by Wacht, Peter
After several minutes, the old man ended his attack, having run out of projectiles. Sweat poured off of Ragin, his initial assault and then defense obviously having taken a great deal from him. Though the shape of his opponent had grown hazy because of the dust cloud that swirled within the hallway, the old man’s sharp blue eyes continued to shine through. The contempt remained. The pity was gone.
“You’re a novice at best, Ragin. Go back from whence you came and tell your master that he’s wasted his time with you. Power can only get you so far when you don’t have the knowledge you need to use it.”
“And if I don’t, old man? What then?” Ragin tried to demonstrate the bravado that had once coursed through him, that had once made him what he was, but his cracking voice betrayed him. “I’m younger than you. And I’m stronger than you. I can feel it. You’re no match for the Dark Magic I wield.”
A hard edge entered Rynlin’s tone, his eyes turning to flint. “Then you’ll feel real power, you foolish whelp.”
Ragin’s face contorted in rage as he drew in as much of the Dark Magic gifted to him by the Shadow Lord as he could. Rynlin never gave him a chance to use it, the Sylvan Warrior doing something with the Talent that he hadn’t done in hundreds of years, barely recalling the long dormant skill. But remember it he did. A portal that stretched to the ceiling opened behind Ragin, revealing what appeared to be a desolate, barren hillside with a grey mist clouding the landscape.
Before the Prince of Armagh realized what was happening, Rynlin gave him a hard shove with the Talent, forcing him off his feet and backwards through the magical gateway. Rynlin then released his hold on the Talent, allowing the portal to close before Ragin could release the Dark Magic that he had been so intent on using against him. Before the Prince of Armagh disappeared when the gateway snapped shut, Rynlin watched the disfigured young man’s expression of anger change to that of shock, quickly followed by disappointment and then the first twinge of terror.
Rynlin turned quickly when he sensed someone behind him, taking hold of the Talent once more.
“There’s no need for that, Rynlin.” Thomas stepped up next to him, sensing when his grandfather let go of the Talent. “That was Ragin?”
The man Thomas had glimpsed before Rynlin had closed the gate looked almost nothing like the son of the High King. The handsome prince of Armagh Thomas had fought on the Tinnakilly battlements looked older, more worn, as if his body was just a shell. The only distinguishing characteristic that remained was the long, jagged scar on a pasty, malleable face that Thomas had given him during his escape.
“No, not Ragin,” said Rynlin. “It used to be him, but no more. He’s traded away his humanity for power, and now he’s no more than any other dark creature held in check by the Shadow Lord’s leash.”
“Why didn’t you kill him?”
“I couldn’t kill him.” Rynlin sighed, his regret plain. “I wasn’t strong enough. He realized that, but he couldn’t do anything about it as his training is lacking.”
His grandfather’s acknowledgement of his shortcoming frightened Thomas. If Ragin had become something that his grandfather could not defeat, what chance would he have in the future? Because he knew in his heart that they would meet again, their duel incomplete. He had felt it in his bones when he locked eyes with the Prince of Armagh as he stood on the other side of the closing portal, Rodric’s son unwilling to allow his latest failure to get in the way of his achieving his primary goal. As his grandfather had said, there was no humanity there. Only death and the desire for revenge.
“Where did you send him?” asked Thomas.
“To a place that likely will tip him completely over the edge if he hasn’t lost his mind already,” replied Rynlin. “But you need not worry about him. He won’t be bothering us again.”
Thomas nodded, accepting his grandfather’s statement, but not really believing it. He had no desire to deal with the heir to the Armaghian throne with everything else that currently demanded his attention. But if he had to in the future, he would.
“Are the passageways blocked?” asked Rynlin, still contemplating what the Prince of Armagh had become, trying to solve a puzzle that he wasn’t sure had an answer.
“If any dark creatures try to make their way into the fortress through any of those hidden paths, they’re in for a nasty surprise. Just in case I’ve stationed a few Marchers at each one to make sure none get through. If for some reason they do, I’ll know and we can take action.”
