by Peter Wacht
"After Deric was assassinated, both Rasen and Keril claimed the throne and split the support of the other rulers. The Shadow Lord saw this as the perfect opportunity, as the Dark Horde again swept down from the Charnel Mountains onto the Northern Steppes.
"I always wondered about it myself, but then I finally saw the logic. Deric was a weak High King, perhaps the weakest ever. Nevertheless, as High King, he could, in theory anyway, marshal the forces of the different Kingdoms and march northward to stand against the invader. Then, the Shadow Lord would have to fight a single opponent, which with the Breaker, would have ensured defeat. He needed some confusion, and that's what Rasen and Keril unknowingly, or perhaps uncaringly, provided for him. Those two were so concerned about who would succeed to the throne of the High King that they ignored the warnings from the east of the Shadow Lord rising once again. And, in fact, during the Great War, none of the armies of the Western Kingdoms made it to the Breaker.
"That's why only Fal Carrach, the Highlands and the clans stood with the Sylvana. It was truly a remarkable battle," said Rynlin, standing up and placing himself in front of the fire. Just as the flames warmed his body, so was he warming to his story. Thomas relaxed into the back of his chair. Rynlin knew how to tell a good story, and it was fun to watch him.
"We fought delaying tactics as the Dark Horde made its way out of the Charnel Mountains, and then again across the Northern Steppes. We weren't so much trying to slow them down as to decrease their numbers. When the Horde came out onto the Steppes, it was like a flood of darkness. For leagues around, you could see nothing but this seething mass of evil — thousands, nay, hundreds of thousands of Ogren, Shades, Fearhounds and other hideous monsters marching toward the south." Rynlin was very much into his story now, his eyes dancing with the flames of the fireplace and his arms conjuring up the different scenes.
"The Northern Steppes was littered with the bodies of dark creatures as they faced the might of the Sylvana. Fireballs and tornados and lightning strikes tore into the Shadow Lord's host. You could walk from the Breaker to the Charnel Mountains and not once set foot on grass, the bodies were so thick. But no matter. The Dark Horde continued its inexorable advance, and we had no choice but to retreat to the Breaker.
"We stood atop the wall, still early in the morning, watching as the light of day gradually disappeared. By noon, it was completely black, and we knew that the Shadow Lord had arrived on the field of battle. Only a few minutes passed before we heard the beating of swords and spears against shields and breastplates. Some of the Sylvana used the Talent to provide light over the Steppes in front of the Breaker. It only added to the eeriness of what was to come.
"The Dark Horde was coming forward, the Ogren in the lead, the Shades right behind, the Fearhounds held in reserve to exploit any gap in our defenses. We looked out over our enemy, our hearts filled with purpose knowing that if we failed, a never-ending darkness would settle over the Kingdoms."
Rya rolled her eyes. She had heard Rynlin tell this particular story several times. Each time, he twisted the facts ever so slightly. He called it artistic license and described it as a necessity in order to tell the story the right way. She simply laughed to herself. At least he was having a good time. Remarkably, Thomas was listening to him intently. She knew how hard it was for her grandson to sit still. There was always something he must do, and he wouldn't rest until he had done it. But Rynlin had succeeded in taking that impulse out of him, at least for the moment. Thomas hadn't moved in his chair since the story began, and his eyes were wide as Rynlin's theatrics played through his imagination.
"The first wave of Ogren smashed against the Breaker, and the Sylvana and the clans stood strong against the onslaught, each arrow finding an unwilling home, each rock sweeping two or more Ogren down from that great wall to fall on their brethren. You see, that was the danger. The Ogren, with their clawlike hands and specialized armor, could scale the Breaker without the need for ladders. If they gained the height, we were doomed. The battle raged for several leagues along the length of the Breaker, but at last, we swept that first wave from the wall and enjoyed a much-needed respite. It didn't last long unfortunately.
"The warlocks came forward next and tried to use their evil to blow holes into the wall. They were an easier foe to deal with, for none could match the power of the Sylvan Warriors skilled in the Talent. It was a quick fight, and when it was over, barely one in ten of the warlocks remained standing, the rest having been burned to a cinder. Even more important, the Shadow Lord was growing angry. He had a much larger army, but only a few thousand had stopped its progress. He continued to attack, driving his host forward mercilessly. With every attack, we swept the Breaker clean of Ogren and other hideous beasts. For every attacker removed, three took its place. We held strong, though. By the end of the first day, the Breaker remained ours.
"And that was what led to his downfall. The Shadow Lord lost patience with the steady assault and ordered an all-out attack, sending forward the last of the Ogren, which still numbered well over a hundred thousand, and his Shades and Fearhounds. Most would have fled in terror from such an onslaught, but we didn't. Sylvan Warriors never show fear, and we stood there on the wall, bracing ourselves for what could be the final battle. Blood and gore flew through the air, the stench of charred flesh almost overpowered us. We were growing desperate, and the Shadow Lord smelled victory. That's when we unleashed our first surprise.
