by Wacht, Peter
“Thomas, what is it?”
The cloud of darkness encircling the keep made him feel nauseous, the sense of evil almost overwhelming. He should have assumed as much based on what had happened in the Highlands. This discovery would require a change in plans.
“Ogren and Shades in the deeper tunnels, a lot of them.”
Although using the Talent while surrounded by stone shaped by man tended to be more difficult than when surrounded by nature, it could still be done. Much as Thomas did as a child when he sought to escape the Crag, he used the Talent to create a map of the fortress in his mind, specifically identifying a handful of passageways that led from where the Ogren and Shades hid beneath the keep to the upper levels of the citadel.
“How many?” asked Oso, worry creasing his brow.
“Too many for us to handle and still achieve our goal,” replied Thomas. “A small army at the least. But there’s a way around it. Let me have Aric and his squad once they’ve completed their assignment. I’ll make sure that there’s no way the Ogren and Shades can make it up from where they are into the fortress. You stay on task. I’ll catch up to you when I’m done.”
Nodding, Oso ran off to find Aric and his Marchers. Thomas would use the mental map that he had created, find those passageways, then ensure that if any dark creature, Shade or Ogren, tried to pass through, they would be in for a nasty and deadly surprise.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
Sounds of Steel
Rodric stood on the balcony of his suite, gazing out over the Heartland Lake and the waves crashing against the rocks at the base of the fortress several hundred feet below him. Over the years, the water had worn away the foundation of the keep, creating caves, crevices and crags throughout. Having learned of Armagh’s difficulties in the Highlands, General Brennios worried that an enterprising attacking force willing to take some risks could find a way into the keep if they were willing to explore that option. But Rodric didn’t. He knew that what lurked in the deepest reaches of the citadel would deter anyone foolish enough to make the attempt.
That thought quickly dissipated, replaced by another concern, and that one was soon pushed aside by the next. And so it went, faster and faster, his fears playing through his mind. The High King struggled to concentrate, the travails and failures of the last few weeks picking at the edges of his sanity. As his mind drifted from one memory to the next, he always came to rest on the same one. It was a night much like this one, the moon shielded by low-lying clouds and a faint fog rising over the water. His son had been a fool. He understood why Ragin had done it, the calculation of it all. But his son’s decision seemed to trigger the events that followed. That cold night atop the Tinnakilly battlements had been a harbinger of what was to come. Since then, his carefully laid plans had unraveled with amazing alacrity. He should have listened to Chertney. Looking back now, that sibilant swine had been correct. He should have killed the boy when he had his chance rather than trying to make an example of him in front of the assembled lords and ladies. That mistake had cost him dearly, and now his Kingdom was at risk. But he would admit that error only to himself. He was the High King after all. The High King didn’t make mistakes. But his son certainly did.
Ragin had assumed that the boy was beaten. Weak, wounded and in no position to continue to resist after fighting the Makreen. Killing the one person who had bested that fearsome beast would enhance Ragin’s reputation. But Ragin’s decision had rapidly become a costly miscalculation. The boy, though injured and exhausted, was more than ready to fight.
The boy left a scar with Ragin that evening. And that scar had become a symbol to Rodric, a symbol of his own disintegrating power. Before that night all his plans were moving to completion exactly as he had laid them out. But in the days and weeks and months that followed, everything that he had strived toward had devolved into a mess, one problem after another, each setback followed by another defeat.
Since he had returned to Eamhain Mhacha having escaped the Highlands, he hadn’t slept. Worry plagued him. He felt as if something was about to happen, something that he didn’t want to have happen, but he didn’t know what it might be or when. That feeling wore on him, fraying his nerves. He had become more short-tempered than usual, his mood swings more violent. He knew what it was, but he didn’t want to admit it. For the first time in his life a cold ball of fear had settled within his gut and slowly had begun to grow. Since that cursed night when his son was scarred, physically and mentally Rodric now realized, he had run across the boy that had cost him so much several times, yet in each instance the boy had escaped, either on his own initiative or as a result of his servants’ incompetence.
