords at his back that we can muster.”
Kaylie nodded, a look of determination fixing upon her face. “Thank you, Sarelle. You’re right.”
Gregory looked across at the Queen of Benewyn once again, mouthing his thanks. He received a knowing smile in return, as if Sarelle fully understood the service that she had just done for him and expected something in return. A stab of worry settled in his gut, fighting the competing feeling that perhaps he wouldn’t mind what Sarelle might have in mind. He didn’t have time to dwell on those thoughts, however, as his daughter urged her mount to a faster pace, forcing the rest of the party to match the gait as well.
“If we hurry, we can get back to the Rock by mid-afternoon,” Kaylie said, calling back over her shoulder. “The sooner we’re in Ballinasloe, the better.”
Gregory chuckled. “You’ve created a monster,” he said to Sarelle.
The Queen of Benewyn could only shrug her shoulders in response.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Dragas
Having escaped the Mongrel pack, the Marchers kept moving once they reached the densely packed trees. Even with the sun high in the sky, rather than find a place to hide away as had been their habit once they entered the Grasslands, they wanted to put more distance between them and whatever else might be following, Thomas’ premonition of approaching evil gaining greater solidity as each hour passed. With the day almost done and darkness falling, Thomas called a halt, allowing the Marchers to set up camp for the night.
Several of the Highlanders were wounded, and all were tired and grieving their lost comrades. Nevertheless, the Marchers went about their tasks with a will as they used the ingrained movements of establishing their encampment as a way to turn their minds away from fear and loss, if only for a short time. They built several small, hidden cook fires, and Oso sent the first watch of sentries well into the trees in order to ensure sufficient warning could be given if intruders approached, even though Rynlin or Thomas would warn of impending danger well before the sentries were aware. It was simply a habit. And right now, Oso knew that relying on good habits and maintaining their routine was important.
It was close to midnight, the sentries having just changed and the small fires having burned out hours before, when terrifying shrieks ripped through the quiet night. Resembling the calls of the banshees from the stories that Highlanders told their children to frighten them into behaving, the Marchers sensed that whatever hunted them now would be much, much worse than a specter from a child’s fable. Although the Marchers couldn’t see the sky clearly because of the dense foliage, they could identify shadows darker than the night gliding above the branches and boughs.
“You were right, Rynlin. Dragas.”
“I hate when I’m right.”
“Since when?” countered Thomas. “If we fight without the Talent, can we win?”
“If it’s only one or two of the cursed beasts … yes, but at great cost,” answered Rynlin after giving the question some thought. “And if we fight with the Talent, we lose any chance of surprising Rodric and Chertney at Eamhain Mhacha and we’ll have dark creatures on our trail harrying us all the way there.”
“Suggestions?”
Rynlin stood there for a moment, pondering, then nodding his head as if he had just agreed with himself.
“Yes, gather all the Marchers and mounts into a circle, and bring in the sentries. Make sure those fires are completely out.”
Thomas and Oso hurried to obey, and the Marchers quickly took their positions with their horses, moving silently despite the blackness of the night. The shrieks of the hunting Dragas continued, increasing in intensity, suggesting that they were homing in on their prey.
“Do what I do,” said Rynlin.
Using the Talent, the Sylvan Warrior wove himself into the forest surrounding them, but in a way so subtle that the natural magic of the world was virtually undetectable. Any dark creature looking from above would not see man or mount, but rather just undisturbed, pristine forest. Thomas followed Rynlin’s cue, remembering that he had done something similar the first time that he had used the Talent during his escape from the Crag. Now, working with his grandfather, they extended their natural camouflage over their troop of fighters. Then they waited. As time passed, the tension among the M
archers almost became palpable. It was much like the wait before a battle, nerves on edge, which could result if the ruse engineered by Rynlin and Thomas failed.
The shrieks continued for more than an hour, but as time passed the banshee-like calls came from farther and farther away. The Dragas continued their search, but the deadly dark creatures were no longer interested in the section of the forest in which Thomas and his raiders hid.
“Well done, lad,” complimented Rynlin.
“Thanks. I have some experience with that particular skill.” The last time Thomas had camouflaged himself in such a way, he had made it appear as if he had become a part of the Southern River, which helped him to evade the reivers sent after him when the Crag fell.
“That’s good to know,” said Rynlin. “I expect that we’ll need to do much the same again before we reach the Heartland Lake.”
The Marchers, spurred on by the knowledge that the Shadow Lord’s servants continued to hunt them, traveled quickly through the thick forest on a northwesterly course. Several times Rynlin and Thomas made use of the Talent to mask the Marchers’ passage, the Dragas returning every night, gliding across the treetops as part of their search but never locating their quarry. When the Marchers finally broke through the trees and gazed upon the eastern shore of the Heartland Lake, the sky was still dark although a hint of orange was just beginning to appear on the eastern horizon.
Before leaving the Highlands, Thomas had spoken with Sarelle of Benewyn, who had explained that not all the traders of her Kingdom always followed the traditional rules of commerce. In fact, several might take on work that required more secrecy or discretion than was standard when carrying certain goods.