“Good. Now let’s address the primary reason we’re here.”
“His private chambers?”
“That would be my guess. When your grandmother and I visited a few months back,” referencing their surreptitious mission to acquire evidence of the High King’s wrongdoing, “we found all the documents we needed to confirm Rodric’s treachery in a private office next to his bedchamber. I sensed a hidden passage behind the desk, likely leading into the deeper recesses of the keep.”
“Then let’s go catch the rat,” said Thomas. “We’ll find Oso and his Marchers along the way and take them with us. It’s time to end this.”
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Hall Skirmish
“Any problems, Oso?” asked Thomas as they strode through the corridors, a deathly quiet having descended on the highest level of the citadel.
“None at all, Thomas,” replied the large Highlander. He held his sword in his hand, but he clearly hadn’t had cause to use it. His frown reflected that he was none too pleased by that. “We dispatched the few guards who attempted to resist. The majority had no interest in a fight and are being held in the throne room. The Marchers guarding the passageways below report that all is quiet. Several groups of dark creatures tried to make their way through the tunnels and reach the upper levels of the keep, but your defenses held. As a result, we also now have a large number of dark creatures, or rather their remains, that we’ll need to dispose of. Some of the Marchers said that even when the first few Ogren were incinerated, they kept coming. It was madness.”
Rynlin nodded knowingly. “Shades were driving them. They kept forcing the beasts through, trying to find a weakness. I’m glad they didn’t.”
Thomas barely heard the conversation, his mind elsewhere. He desperately wanted to find the High King and pay him back for the injustices meted out on his people. Time and again he had gotten close, oh so frustratingly close, only to see Rodric slip away with the help of the Shadow Lord or his servants. When he finally laid hands on the High King, Thomas promised himself that justice would be swift.
Rounding the corner, they came to a long corridor, the doors to Rodric’s private chambers at the very end. There were no guards in sight, which worried Thomas. He growled in irritation. Did the reason that he and his Marchers had come all this way escape again?
They began to walk down the hall, then stopped abruptly. Fortune looked down upon him. Thomas’ smile resembled that of a cat about to pounce on an unsuspecting mouse. Rodric had appeared right in front of the doors with Chertney at his side and several fists of black-clad men trailing after, all with their backs turned toward them and not realizing the danger that they faced.
Thomas remembered fighting men such as these black-clad fighters before. Not warlocks, or at least not yet. But no better. Soulless. They had given themselves to the Shadow Lord in return for promises of wealth and power. They were shadows of themselves now, no more than slaves to whichever of the Shadow Lord’s servants controlled them. Recognizing they were in for a fight, Thomas pulled his blade from the scabbard on his back, Oso and the men and women following him already having their weapons in hand. They then began walking purposefully down the hall, expressions grim but keen.
“Rodric! It’s time that we ended this. Your reign is over.”
The High King jumped, startled by the call much like a deer eyeing the hunter who had just stepped out from between the trees. He, Chertney and his men turned as one, shocked to see the Marchers approaching.
&n
bsp; Realizing that Rodric was fixed in place, paralyzed with fear as his hand rested on the door handle, Chertney took command.
“Attack!”
The black-clad men charged down the hallway, swords and long knives drawn, their movements strangely coordinated. Their eyes lacked focus, yet their intentions were clear.
Thomas sprang forward, sprinting down the hall to engage and hoping to fight his way through to the High King. But he was faster than Oso and his fighters, creating a space between him and the Marchers rushing after him. Chertney noticed the gap and saw his opportunity, knowing that the Highland Lord was intent on one prize to the distraction of everything else. Grabbing hold of his Dark Magic, he almost lost control when he recognized the tall man standing with the Marchers, the Sylvan Warrior who had defeated him so easily in the Highlands. Despite the fear that surged within him, bursts of black energy shot from his hands. If Chertney was lucky, the Dark Magic would punch right through the Highland Lord’s body before he realized that he was the focus of Chertney’s attack.