"The Shadow Lord had made a crucial mistake. He had assumed that he had created enough confusion in the Kingdoms so that no one else would come to defend against his attack except for those of us already atop the Breaker. He was wrong. That first day of battle had bought us enough time for the army of Fal Carrach and the Marchers to sneak through the Northern Highlands and come up behind the Dark Horde. As we impeded the Shadow Lord’s advance from the front, the men of Fal Carrach and the Highland Marchers fell upon the Dark Horde, slaughtering thousands before the Shadow Lord discovered that he was under attack from behind. It was that initial surprise that brought us victory.
"The Dark Horde turned to face its new foe, forgetting the Breaker for a moment, thinking we were too weak to come out onto the steppe. Seeing our chance, we left the safety of the Breaker. With the Dark Horde's attention diverted, we left the great wall and gathered our mounts, then sallied forth and caught the Dark Horde in its left flank. We rode out in a wedge, swords dancing in the air, never failing to find an opponent, the power of those with the Talent cutting a wide swath through this wave of darkness. We charged forward until finally, after a full day's fighting, we met the Marchers and men of Fal Carrach in the middle of the foe, effectively cutting the Dark Horde in half. The Shadow Lord lost control of his host then. It was time to unleash our second surprise. The clansmen then rode forth and attacked those forces now separated from their master. It wasn't long before that half of the Dark Horde broke in fear, trying to escape to the north. But the clansmen pursued. They were in their natural element, riding their sturdy horses and cutting at their enemy's side, always cutting at the enemy's side and whittling them down creature by creature. We continued to push for the Shadow Lord himself as the resistance around him diminished. Victory was within our grasp. We only had to reach out and take it.
"We had fought those two days with barely any room to maneuver. It was like cutting down wheat with a scythe for the harvest. No matter where we turned there was an Ogren or a Shade or a Fearhound. Suddenly, a space opened up, and the pennant of the Shadow Lord hung limply before us, just a quarter mile ahead. Without thinking, we charged, knowing that if you cut off the head of even the largest snake, its body dies. But he saw us coming, and he knew that his army, now just a fraction of its original size, was defeated. So he ran. One moment he was there, the next he was gone. We had lost our chance, and there was no way to pursue him. Nevertheless, when he disappeared, all resistance ended, and the once mighty Dark Horde was no more. Ogren, Shades and the other creatures began to fight among themsel
ves as they looked for an avenue of escape. They did our work for us then. Still, they wouldn't get off easy. We harried them all the way back to the foothills of the Charnel Mountains, and we haven’t seen the Dark Horde since. That, Thomas, is the true story of the Great War.”
Rynlin sat back down, sweating heavily from his efforts. All told, he was pleased with the story — all of it true, if exaggerated just a bit. Rynlin's charisma had swept Thomas into the fabric he was weaving, so much so that images of the battle still danced in his head. Rya quickly extinguished them.
"The history books say that the combined armies of the Kingdoms led the way to victory, but most were not there. Remember that books tend to provide a slanted view of the facts, offering us a history as seen through the eyes of those writing it. Those people may not have actually been there, or they might be writing the book for a particular reason. Most of the books written about great battles are written by the victors. And as the years pass, people normally forget the actual events that took place, until there is nothing left but the books to guide us. But I was there, as was Rynlin, and we know what happened."
The images that Thomas had created as he listened to Rynlin's story continued to play in his mind, and he actually had to shake his head to clear them away. The vivid imagery of Rynlin’s telling made Thomas feel like he had actually been there, fighting along the Breaker, pushing the Ogren away, and then charging through the evil mass before him toward the banner of the Shadow Lord. One detail plagued him, though, and he had to know the answer.
"You and Rya were there?"
"Yes."
"Then how old are you?"
"Thomas, that is not a polite question to ask a lady," said Rya in mock irritation. "Let's just say that because of who we are, because of our abilities, the laws of nature don't apply to us in exactly the same way as they do to others. The same goes for all of the Sylvana. That doesn't mean we can't be killed. We can. But because of our closeness to nature, we don't age as quickly as most everyone else."
"Sorry," said Thomas. He hadn't meant to pry, it was just that he was trying to learn more about his grandparents. He had known them for five years. Sometimes, though, it didn't seem like he knew them at all. It was all just a little unsettling to him. The oldest person he had known at the Crag was Wylee Cradon, the wife of a former Marcher, and she was said to be fast approaching a hundred when she died. Yet his grandparents were at least several hundred years old, probably more, and they didn't look any older than someone who had seen forty or fifty summers, if that.
"Maybe I can become one of the Sylvana," said Thomas. "I think I'd like that a lot."
"I’m sure you will, Thomas," said Rya. "I’m sure you will."
After Thomas had walked up the stairs to get some sleep, Rynlin and Rya sat with one another for a while, enjoying the quiet. The only noise came from Beluil, as he acted out some part in a dream. Probably chasing a buck, thought Rynlin, the way his paws were moving in his sleep.
"You know what this means, don't you, Rya?"