Rodric’s thoughts drifted in a direction that set his stomach churning. If he was forced to face the boy on his own, without his soldiers and his sycophants, would he be able to defeat the person who had become his greatest nemesis? He had looked into the boy’s eyes, unable to hold the gaze for long. The boy had power. A strength that Rodric didn’t have. Rodric hated himself for this failing, despising his weakness. If the boy had died those many years ago at the Crag as he should have, Rodric would have no problems now. He could have proclaimed himself the true High King and been done with it. But the boy had taken that from him as well, and he was unwilling to admit that his own arrogance had aided the boy several times and given him more lives than a cat.
Rodric turned around abruptly, the constant rhythm of the waves crashing against the rocks broken up by the distant clash of steel on steel somewhere deep in the fortress. Momentarily frozen, he thought that he was mistaken. He held his breath, hearing just the waves, but then the screech of metal and the sounds of battle raging within his citadel assaulted his senses. He couldn’t believe it, his shock making it difficult to think. But he should have expected it. His tormentor was here. He knew it! For a moment, he felt only irrational fear and struggled to gain control of himself. By the noises streaming up from the lower reaches of the keep, screams of anger and pain mixing with grunts of desperation and struggle, the attackers had made their way into the fortress and had reached several of the higher levels already. He didn’t have time to wonder how the assailants got past his army to the east or his defenses here.
Walking quickly into his chambers he went in search of his guards. He needed to find Killeran and, more importantly, Chertney. He was loath to admit it, but he knew that his only chance for escape lay with the Shadow Lord’s servant.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Hunting Shadows
The black shadow padded silently through the darkness, easily dodging trees, fallen branches, dense, almost impassable bushes and the other obstacles that littered the forest floor. The massive conifers of the northern Highlands towered above, hiding the bright moonlight except for the few stray beams that slipped through the thick foliage to illuminate the rough terrain. His prey approached. He could feel them, trying to sneak along the narrow trails that would take them to the few passes that led from the Northern Steppes deeper into the Highlands.
Putting on a burst of speed, the shadow ran through the forest until he found the place that he sought, a narrow defile that opened up into a small glade. The rocky meadow was more like a bowl, the evergreens standing sentinel on the very edge of the steep drop down to the forest floor. In some places the sides were sheer. Definitely the right place. The shadow knew that it would be difficult to climb. It would give him space to maneuver, while limiting how many of his quarry could enter, the defile restricting the number that could pass through because of its narrowness.
The shadow slid to the very edge of the trees overlooking the bowl-shaped glade, waiting, watching, relying on his senses to track the prey coming toward him, the beasts unaware of what lay in wait for them. He sensed his brothers and sisters moving into similar positions, staying low to the ground, hidden, ready, all anxious, anticipating what was to come.
The smell grew stronger as the moon rose higher in the sky, the stench of evil wafting through the fores
t, deadening all the other scents common to the Highlands. It wouldn’t be long now. The shadow glimpsed movement at the very edge of the defile, as one dark creature and then another began to file through. The shadow waited until the massive creatures had almost reached the far end of the glade. Some stood ten feet tall and walked like men but were molded into terrible beasts, curled tusks protruding on their shaggy, gruesome faces, sharp teeth flashing in the intermittent moonlight and strong enough to gnaw through bone.
The shadow stood, tensing its legs, knowing that its brothers and sisters were doing the same. Then in a flash the shadow launched itself into the air, snarling, landing on the back of an Ogren. Surprising the beast, the huge dark creature didn’t stand a chance. The Ogren didn’t know it had been attacked until it felt a set of jaws latch onto its throat. With a violent flick of its head, the shadow tore the Ogren’s windpipe out. The dark creature collapsed as its blood gushed out onto the craggy ground.