Trusting his safety to his grandfather, Thomas ignored Chertney’s assault intent only on his target. That trust was well placed. Using the Talent, Rynlin crafted a shield of white energy that formed right in front of Thomas and stayed with him as he ran down the hall. Chertney’s black bolts struck the shield, the sharp flashes of light reverberating with a thunderous crack and blinding everyone in the hallway.
Chertney, forced to turn away by the blazing clash of competing powers, stepped back in fear. The Highland Lord still approached, this time more cautiously with his Marchers following behind. Chertney dodged to the side at the last second, the massive fireball that the tall Sylvan Warrior flung toward him singeing his hair, his black silk shirt beginning to smolder. His bowels threatened to release when he saw the same tall figure stalking toward him, the Sylvan Warrior’s stony visage promising certain death. Rodric ducked as well, forced down by Chertney’s hand on his shoulder, as the ball of energy struck the doors behind him, blasting the heavy oak shingles off their hinges and into the High King’s private chambers beyond. Flames appeared just through the shattered doorway, the curtains and carpets beginning to burn, a charred smudge several feet around staining the stone on the far wall.
Thomas sprinted forward, his sword a blur as he engaged Chertney’s men. Compelled by their master to fight, even after Thomas tore through three in as many seconds, the black-clad soldiers continued to resist. The Marchers leapt over the men slumped on the floor and crashed into Cherney’s guard. Oso joined the skirmish with a roar that quickly became a smile. Finally, he had the opportunity he had been seeking. To take his anger out on those who had harmed his people and his homeland.
Chertney and Rodric evaded the attack, scurrying into the chamber beyond. Certain that they were making for the hidden passageway that his grandfather had mentioned, Thomas redoubled his efforts as he slipped his sword between the ribs of the soldier unlucky enough to block him from his goal. Unable to pull the blade free quickly as his opponent became a dead weight and slid to the floor, he ducked and drove his dagger in an underhanded strike into the groin of the soldier who had tried to take his head off with a wild, backhanded swing. He ignored his opponent’s scream of agony. Looking up, Thomas saw that there were still several black-clad soldiers in front of him, and the tight space of the hall hindered his Marchers’ efforts to push forward and break through. Although Thomas fought with a vengeance, he realized that Rodric was slipping from his grasp once again. Chertney’s soldiers would fight to the death unless their commander was killed, ensuring a stiff defense. Although Thomas was more than happy to help them achieve that objective, he cursed his worsening luck as Chertney’s rear guard would drain the valuable time that he needed to catch his prey.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Tables Turned
After the fireball blew apart the doors to his chambers, Rodric crawled on his hands and knees through his bedroom into his private office. His crown had clattered to the stone somewhere in the hallway, and he hadn’t bothered to retrieve it. He pulled frantically at his tattered and smoking purple cape, almost choking himself in the process because of his clumsy efforts to release it from around his neck. Every clash of steel out in the hallway sent a jolt of fear through him as he crouched behind his desk, Chertney close behind. Pushing on the loose board by the left leg of the bureau, he released the catch holding the secret door in place. A draft of musty air enveloped him and Chertney as the hidden shingle swung open. Though a bit scorched, they were both pleased to escape the Marchers, if only for a few seconds.
“I am the High King,” whined Rodric. “This is my Kingdom. My Kingdom! This can’t happen to me!”
Chertney had had enough, tired of the sniveling whelp, his years of restraint finally snapping, his master’s wishes be damned. Grabbing Rodric by the throat, he lifted him up and pushed him through the hidden doorway and against the back wall of the passage that led off into the darkness. Rodric’s head struck a loose stone, and the High King felt a trickle of blood run down the back of his neck, soaking the collar of his shirt.
“I have thought of killing you many times,” rasped Chertney, his hand tightening around Rodric’s throat, making it more of a struggle for the High King to breathe. “But I haven’t because the Shadow Lord wants you to live. He still thinks you might be useful. Why he would think such a thing, I don’t know. But I don’t question my master’s decision, so I’ll let you live a little longer for now.”
