by Peter Wacht
"Yes, milord. That’s been arranged."
"Excellent. The other rulers have not yet heard of the attack on the Crag, though they will become suspicious when Talyn Kestrel does not arrive for the Council. The less they know beforehand the better it is for us. If they don't find out about the boy, then I can still get what I want from them. Does anyone but you know that the boy might be alive?"
"Just a few of my soldiers," said Killeran. "But they won't talk."
"See that they don't," said Rodric. "If they do, I will hold you personally responsible. Is there anything else that you're forgetting to tell me, Killeran?" His voice said clearly that there better not be.
"No, milord. If all goes well during the Council, at its conclusion I'll return to the Highlands as we agreed. We captured several hundred Highlanders during the attack. They are all more than willing to help with our project."
Rodric imagined just how willing the Highlanders were, but it was better than ending up tied to a spit while being slowly turned over an Ogren cook fire.
"Good," said Rodric. "I'm glad to see that all was not lost. You may go."
"Yes, milord," said Killeran, bowing as before and walking quickly to the door, glad to be out of the room.
Sitting again on the hard, black granite throne, Rodric’s mind remained on the Highlands and the missing Kestrel. He had a nagging suspicion that this boy would continue to be a problem. And he didn't like problems. Not at all.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Stymied
Gregory Carlomin, King of Fal Carrach, hated coming to the Council of the Kingdoms. Most of the time, you were stuck in a stuffy room for days, arguing over table scraps that had little or no importance. But appearances had to be kept up.
The Council met every two years. During that time all the rulers of the different Kingdoms gathered to discuss trade agreements, settle border disputes, arrange marriages and handle any other necessary tasks. It did prove useful, though. It was the easiest way to get things done. Otherwise, a task such as putting a trade agreement in place could take months to accomplish. Messengers had to be sent back and forth after each change was proposed to make sure both parties agreed, and that added a huge amount of wasted time to a process that should take a few hours at the most. But he still didn't want to be here.
Gregory was a large man, both tall and broad, and his years of handling a sword were evident. It was on the battlefield that he felt most comfortable, not in a room full of courtiers and diplomats. His short beard, once black and now speckled with a few salty whiskers, complemented his curly, black hair. Years before he had looked like a rogue, his eyes always smiling and open. That's what his wife had told him. Now his eyes were sad. His wife had died the year before, and though he had gotten over it — at least he told himself that — his daughter Kaylie had not.
Before her death, Kaylie followed her mother wherever she went, always trying to emulate her. Now that she was gone, Kaylie wanted to go exploring or learn how to handle a bow — anything that was different from what she had done before. Gregory had, for the most part, left the raising of his daughter to his wife, while he ruled Fal Carrach. He had both responsibilities now, and he had quickly discovered that raising a girl without her mother was a much harder job than ruling a kingdom. He wished he were back in Ballinasloe, spending time with her now. He did not like being away from her so soon after her mother's passing. He promised himself that he would make it up to her when he got back.
As Gregory looked around the High King's throne room, he saw many of the same faces, and a few new ones. Loris, King of Dunmoor, conversed with Rodric, which made Gregory nervous. A month didn't seem to go by without Fal Carrach's soldiers skirmishing on the border with some of Loris' thieves as they tried to sneak across and steal his cattle.
Loris' beard still looked scraggly. He had grown it as a boy to hide a scar he had gotten when he had raided Fal Carrach, wanting to make a name for himself before assuming the throne. Yet, it could do nothing for the weak chin or dull eyes.
Gregory watched the people walking past him, many of whom he nodded a greeting to, even sparing a kind word, but he quickly grew bored. Normally, he spent most of his time at the Council speaking with Talyn Kestrel. They'd been friends since childhood and had many common interests, besides the fact that their kingdoms bordered one another. But Talyn hadn't arrived yet, which was strange. It was not like him to be so late to the Council, even though Talyn hated these gatherings as much as he did.
