by Wacht, Peter
Thomas stopped short, a smile playing across his face. “Rodric has escaped once again, but his rat wasn’t fast enough. Perhaps my luck is finally turning.”
“You!” Killeran stepped back in fear, his path to freedom blocked. His high-pitched voice failed to reflect the authority that he so desperately sought to present. “You dare to insult me? You dare! If your henchmen weren’t here, I would challenge you to a duel. You got lucky that night so long ago. Luck will have nothing to do with it the next time our steel crosses.”
Killeran whipped out his blade, swinging it in front of him as if he were preparing to fight, but rather hoping that with the Marcher and the tall man beside the Highland Lord, he could surrender honorably. He could not be expected to fight three adversaries at once under such circumstances.
“Yet to fight so many would not be honorable,” continued Killeran, sweat breaking out on his forehead as his fear transformed into a shaking that he failed to control. “Therefore, I shall have to surrender my blade, as it is the only right-minded thing to do since we meet now as peers.” Killeran twisted the sword in his hand and made to pass the blade to the large Highlander hilt first.
The Lord of Dunmoor was outnumbered. Moreover, the prospect of fighting any of the three men standing before him, particularly the boy with the brightly glowing green eyes, turned his bowels to jelly. He believed that he was entitled to the privileged treatment of a lord. Therefore, claiming the right of honorable surrender appeared to be his best option to ensure that his head remained on his shoulders. Perhaps he could then make his escape from captivity while the terms of his ransom were negotiated with the King of Dunmoor. But, apparently, the men beside the Highland Lord had little conception of a lord’s right to an honorable surrender.
“They’re gone, but we’ll track them anyway,” said the tall Highlander.
Killeran didn’t recognize the sharp-eyed man whose dastardly grin made him shiver with fright. The other one was the boy from that night so long ago in the Highlands, the one who had risen so high so quickly and continued to haunt his dreams. The boy his master had wanted dead for so long. The doomed raid that he had led against the Highland village seemed to be the start of the destruction of all his well-laid plans to become more than just a Dunmoorian Lord, the boy standing before him the primary catalyst for his downfall.
The Marcher walked past Killeran with barely a glance at him or the proffered sword and then out the door. “I’ll find Aric and we’ll follow the trail. I expect that we’ll come out wherever the dark creatures were led into the caves beneath the fortress.”
“I’ll help Oso,” said the tall man, his hard blue eyes burning a hole through Killeran. He sensed the animosity Thomas held for the Dunmoorian lord, and he was more than willing to allow his grandson to act on it.
“Thank you, Rynlin. Could you also find the chamberlain, wherever he may be hiding, and bring him to me? Armagh needs to know that it no longer has a ruler, and the Kingdoms have need of a new High King.”
“Of course, Thomas. I’ll bring him presently.”
In moments, only Thomas and Killeran stood in the room. His smile growing bigger, Thomas pulled his sword. Killeran eyed the words that ran down the blade of the Highland Lord, but he was unable to make them out in the flickering light.
“If it’s a duel you want, then it’s a duel it shall be,” said Thomas in deadly seriousness. “No need to surrender, Killeran. Doing so now would be dishonorable as it appears that your odds of success are much improved. Though I would suggest that you grasp your sword from the other end. Now, shall we see if your luck will hold out for you this day?”
Killeran could only stare, unsure of what to do next. His attempt to extricate himself from the duel and gain the safety of an honorable surrender had failed. Truth be told, he knew in his heart that the boy in front of him was a better swordsman, no matter what he might tell himself. The reality of his approaching death crashed down upon him.
Yet Killeran didn’t have time to think much on his likely demise. Taking hold of the hilt once more, he raised his blade just in time, catching Thomas’ steel on his own as he was forced deeper into the chamber. He continued to step back quickly, trying to avoid the burning wreckage dotting the room, his opponent’s blade a blur. In seconds, the Dunmoorian lord had at least a half-dozen cuts on his arms and legs, the Highland Lord deftly avoiding Killeran’s battered armor as if it were a game rather than a combat to the death.
Not giving the former regent of the Highlands time to recover, Thomas tracked Killeran around the room, never allowing him to disengage. His blade was lightning fast, lunges slicing through the weak spots in his opponent’s defense. Only a minute had passed, yet Killeran already was out of breath, gasping for air, with blood trailing down his arms and legs, one of Thomas’ slashes having sliced a long but shallow cut in his side.
“A moment,” wheezed Killeran, as he came to rest with the wall at his back.
“A moment? I think not.” Thomas continued his assault, blade whipping through the air. “For ten years you murdered my people. You ravaged my land. And you want a moment? This isn’t a duel, you rat-faced cur. This is your execution.”
Killeran stumbled, the multiple wounds beginning to take their toll.
“Please, I could help you,” he cried miserably. “I can help you get Rodric and Chertney.”
“I think not. I don’t work with traitors.”
Killeran made one last attempt to break away from Thomas, eyeing the passageway off to his left. But he was too slow. Thomas easily met each of the Dunmoorian Lord’s lunges and slashes. Then, as Killeran attempted one more attack, hoping to force Thomas away from his escape route so that he could take his chances in the tunnel, he made his last mistake. Raising his blade above his head and feinting a swing down, he hoped to gain the space that he needed to slip into the darkened passageway and slam the door closed before the boy could follow.