Rodric could only stare, his mind failing to comprehend what was happening, never having been spoken to or bullied in this way before. He didn’t know what to do, other than reach for Chertney’s hand and try to pry the servant of the Shadow Lord’s iron grip from his throat so that he could take a full breath. Finally Chertney released him, letting him drop to the ground. Rodric crumpled against the wall, massaging his bruised throat as he gasped for air.
“From now on, Rodric, you belong to me. You will do as I say when I say. Otherwise, I’ll put an end to you, regardless of whatever my master might want. Now get up and get moving. I have no desire to die because of your continued ineptitude.”
Chertney started down the dark path, ignoring the High King, no longer really caring if Rodric followed at all.
Rodric sat against the wall for a moment, his anger quickly growing into a barely controllable rage. Drawing his dagger, he stood quickly and threw it at Chertney’s back. Sensing the motion, Chertney stopped and turned.
Rodric had expected the blade to be buried in Chertney’s belly, but he was more than disappointed. He was terrified as the blade hung in the air between them, as if held by an invisible hand. Slowly the blade turned until the point lined up perfectly with Rodric. With the flick of Chertney’s wrist, the blade sped back toward him, barely missing his head and striking the wall behind him instead, the spark of the steel hitting the stone eliciting a scream of fear from him.
“As I said, Rodric, you will do as I say now. And know that I can kill you with a snap of my fingers. You will live only as long as you are useful.”
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
Served Cold
Killeran ran through the hallways of Eamhain Mhacha, giving in to his need for haste, driven by fear, the pounding of his boots on the hard stone the only sound in the unnerving silence that had fallen throughout the citadel. His normally glaringly shiny, immaculate armor and white cape were besmirched by scratches and dents, grime and dirt, even blood, but thankfully none of it his own. When the Lord of Dunmoor learned that Chertney’s Ogren and Shades could not escape their underground lair, he realized that the battle was lost before it even began. Rodric’s guards would never be able to hold against the Marchers, even if they wanted to. And from what he had seen, clearly they had little desire to lay down their lives for a High King who had repeatedly betrayed their loyalty. In fact, he had barely avoided capture, running down a side corridor when the Armaghian soldiers assigned to protect him had decided that they
valued their lives more than they valued his when a squad of Marchers appeared before them.
Most of the keep’s defenders were dead or captured, and Killeran feared that he would join them if he ran into any of the Marchers now searching and securing the fortress. The Marchers were forcing any stragglers or those still wanting to put up a fight higher into the citadel as they swept through the lower floors of the fortress, and that was fine with him. It actually worked to his advantage. He cursed his luck, but even more so Rodric and that blasted Chertney for leaving him on his own when they became separated. But he knew where they were going, and if he couldn’t catch up to them, he was still hoping to use their escape route.
Reaching the hallway that led to Rodric’s chambers, Killeran stopped, the shock of his rising terror holding him in place. As he surveyed the carnage and damage, he struggled to keep the gorge rising in his throat from escaping. Chertney’s black-clad men lay about the corridor, their blood seeping into the grout and staining the tiles and stone. The burnt remnants of the doors hung loosely on their hinges, small fires still smoldering in the room beyond. Some Marchers had obviously already made their way through this part of the castle, apparently having had an easy time against Chertney’s soldiers, but perhaps that was a good thing. Perhaps that would allow him to slip away after all.
Forcing himself to walk into Rodric’s suite of rooms, he saw that the adjoining chamber was charred to a crisp. Ignoring the stench of ash and soot, he stepped carefully into the private office and toward his one chance at survival, taking his time in order to avoid the paintings and drapes that had fallen from the walls and still burned on the scorched carpet. The hidden door was still open, so he could probably catch up to Rodric and Chertney if he moved quickly. He froze when three smoke-stained shadows emerged from the inky passageway.
