by Wacht, Peter
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
Charging Forward
Thomas watched with pride, the flag of the Highlands whipping in the wind, as he urged Acero, his massive, black unicorn, past the first line of Marchers. Rynlin and Rya came up behind him on his right and left respectively, and he glanced in each direction to confirm that all the Sylvana, their unicorns charging to the front and distancing themselves from the smaller steeds of the Marchers, had taken the lead.
Turning his attention to the host of dark creatures, he realized that their screams and roars had died down, replaced with murmurs of concern, the towering beasts milling about in trepidation. They still greatly outnumbered the men and women charging toward them, but they knew the stories as well, of the devastation and destruction wrought by the Sylvan Warriors, of the pain and terror to be experienced when the long horns of the unicorns slid through flesh and their hooves shattered bone. And they were now about to experience it for themselves.
Nodding toward Catal Huyuk, who rode next to Rya, the massive man, topknot streaming behind him, raised a beautifully carved horn to his lips that flashed brightly in the early morning sunlight. With a strong breath he blew a single blast that resounded across the plain. A blast that had not been heard in the Kingdoms for centuries. A blast that offered a promise. A promise of death and retribution.
WE HEAR.
Followed by another, the note clear and strong, traveling well across the grassy plains to the very edges of the Highlands and the Heartland Lake.
WE COME.
And then a third that made the ground shake even more than the charge of the Sylvana, the earth rippling as if an earthquake had struck.
WE CONQUER.
The dark creatures faltered, beginning to shove their brethren, trampling those who had fallen to the ground, many seeking a path to escape, the already tenuous control exercised by the Shades beginning to weaken all the more as the notes cascaded over them.
No more than seconds from crashing into the Shadow Lord’s servants, the Sylvan Warriors who had some skill in the Talent grabbed hold, weaving the natural magic of the world among themselves, then using the horns of all the unicorns to magnify their power.
Reveling in the natural energy coursing through him, almost entranced by Acero’s horn as it pulsed with a bright white light, Thomas focused his attention on the host of dark creatures swarming to his front. He released the power that surged within him, giving it a purpose, and spears of light shot from his palms to strike the dark creatures that stood before him. Other Sylvana followed his lead, though some had a clear preference in terms of their mode of attack.
Daran Sharban, the red-haired Sylvan Warrior, called blasts of white lightning down from the skies, destroying a dozen or more dark creatures with every strike and leaving nothing but blackened ground to confirm the result. His grandparents both released streams of white energy that ripped through the host of dark creatures, only charred husks remaining in the wake of their attack. Sylvana such as Catal Huyuk, who didn’t have any skill in the Talent, lay about him with his massive axe, eliminating any creatures lucky enough to survive the initial onslaught.
The large host of dark creatures shattered like a piece of glass hitting a stone. Thomas and the Sylvan Warriors plowed through the horde, the Marchers following closely behind and eliminating any of the surviving beasts. As the blasts of power continued to rip through the dark creatures, slaughtering the Shades and Ogren, the angry blades of the Sylvan Warriors and Marchers extinguished what little resistance remained.
CHAPTER THIRTY NINE
Honorable Disobedience
Brennios and his soldiers watched in awe and terror as the Sylvan Warriors charged to the front of the battle line, then blasted through the dark creatures with their unstoppable power. Yet despite their fear at the horrifying force displayed and the ease with which so few cut through more than a thousand dark creatures, all appeared pleased by the turn of events. They hated and feared the allies their High King had thrust upon them and clearly had no desire to engage a foe focused only on eliminating the dark creatures of the Shadow Lord.
Perhaps if those were Armaghian soldiers under attack, he would have adjusted his battle plan and come to their aid. But Brennios would not do so now, ordering his men several times to hold their position and to remain alert, in case they became the next target or, as appeared more likely, a dark creature seeking to escape the Sylvan Warriors’ rain of destruction rushed toward them. If the Marchers and Sylvana wanted to annihilate Rodric’s Ogren and Shades, who was he to get in their way?