But instead of stepping back, Thomas stepped forward, driving his blade through Killeran’s chest like a knife through butter, the breastplate splitting in two from the force of the lunge. The Dunmoorian lord remained standing for a moment, his eyes glazing over before finally sliding off the Highland blade and falling back against the wall in a puddle of his own blood. His breaths became more labored with each passing second, bright red bubbling from his lips. And then it was over. The former regent of the Highlands, the man who had inflicted so much terror and misery on the Highlands, was no more.
Thomas stood there for several minutes, looking down on the man who had terrorized the Highlands for so long, who had tortured him when he was a boy. He thought that he would feel some satisfaction for taking his vengeance on the one who had caused him and his people so much pain. But all he felt was regret, knowing that there was still so much more to do.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Black Glass
“This plan worries me, Corelia. Malachias worked with my father from the very beginning to put me on the Fal Carrachian throne. It didn’t turn out as he promised. Therefore, I see no reason to trust him.”
Corelia Tessaril, daughter of the High King, smirked as she couldn’t help but notice the resentment dripping from Maddan Dinnegan’s voice. Once Maddan’s father had been the richest noble in all the Kingdoms, but that had not satisfied him. He had wanted more. So much more. In Norin Dinnegan’s mind, wealth was synonymous with power, yet in his own Kingdom his riches could only take him so far. There was an obstacle that needed to be removed if he were to attain what he desired. Thus, his father’s fateful decision to assassinate Gregory Carlomin, King of Fal Carrach, believing that success with that endeavor would allow the Dinnegans to take control of the throne through Gregory’s daughter Kaylie. The failed assassination and collapse of the plot that included Kaylie’s kidnapping had destroyed the Dinnegan house. Their properties and wealth in Fal Carrach had been seized by the crown with a price put on the heads of both the father and the son.
“I dou
bt your failure resulted because of Malachias’ involvement.” Corelia’s insinuation was clear, but Maddan chose to ignore it, despite the quick surge of anger that burned in his chest. He didn’t like it, but he knew his place with the High King’s daughter, at least for now. Though he didn’t trust Corelia, he had little choice. If he was to rebuild his family’s fortunes and gain the prize that he so desperately wanted, he would need Corelia’s assistance.
“That’s unfair,” replied Maddan, feeling the need to defend his family’s honor.
“Fair and unfair are simply matters of perspective, my dear Maddan,” said Corelia, her smirk only growing, though her voice was deadly quiet. “We are allies, at least for a time. You don’t have to like working with Malachias. You don’t have to trust him. In fact, if you did, I’d call you a fool. But that is what we have right now. We will follow Malachias’ instructions for he has given us an opportunity that we must capitalize upon.”
“Still, is it wise …”
Corelia continued, ignoring Maddan, his complaints having become wearisome. “We will expect him to betray us. But if he brings us closer to our objectives, then it’s a risk that we will take. Now get out. I don’t have the patience for you to continue wallowing in your self-pity. I need to think.”
“Corelia, you must …”
Corelia slapped Maddan across the jaw, the crack echoing in the small cabin. “You must remember who is in charge, my dear Maddan.”
Maddan rubbed at his burning cheek, the imprint of Corelia’s hand visible. “If you ever …”
“If I ever slap you again, you will do nothing,” she declared imperiously. “You’d need to grow a spine first. Now get out!”
Maddan stared at Corelia with hateful eyes a moment longer, then he heaved himself up off the floor where he had fallen more from the shock of Corelia lashing out than the actual strike and scuttled out of the room, slamming the door behind him in a final act of useless disobedience.
With Maddan’s exit, Corelia’s thoughts turned to her last meeting with Malachias and the question with which he had challenged her.
“Is your alliance with the Dinnegan boy worth it?” the black-robed Malachias had asked, his scratchy voice setting her teeth on edge and his putrid breath almost knocking her to the floor.
She had wondered then, doubting the value of the alliance. After the last few minutes of wasted time, her doubts had increased tenfold. But what was she to do? Maddan still had a role to play, one that could benefit her.
She pushed her uncertainties to the side, remembering her response to the cadaverous creature that terrified her, his hypnotic, black eyes seemingly burrowing into the very depths of her soul, pulling out her greatest fears and her greatest desires.
“For the time being,” she had said, trying to insert as much confidence in her response as possible. “Why are you here now? I thought our business was concluded at least for the time being.”
“Our business will never be concluded, Corelia, until we both get what we want.”
“Then why are you here?” Corelia attempted to present an image of strength, yet Malachias unnerved her, making that task exceedingly difficult. She could barely keep her body from shaking.
“I have the information you need to begin your work,” replied Malachias, grinning evilly, knowing how he made the girl uncomfortable and enjoying every second. “You will have your chance. Make the best of it. The boy needs something. He will go in search of it. That’s when you can strike.”
“How do you know he needs to find something?”
“Because I used to possess it. I know its value. He knows its value as well.”