The huge wolf quickly surveyed the skirmish, his pack decimating the Ogren that had unknowingly crammed themselves into the depression. Eyeing a Shade attempting to pull itself up the steep slope and gain the lip of the bowl, in a burst of speed the wolf, its fur black except for a streak of white across its eyes, leapt onto the Shadow Lord’s minion, crushing the back of its neck between its teeth before it could draw its corrupted blade.
The ambush ended in just minutes, Beluil’s wolf pack eliminating the raiding party efficiently and viciously. They had fought silently, the only sounds coming from the terrified Ogren as they fought helplessly against the wolves of the north. Beluil raised his head to the moon, now visible through a small break between the massive trees, and howled in triumph, his brothers and sisters following suit. The call was taken up in other parts of the mountainous Kingdom, the responding howls of Beluil’s other packs acknowledging the victory as they also hunted for the servants of the Shadow Lord.
Beluil was happy with the result, knowing that his brother Thomas would be pleased. The Highlands was his home now as well, and he would defend it with his packs as Thomas had requested. But there was still more to do. His pack had destroyed this raiding party, but several other bands of Ogren approached across the Northern Steppes in the dark of the night. The dark creatures would try to creep into the Highlands before the morning light.
Sprinting off to the east, Beluil’s pack followed. Wolves hated dark creatures with a vengeance. They took particular pleasure in killing the servants of the Shadow Lord, and they understood that they had more to do that night. More killing was needed. But that didn’t bother them. Rather, it exhilarated them. They knew that every dark creature killed was a spark for the light and for nature, and they would do all that they could to protect their world from the touch of the Shadow Lord.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Revenge
The Marchers made quick work of the castle’s garrison, the Armaghian soldiers barely putting up a fight. Rodric’s hold over the Kingdom had begun to slip over the last few months, and many had no desire to die at the hands of the fearsome Marchers. The few remaining guards in the fortress and the city knew of the defeats and the mistakes, though to speak of them openly in Eamhain Mhacha could lead to imprisonment or an even harsher sentence, depending upon the caprice of the High King. They could sense the tide turning and with it came an opportunity that appealed to many of Armagh’s soldiers and citizens.
Rodric ruled by fear, having created an environment of absolute control, a state designed to support the interests of the ruler rather than the people. A select few had benefited from their subservience to the erratic High King, but most of Armagh’s citizens were treated simply as resources to be used in his schemes and dreams of expanding the Kingdom’s and his own influence. When the disillusioned soldiers assigned to the defense of the citadel and many of the oppressed people of Eamhain Mhacha began to notice the cracks that had begun to appear in his rule, they were more than willing to take advantage of the chance presented by the Marchers. True, many of the guards continued to fight, some simply out of a sense of loyalty to their Kingdom. But their efforts were half-hearted at best, almost as if they wanted to convince themselves that they had done all that they could to defend the citadel before surrendering.
Knowing that the Marchers would soon have control of the keep, and that Thomas still remained on one of the lower levels, working to ensure that the dark creatures hidden within the tunnels beneath the citadel could not interfere, Rynlin turned his attention to a different, alarming matter. He had sensed a strange, new evil appear just moments before, somewhere near Eamhain Mhacha’s great hall. It worried him. The feeling differed from the cloud of darkness that he was so familiar with that emanated from the Ogren and Shades stationed in the catacomb of passageways snaking through the keep’s foundation. There was a familiarity to this foulness, but in other ways it was distinct, more putrid, more stomach churning. A type of dark creature that he had never faced before, and that worried him. He didn’t like surprises, particularly of the Shadow Lord’s making. Even worse, the power that this new threat contained rivaled his own.
This new evil began to move, first apparently trying to get its bearings as it wandered aimlessly. Or perhaps its motion had a purpose. Perhaps it was trying to catch the scent of its prey. After several minutes of seemingly senseless rambling, the evil appeared to have found what it was searching for as it advanced toward where Thomas was warding the last of the passageways so that the dark creatures couldn’t enter the keep from below. His grandson would be fully occupied with that task, so Rynlin ran through the hallways to intercept the approaching foulness, finding the corridor and stairs that led down to where Thomas was working. He didn’t have long to wait as a shadowy figure glided into the passageway at the far end.