“Swing your men to the left, Brennios!” Rodric rode up, Chertney at his side. For the first time Brennios saw something other than condescension or arrogance in the eyes of the High King’s advisor. For the first time he saw a terror that threatened to overwhelm him. “You can take them in the flank!”
“We will hold here, Rodric,” answered Brennios, refusing the command.
“You will do no such thing!” screamed Rodric, who noticed but ignored the fact that for the first time Brennios had not used his title. “You will attack immediately!”
Brennios’ back stiffened. He smiled as he realized that he was about to jump from a ledge, consequences be damned. “As I said, we will hold here.”
“You dare to disobey me?” Rodric spluttered out the words, rattled by his general’s disobedience. He turned toward the men behind their commanding officer. “Arrest this traitor or I’ll feed you to the Ogren!”
The soldiers around Brennios didn’t move. They stood there in silence, anger and disappointment in their strong gazes, their expressions hardening.
“We are loyal to Armagh, Rodric.” Brennios specifically dropped the titular head once again to demonstrate that their roles had now changed. “We are not allies to the dark creatures of the Shadow Lord. We have no disagreement with the Sylvana. If they want to kill your Ogren and Shades, we applaud them.”
Rodric sat his horse speechless, stunned by Brennios’ words, never expecting such a revolt. Finally finding his voice, he looked again to the soldiers surrounding the general, trying one more time to gain control over the rapidly deteriorating situation.
“Guards, take him!”
The soldiers around Brennios continued to stare at the former High King, fury in their eyes. A few finally moved, but not toward Brennios. Rather, they stepped toward Rodric and Chertney, swords drawn.
Recognizing the increasing danger, Chertney grabbed Rodric’s arm.
“Come on, you fool! It looks like you’ve lost more than a battle today.”
Chertney galloped away to the east, Rodric following after, despondent and in shock. The High King’s reign in Armagh finally had come to an ignominious end.
CHAPTER FORTY
Free
The battle concluded faster than anyone expected. The Sylvana wiped out the dark creatures like the surge of a tidal wave crashing against the shore, the Marchers eliminating those few Ogren and Shades that survived the initial assault. Not until they confirmed that every dark creature was dead did Thomas and Rynlin, followed by the Sylvana and Marchers, ride calmly and purposefully toward Brennios and the Armaghian army.
“General, you chose not to fight. For that decision I thank you, and I give you another choice.”
“That choice would be?” The Armaghian general’s eyebrows rose with concern.
“You may choose to surrender.”
“And if we do not?” asked Brennios.
“Then what just happened there,” said Thomas, pointing to the battleground and the more than a thousand dead dark creatures littering the ground, “will happen here.”
Brennios gazed for a moment at the flag of white flapping behind the young man riding the massive black unicorn, the outline of three mountains and a raptor streaking down from the sky displayed proudly.
“You are the Highland Lord.”
“I am,” replied Thomas. “And you know who rides with me.”
“I do,
” said Brennios. A bolt of worry shot down his spine at the sight of this grim-faced young man, surrounded by some very serious men and women who in a matter of minutes had destroyed an army of Ogren and Shades. He smiled in an attempt to hide his increasing nervousness.
“I never liked or trusted Rodric, but I was loyal to Armagh,” said Brennios. “And I still am. I always thought that he poisoned his cousin to gain the throne, but it could never be proven. When Rodric forced his dark creatures upon us, we had little choice in the matter.”
“I can understand that,” replied the Highland Lord, his bright green eyes sparkling in the sunlight. “But you have a choice now.”
“Yes, we have a choice now.” Brennios looked at the several thousand soldiers aligned behind him, knowing that what he was about to do he did for them and for Armagh. “We surrender.”
“Good,” replied Thomas, a tight smile on his face, pleased that the day’s carnage would come to an end. “A very wise decision.”
Brennios was caught up in that smile, but he didn’t take it for one of pleasure. The Armaghian general knew immediately that he had made the right decision, concluding that in the future he would never cross swords with this young Highland Lord. He had no doubt that it would go poorly for him.