Across the room, Gregory caught the eye of Rendael, King of Kenmare, and his wife Lorena. Both he and his wife waved, and Gregory returned it gladly. Of all the kings, Rendael had ruled the longest, though his age hadn't slowed his step. In fact, the only sign of his many years was his white hair. Gregory was certain that he had gotten most of it because of Lorena. She grew bored easily, and when that happened she liked to meddle in Rendael's affairs.
Gregory realized that Lorena was coming in his direction now that her husband was occupied with someone else. He knew exactly what she wanted to talk about. Lorena was renowned for her matchmaking. Her first words would be, "You've mourned long enough, Gregory. A year shows the proper respect. You shouldn't be alone, and I just happen to know the right person." Once Lorena got started, it was very hard to make her stop. And he really didn't want to talk with her at the moment. Turning quickly, Gregory looked for a way to escape. Instead, he nearly knocked over a beautiful young woman standing behind him.
Gregory quickly reached out his hand and caught her by the arm to prevent her from falling. Taking a closer look, full red lips and a dangerously low-cut green dress made Gregory's heart quicken a beat. He thought he could drown in the dark green pools of color that formed her eyes. He wouldn't have minded that at all.
The woman steadied herself. Gregory realized he no longer had to support her, but he was reluctant to let go. His mind was still caught up in the woman's green eyes. Green eyes. Green eyes and a green dress. There was someone he had heard of who preferred green dresses that matched her eyes. Who was that? It suddenly came to him, and he removed his hand.
"I'm sorry, Sarelle," apologized Gregory. "I didn't see you there."
"Quite all right, Gregory," said Sarelle Makarin, Queen of Benewyn. "No damage done, and I saw the reason for it. Lorena seems to be up to her old tricks again." Sarelle had taken the throne of Benewyn less than a year before. Her sister had died from a wasting sickness. Unlike the other Kingdoms, only a queen may rule Benewyn. If the ruling monarch died without a daughter to rule after her, then a sister wore the crown next.
"Yes, she is," replied Gregory. "But now that you're here as well, perhaps she'll turn her attention to you rather than me."
"Thank you, but no," said Sarelle. "I'm not ready for marriage. I haven't found the right husband." Gregory found that surprising. Sarelle was a remarkably beautiful woman, and he was certain she had a constant stream of suitors. He reminded himself to be very careful if he discussed any trade agreements with her. The traders of Benewyn were the most ruthless negotiators in the Kingdoms. They had to be, since their country depended on commerce to survive. Gregory had no doubts that Sarelle could hold her own in any situation. If he didn't pay attention to what was going on, he'd lose his Kingdom to her before he knew it. And in the end, he'd probably not even be bothered by it if he could gaze into her eyes just one more time.
"That makes two of us, then," said Gregory. He would have liked to say more, but Rodric now stood on the dais at the end of the room.
"My lords, would you please take your seats. The Council will begin."
Gregory offered his arm to Sarelle, which she cheerfully accepted with a smile. If he thought those eyes were difficult to ignore, the smile made her almost irresistible. Escorting her to her chair, he quickly took his own, one seat removed from Rodric.
A space had been cleared in the middle of the throne room with ten highback chairs of equal height placed in a semicircle. Rodric took the one in the center,
with the other rulers sitting to his right or left. The High Kingship was an honorary title. Rodric was indeed the King of Armagh, but he certainly did not exercise the power of the High King such as Ollav Fola did when he had conquered the entire continent a thousand and more years before. The first High King knew that he could not effectively govern such a large empire, so he had allowed the defeated rulers to keep their thrones, so long as they swore fealty to him. As the years passed, others less skillful than Ollav Fola followed him to the throne, and the individual Kingdoms slowly regained their autonomy. Rodric was simply responsible for maintaining some semblance of order during the Council. That would change, Rodric promised himself. And very soon.
All the other rulers took their seats. Even a representative from Inishmore had arrived, though Gregory couldn't remember the man's name. Ten years before a group of lords had assassinated the legitimate king of Inishmore. Since then, rival factions had fought for the throne. None had been able to hold it for very long. Gregory saw that all the chairs were taken, except for the one between him and Rodric. Talyn's chair was conspicuously absent. Something was wrong. Gregory could feel it.