“Is your desire for revenge so great that you would risk your very soul? That you would give yourself to the Shadow Lord knowing the full consequences of such a witless decision?”
The cowled figure stood there for a moment, surprised that someone dared to block his way. A hoarse laugh echoed through the hallway as the man pushed back the hood of his cloak, revealing the jagged scar that ran down one side of his face.
“We all must make our choices.”
“We do. In fact, our choices define us. But you continue to make bad choices, Ragin.”
The laugh stopped abruptly. Ragin’s face twisted into a sneer, and partnered with his scar, it gave him an even more horrifying expression. “How do you know me?”
“I don’t know you, Ragin, son of Rodric. You were never important enough to know. I know of you.”
“I suggest you move aside, old man. I have business to attend to, and I won’t be delayed by the likes of you.” The imposing figure blocking Ragin’s path unsettled him, but that wouldn’t keep him from his revenge. Besides, with the Dark Magic he wielded, what did he have to fear from a greybeard?
“I have business as well,” replied Rynlin, his eyes blazing, seeming to light up the dim hallway with blue. “In fact, you’re my business. You asked if I knew you. Actually, I do know you. You’re no different than the others. The greedy fools who have traded their souls, their spirits, to the Shadow Lord in hopes of gaining something more, only learning too late and much to their disappointment that there is never a fair trade when dealing with the master of lies.”
“I have no time for your pronouncements, old man. Move aside. Now!”
“I think not.”
Ragin began to laugh again, a maniacal glint seeping into his eyes, a hint of madness in his voice. “You’re right, old man. There is a price to pay when selling yourself to the Shadow Lord, but you can gain much in return.”
Ragin pulled on the Dark Magic the Shadow Lord had imbued within him, raising his hands and shooting streams of black fire toward Rynlin. With nowhere to go, Rynlin grasped the Talent just in time, forming a shield of white energy to protect himself. Rynlin hunkered down behind the barrier of natural magic as the Dark Magic licked a
t its edges, but the inky flames failed to break through.
Ragin poured more and more Dark Magic into his attack, but to no avail. The old man’s shield of blazing white energy continued to hold, deflecting the tainted power thrown against it. Quickly becoming frustrated by the failure of his assault, he released his hold on the contaminated black fire. Upon arriving back in the citadel that was his home, he had not expected to be opposed by anyone but his quarry. And he could feel his prey drawing near, so close yet still so far because of this weak, foolish old man. Turning his attention to the ceiling above his opponent, Ragin shot black shards of energy into the masonry. Large granite stones crashed down as Ragin sought to bury the old man in tons of rubble. Unfortunately for the Prince of Armagh, his opponent was ready.
Releasing the shield of white light, the old man raised his hands above his head. To Ragin, it appeared as if his opponent had caught the falling stone in his palms with barely any effort, the surprise of his adversary’s success startling and distracting him. The old man stared at Ragin from the other end of the passageway, his face impassive, the only emotion revealed through his blazing blue eyes. Contempt and pity. Ragin’s already tenuous grip on his sanity began to loosen even more.
For just a moment silence reigned in the hall, but just for a moment. Ragin screamed in rage as the old man flung a large stone toward him, forcing him to dodge out of the way before it crushed him. He had to step out of the way again, then drop to the floor, before tightening himself against the wall. Again and again the old man threw the large stones that had fallen from the ceiling above him right back at his antagonist. Ragin quickly realized that continuing his dance of survival was becoming untenable. Grasping hold of his Dark Magic once more, Ragin shot bolts of black energy toward the stones thrown his way, the corrupted, black energy smashing the carved rock into a fine dust that filled the hallway in a gritty fog that wafted between the two combatants.