Before Thomas could talk with Brennios about what would happen next, Oso appeared at Thomas’ side.
“It’s finished. Armagh is no longer a threat. The Highlands are free.”
“The Highlands are free,” agreed Thomas. “But we’re not finished.”
Thomas recalled the prophecy, turning his gaze in the direction of Blackstone. He could feel the pull of that dark place growing stronger by the day, but it wasn’t time yet. Soon, though, he would need to make his way there. Very soon. But before that, there was still much to do. He still needed to find the Key.
CHAPTER FORTY ONE
Morning Light
On most mornings, the kestrel hunted. But not today. Today the raptor felt an unfamiliar pull. Its strong wings, spanning seven feet, propelled it a thousand feet above the ground. The white feathers speckled with grey on the bird’s underside blended perfectly with the sky. When visible, the raptor was a dangerous predator. When hidden, it was deadly, shooting down through the thin air like an arrow, its sharp claws outstretched for the kill.
After ten years of oppression, the Highlands were free once more, and the kestrel sensed a new urgency. It flew swiftly, driven on by that energy, ignoring its instinct to hunt as it so easily could have done during its long flight. The world was changing and not necessarily for the better. Something was coming. Something dangerous, frightening.
After flying through the night, the raptor finally reached its destination as the sun began to rise once more in the east. Having crossed the Inland Sea and then the farms, grasslands, and copses of trees that dotted Dunmoor, it approached warily the city jutting out into the Heartland Lake, circling several times to confirm that there was no danger before drawing closer. It sensed the faint touch of darkness radiating from the citadel. But that feeling of wickedness was fading, much like when the scent of game went cold. Whatever evil had once lurked here was gone.
As the sun completed its rise, blazing across the water of the lake, the bright glare off the water lighting everything before it, the raptor alighted on the highest tower of the Eamhain Mhacha citadel. Squawking in victory, its shrill cry carrying throughout the keep and the city below, the kestrel turned its attention toward the northwest.
Many of the residents of Eamhain Mhacha saw the massive bird, believing that its appearance was appropriate, giving them hope. The kestrel served as a symbol of the role that the Highlanders had played in liberating them from the High King. But they didn’t know that this was simply another beginning, not the end. They didn’t know that the next step needed to be taken. War was coming from the north, a final battle looming. The kestrel knew, and it would be ready.
CHAPTER FORTY TWO
Next Task
Thomas had learned a hard lesson during his first Council of the Kingdoms. With the passage of the centuries, many of the rulers had forgotten or gave little credence to the suggestion that the Dark Horde would once again threaten the Kingdoms. They preferred to think in terms of what was, not what could be, conveniently ignoring what could happen if the Shadow Lord’s dark creatures once more marched from Blackstone and made it past the Breaker and into the Kingdoms. In fact, some viewed the Dark Horde and its master as nothing more than a myth, a story from the past to frighten children.
And those who did believe in the truth of that myth assumed that they had time before the Shadow Lord attacked. They understood that the pace of the incursions by dark creature raiding parties continued to increase, that it was a sign of things to come, but they hadn’t quite gotten comfortable with how quickly the danger was proliferating.
Thomas knew better. And he sensed that now was the time to take the initiative. For the last decade the Shadow Lord had directed events from behind the scenes, using proxies such as Rodric Tessaril and Johin Killeran to advance his plans. Those proxies had been discovered and eliminated. But those efforts to reveal the truth had taken time, and time now was running short. That reality led to an inevitable, chilling conclusion. The time when Thomas was slated to face the Shadow Lord was fast approaching, faster, in fact, than he would like.