“That’s all well and good, but how am I to …”
“There is a ship waiting for you in the harbor. It will leave on tomorrow morning’s tide. I suggest that you be on it. It will take you where the boy will be. And with just a little luck, you can set your trap.”
Try as she might, she couldn’t escape the premonition of danger, of death, of something worse, that had settled within her after that last conversation with Malachias. She looked down at her right hand in surprise. She had pulled out the choker Malachias had given her, her thumb rubbing absently across the black onyx that glittered like glass. The necklace mesmerized her as she ran the links of burnished black stone through her fingers. The glints of bright sunshine coming through the porthole sparked off the necklace and dazzled her eyes.
Had she made the right decision? Should she have stayed with her father in Eamhain Mhacha rather than bowing down to Malachias’ suggestion and her own intuition? And if she had remained in Armagh’s capital, would she have had the opportunity to use the necklace to her advantage and make the Highland Lord her own?
Perhaps. But perhaps not. He would have been wary. Suspicious. She had sensed it in him when they had spoken that last night of the Council of the Kingdoms. She doubted that she could have gotten close to him if he had, indeed, decided to return to Eamhain Mhacha in search of her father. No, she had done the right thing, leaving Armagh’s capital when her father sent General Brennios to the eastern border. She knew without a doubt that her father would lose the Kingdom. There was a power in the Highland Lord, a strength not seen in others, and one that she desperately wanted to make her own.
But she also knew that if she had stayed, she would not have control over the situation when the fortress fell. And she needed to have control if she were to succeed with her plan. Better to be patient. Better to wait for the perfect opportunity.
So she would bide her time until circumstances favored her. She would have one chance with the necklace, and she could not afford to fail, not with the potential consequences, both good and bad.
Besides, she was skeptical that her father even knew that she had slipped out of the fortress and found a ship to Mooralyn, and from there to where Malachias had told her to go. She had seen the madness in his eyes. He cared only for the power that he sought. He had never loved her. Rather, he had only seen her as another tool to be used.
So be it. She had learned to do the same and would continue to do so. Although the realization that her father could lose their Kingdom made her ill, she took solace in the fact that if she succeeded, she would set herself on a path to gain all the Kingdoms.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
Renewed Purpose
Toreal, chamberlain of the Keep at Eamhain Mhacha, had mastered the art of survival, which explained why he had served in his position for more than three decades despite Rodric Tessaril’s violent, and often deadly, moods. Quite simply, the competent chamberlain knew when to be present and when to disappear. Therefore, when he discovered that the fortress was under attack, he did what he normally did when Rodric was looking for a target for his anger. He hid. Unfortunately, the small man with a bald pate, bushy mustache, and deep set, mournful eyes did not conceal himself well enough. The Marchers found him in a storeroom on the first floor as they swept the castle for any stragglers or would-be heroes.
“You know who I am?”
Thomas stood in front of the obscenely large Armaghian throne, Rynlin and Oso positioned behind him. Thomas refused to occupy the same seat Rodric had once graced.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Good. Then you know I already rule another Kingdom. I have no desire to acquire a second one.”
“You don’t, my lord?” asked Toreal, his surprise and confusion evident. In his experience with Rodric and the High Kings before him, they had only one desire — more power. And if you obtained more power it meant that you did so at a rival’s expense, strengthening your position even more. That was the goal. The only goal in the game played by kings and queens.
“No, I’ll let the Council of the Kingdoms decide who shall rule this Kingdom.”
“You don’t want Armagh for yourself?” Toreal was taken aback, still trying to fathom what he had just heard.
“No, I came here for Rodric. He ravaged the Highlands through a surrogate for a decade and then attacke
d my Kingdom.” Thomas’ green eyes blazed, his anger obvious though controlled. Toreal noted that everything about the Highland Lord was controlled. “Moreover, he’s in league with the Shadow Lord. There’s a price to be paid for such treachery. I owe him a debt, and I mean to repay that debt.”
Toreal rose to his full though not imposing height, the stoop of his shoulders and cringing manner disappearing. Although he wasn’t a tall man, the change in posture was an improvement, giving him an unexpected confidence and the appearance of proficiency. His allegiance was to his Kingdom, to Armagh, not to Rodric. If Rodric truly was gone and on the run, perhaps something could be done to ensure that monarchs such as those in the Tessaril line never assumed the Armaghian throne again.
“What would you have of me, Lord Kestrel?”
“Information first. Your service second.”
Thomas, Oso and Rynlin all noted the immediate change that came over Toreal. Obviously he was a more than capable chamberlain, in that he had survived for so long under Rodric. Perhaps if the yoke placed around Toreal’s neck by the former High King were removed that competence could become something more.
“Where is Corelia Tessaril?”
Toreal stared at Thomas in alarm. “She went to Mooralyn, Lord Kestrel.” Before he could stop himself he blurted out what he had been thinking. “You don’t mean to install her on the throne, do you?”
As soon as the words left his mouth, Toreal shuddered, taking a step back, his shoulders hunching in fear. What he had just said would have earned a lashing from Rodric at the very least, and he feared that he had overstepped his bounds with the Highland Lord.