"My friends," said Rodric, rising from his chair and sweeping his eyes over each ruler. "Before we begin, I have difficult, unexpected news to report that I have only just received. News that cannot wait." The High King's eyes were filled with sadness, his voice laced with grief. It was an altogether convincing performance. Rodric sighed heavily before continuing. "The Crag has been destroyed. Even more terrible, Talyn Kestrel, Lord of the Highlands, and his son Benlorin, have been murdered."
Gasps of shock and shouts of anger rang throughout the room. Many looked at Rodric in disbelief. Though each of the rulers might have their differences, most did not like to see one of their own murdered. For Gregory, the news was like a physical blow. Talyn was his best friend, and though Rodric offered no proof, he was certain that he would not make a statement like that unless it was true. Talyn dead? It was unthinkable. His wife and now his best friend. Did life only get worse?
"Talyn was a good man, as was his son, and I promise that this evil deed won't go unpunished." Gregory looked at Rodric. The man's attempts at sadness and grief were fairly convincing. But his eyes sparkled with delight. Rodric had much to gain with the Kestrels gone.
In the last few years, Rodric had continually pushed to increase his power as High King, but the other rulers had resisted. It was always little things. Only a few months before, Rodric had asked to establish a small garrison in Ballinasloe to protect Armagh traders from the pirates in the Sea of Mist. Gregory had refused. There were no pirates in the Sea of Mist. He had seen to that. And if there were, they were Armaghian. It was really a very simple stratagem that Rodric employed. Any increase in power for Armagh came at the expense of the other Kingdoms, and Armagh already had the largest army in all the Kingdoms. No one wanted to make life any easier for Rodric. Things were going far too well for him as it was.
"We do not know yet who was responsible, but they will be found. Initial reports are that a group of Highlanders wished for a new Lord and decided to take matters into their own hands."
Gregory thought that highly unlikely. If the Crag actually had been conquered, there must have been a traitor involved. That's the only way it could have happened. Rebellions did not take place in the Highlands. The Marchers wouldn't allow it. Anyone could challenge the Lord of the Highlands at any time, with the victor taking the throne. Highlanders saw revolts as trickery; something only attempted by cowards. He had been to the Crag many times before. In fact, as a young man he had been over every inch of the fortress. The only way to conquer it was from the inside. If the Crag had fallen, someone had betrayed the Marchers.
Besides, becoming Lord of the Highlands was not an easy thing to accomplish. Succession to the Highland throne was not like any of the other Kingdoms, where members of the same family usually followed after one another. True, the Kestrels had ruled as Lord of the Highlands for centuries, but there was a reason for that. They had passed the tests to become the Highland Lord and defeated any challengers. Rodric's story, though plausible, was very unlikely. Looking across the room, Gregory saw that Sarelle was having a hard time believing it, as were many of the other rulers. Except for Loris. At least one other ruler had tied his fortunes to Rodric. Gregory immediately knew what was coming next.
"I would be remiss in my duties as High King if I did not take action against those who committed this heinous act,” continued Rodric. “As the law requires, since there is no heir, I will assume control of the Highlands until I can fairly determine who should rule there. Not wanting to burden you and your Kingdoms with the cost of a military expedition, I will send troops there immediately to bring those who committed this wicked deed to justice and to restore order."
Gregory's face resembled a thundercloud. Rodric wanted the Highlands for himself. If he got them, Fal Carrach would probably be next on his list, with Benewyn not far behind. Gregory glanced at Sarelle and saw that she had already reached to the same conclusion.
"What about the grandson?" asked Gregory harshly. "Did he survive?"
Rodric’s eyes glittered darkly, his anger almost breaking through his façade. The High King waited a few moments before answering, weighing his options. He could lie and say the boy was, in fact, dead. But Killeran had shaved away part of his confidence in Chertney. Lying would be dangerous. If the boy suddenly appeared, Rodric could always fault his source of information, but it could also implicate him.