Thomas had resigned himself to the fact that he must fight the Shadow Lord, but to have any chance of success the prophecy decreed that first he must find the Key. Rynlin had spent centuries looking for clues as to where to locate the Key, redoubling his efforts the last few months, even breaking into the citadel in Eamhain Mhacha with his grandmother, but with nothing to show for that work. His grandfather had found traces, insinuations, new paths to follow. He pursued those lines diligently. Frequently, those trails proved to be dead ends. Or those roads led to other roads, and then to new trails and lanes, but never revealed a clear path that led to the Key, whatever the Key might be. What frustrated Rynlin all the more was that he had actually been there. He and Rya, as well as several other Sylvan Warriors, had fought against the Shadow Lord when he first appeared, answering Athala’s call. But none of them had been privy to what she had done with the Key, as she was the first to learn of the prophecy and use its limited guidance against the Shadow Lord. An argument had raged among the Sylvana ever since the prophecy had first been revealed as to whether the Key was an actual key. It could be something else, some other type of artifact, or perhaps simply a concept or idea, for the ultimate purpose of the Key was to provide access to Blackstone, giving the bearer a way to work their way past the many deadly traps and dangers crafted from Dark Magic and laid out by the Shadow Lord to prevent his enemies from entering his city. For the prophecy said that the final battle with the Shadow Lord occurred there, within the charred remains of a once vast metropolis which now hid the Ogren, Shades and other dark creatures that made up the Shadow Lord’s Dark Horde. Thomas believed that the Key had to be something tangible, something that could be found. Why he thought that, he couldn’t say. It just seemed right. But what was it exactly? And where could it be?
Thomas and Rynlin had found a quiet place to talk, wishing to relieve the stress of their recent battle against Chertney’s host of dark creatures. Moreover, they needed time to map out their next steps. Rynlin, as was his wont, had happily assumed the role with which Thomas was so familiar. That of pedantic teacher, as his grandfather spoke of the history that was most relevant to the challenge that they faced.
As Rynlin explained, Ollav Fola, the first High King, was also a Sylvan Warrior and had fought the Shadow Lord and his minions. Knowing the threat that the Shadow Lord presented, Ollav Fola gathered all the Kingdoms and led them into the Charnel Mountains, taking advantage of the time Athala, the first leader of the Sylvan Warriors, gained for him thanks to their dogged fight against the Dark Horde when it first emerged from the Knife’s Edge and sought to cross the Northern Steppes into the Kingdoms, del
aying the monstrous host, even pushing it back into the Charnel Mountains for a time.
The Kingdom armies and the Dark Horde fought among those cursed peaks for more than a decade, the Kingdoms often close to defeat. Yet each time it seemed that the end neared and the Shadow Lord was close to triumph, Ollav Fola led the Kingdoms from the brink of disaster to continue the struggle. Finally, the tide shifted. The soldiers of the Kingdoms destroyed more and more of the Shadow Lord’s dark creatures, whittling away at his Dark Horde patiently and systematically. Ollav Fola proved victorious, defeating the Shadow Lord, but he wasn’t strong enough to kill his foe.
The Shadow Lord’s power was too great at what was then called Shadow’s Reach, his last bastion, now appropriately named Blackstone. In fact, the stories said that the Shadow Lord could not be killed there unless the Well of the Souls, the supposed source of his Dark Magic, was also destroyed. Therefore, rather than seek what would likely be a pyrrhic victory that would severely weaken the Kingdoms more than they already had been after a decade of warfare, Ollav Fola and the Sylvana created a prison with their Talent, weaving their natural magic in a way that contained the Dark Magic of the Shadow Lord within the Charnel Mountains. And it was all centered on the Key. Though what the Key was the histories never said, Athala crafting the magical artifact and Ollav Fola employing it, both taking its secrets to the grave. Once used, the Key had been taken to the capital of Armagh for safekeeping but never revealed.
The Shadow Lord remained imprisoned in the north for centuries, and as a result Shadow’s Reach became tainted by his evil, the once beautiful mountain city transforming over time into a wasteland of burnt ash and cinder as the Shadow Lord’s Dark Magic poisoned the land. As the years passed, though the Shadow Lord was not forgotten, passing time softened the harsh memories of the past, and the reality of the evil of the north drifted into tales and fables.