"The grandson?" said Rodric, feigning ignorance.
"Yes, there is a grandson," said Gregory, his anger rising. He knew Rodric was lying, but he couldn't do anything about it. "Your offer to aid the Highlands is certainly a noble gesture, but it is a moot point if Talyn's grandson survived."
"I don't know. I didn't know Talyn had a grandson," said Rodric, trying to control his anger. He should have known that Gregory would be the one to hinder him. He had been a friend of Talyn's. "The bodies of Talyn and Benlorin Kestrel were recovered, but the grandson was never found." Rodric almost ground his teeth to the bone having to say that. Incompetence! How was he supposed to succeed with so many fools surrounding him?
"Then according to the law," said Gregory, "a regent may rule for ten years or until such time as the legitimate heir is found or the heir's death is confirmed. Until that time, no one shall rule the Highlands in name except for the blood of the Kestrels."
"You know the law very well," replied Rodric in a tight voice. "As you say, King Gregory, we shall appoint a regent — perhaps a lord from another Kingdom — and hope for the boy's safe return. I promise that I will do everything in my power to make sure Talyn's grandson is found and given his proper place."
The menace in Rodric's eyes and tone confirmed it. Gregory knew exactly what Rodric considered Thomas' proper place to be — a hole in the ground next to his father and grandfather.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A Sign
Catal Huyuk had experienced an uneasy feeling, as if something was wrong or out of place, since coming down out of the Western Highlands a few leagues from the Breaker. He was walking on a little-used trail that led to where the Clanwar Desert met Kenmare. The slant of the land was evening out and the forest was becoming thinner. Maybe it was because he was closer to civilization, as he had never felt comfortable in the places where people herded together behind stone walls. He knew he was wrong before he even thought it.
He stood a head taller than most men, and his dark brown face disguised his age. The leathery skin showed him to be a man who had spent most of his life outside. And the long black hair held back from his face by a knot of leather at the base of his neck affirmed that he wasted little time in towns or cities. Dressed like a woodsman, the huge sword and the wickedly curved axe strapped to his waist looked out of place. Most would have expected a bow and a quiver of arrows.
The land showed a more cultivated appearance here at the base of the Highlands,
with sheep busily munching on the long grass of the many knolls. His feeling of something being out of place grew stronger. His hand drifted closer to the haft of his axe, his eyes constantly searching the trees for danger. It was not until he had walked a few more miles that he noticed the smoke rising over the next hill.
Axe now in hand, he moved more quickly down the trail, guessing that it would pass close by the source of the smoke. One end of the axe was a steel half-crescent while the other ended in a length of sharp steel a foot long. Catal Huyuk had ended several fights before they even began by simply pulling his axe from his belt.
The feeling continued to grow stronger, and he now recognized it. He had felt it many times before, and each time it made him scowl in disgust. Through the thin cover of the forest buildings appeared just ahead. Slowing to a walk, Catal Huyuk listened for any movement in the forest around him. Seeing and hearing nothing, he silently stepped to the edge of the tree line. A large farm stood before him, stretching for several acres on both sides of a small stream that ran right in front of the main farmhouse.
Normally, Catal Huyuk would have expected the sounds of children playing, dogs barking and men and women working. The old adage that a farmer's work was never done was all too true. But here there was nothing. Even the forest around him was silent.
Stepping out quietly from between the trees, he walked around to the front of the main farmhouse. About a dozen smaller houses and barns ran in a line next to it. At least, that's what he should have seen. Instead, all the other buildings had burned to the ground. Remarkably, the main farmhouse had withstood the fire, though smoke still rose from several places. The beams supporting the second floor were charred black and sagged dangerously. The only sound came from a gate to a small corral, which swung against a post at the whim of the wind. The feeling of evil remained.
He looked down into the dirt, confirming his suspicions. Footprints three times the size of a man's ran in every direction. He fingered his axe hopefully, but knew it was not to be. The Ogren had come and gone. Trying to catch them would be a waste of time. And he doubted there would be any survivors. Ogren ate their victims.