"Yes, I do. The burdens of his life only seem to be getting heavier."
"If he can survive them, he can survive anything."
"Yes, that's true. Of course, it only takes one to crush you."
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Tenuous Allies
Lord Johin Killeran was a man of power, a man accustomed to getting what he wanted. He was also a man of reputation, in that he was known throughout the Kingdoms for his ability with a sword. Whether actual or contrived really didn’t matter from his point of view. And, he was a man of vanity. A single spot of dust on his cloak sent him into fits, and his body servant running for his life. Much to his displeasure, he was not a man of wealth. For centuries, his family had climbed the rungs of power and prestige, moving from farmer to merchant to noble. Yet, doing so, in turn, had cost a great deal of money, and none of his ancestors, particularly his father — curse the bastard — had ever thought to build the fortune required by a man in Killeran's position — Regent of the Highlands.
Perhaps that’s why he was perpetually in a foul mood. A mood darkened by the meeting about to transpire. He didn't like dealing with people who had more than he, whether power or money or anything else. In just a few minutes, he would be meeting with the richest man in all the Kingdoms. A man whose fortune Killeran could not even begin to comprehend. A man Killeran desperately wanted to be.
"The party's been sighted, my lord," said Oclan, who galloped through the opened gates of the reivers’ main camp. Killeran grimaced as he looked up at his second in command, as he always did. Oclan had lost an eye during a raid into the Highlands, and the man refused to wear an eye patch. The reiver viewed the wound as a badge of honor, as did his men. Yet, the gruesome display still could make a man with the strongest stomach retch.
Killeran turned around slowly, taking in everything around him. It wasn’t the picture he had expected or wanted. He knew how dangerous the Marchers could be, and he remembered their tenacity when defending the Crag, even as it burned down around them. The Marchers may be defeated, but they had not been conquered. In fact, he doubted they ever would be. In his opinion, they could only be exterminated. So once he had been named Regent, he had found a promontory close to the mines in the lower Highlands and, before sending his men out after the remaining Highlanders, put them to work on a fortress from which Killeran could exercise his power.
The fortress had a rather simple design, with four corner towers made of stone connected to a thirty-foot-high wall constructed from the stoutest trees in the Highlands. A ditch filled with wooden spikes surrounded the fort, with just enough space between the two to allow his soldiers to shoot anyone foolish enough to come too close. Within the compound stood Killeran's private quarters, barracks for his soldiers and the slave pens.
"It's about time," said Killeran angrily. "What took you so long? The trip is no more than a day from the border."
"He was late arriving at the border, my lord," said Oclan, wary of Killeran's temper. Many had lost their heads during one of Killeran's moods, and Oclan did not want to join them.
"Late. Late! If that bastard thought to slight me by—" Killeran gained control of his anger. A tall man had just exited the forest, followed by half a dozen of his own men and twenty of Killeran's reivers. He rode on a tall, black horse with the confidence of someone accustomed to the saddle. For all his wealth, the man wore nondescript black riding leathers. The sharp eyes and intelligence could not be missed, though, and his baldness accentuated it. He resembled a hawk in search of prey.
"Good morning, Norin," said Killeran, putting on his most winning smile. "I trust your journey was comfortable?"
Norin Dinnegan looked down contemptuously at the man standing before him in gleaming silver armor, a white cloak draped from his shoulders. He had dealt with men like Johin Killeran before, men who craved what he had.
"Killeran," said Dinnegan, nodding perfunctorily. The tall man jumped down from his horse, then walked past Killeran and into the compound. "I don't have time for pleasantries. Let's get down to business."
Killeran trotted after Dinnegan, his face turning an angry red. The man had the nerve to upstage him in his own fortress? When Killeran caught up to Dinnegan, he turned him in the direction of his personal quarters, a large cabin set apart from the others. Killeran watched Dinnegan out of the corner of his eye, taking in everything he could. He took some satisfaction when Dinnegan slipped to one knee because of the mud that prevailed throughout the inner compound. With the number of men and horses traveling through the area, even in the dry season the mud survived. Killeran detested it. He did not belong in this outland fort. He belonged in a palace of his own.
As Dinnegan regained his feet with Killeran's help, ignoring the mud on his knee, he glimpsed a structure standing in the middle of the fort.
"What's that?"
"What?" asked Killeran, his attention diverted for a brief moment by the return of one of his raiding parties, again
with little to show for it. The twenty reivers churned up the mud even more as they led their weary mounts to the stables. Once again, they had failed to bring in new workers. Those Highlanders were a slippery lot. You could be standing right next to one up in the higher passes, and you wouldn't even know it. He'd have to talk to Oclan about that. His supply of workers was getting low. If he didn't find some more soon, he'd have to cut his production. And that was something he couldn’t afford to do.
"That, man! What is that?"
Killeran followed where Dinnegan pointed. "That is what happens when you try to escape from the mines." His tone was one of boredom. In the center of the compound stood a large wooden pole that rose thirty feet into the air. Another pole crossed at its top. A man hung from the structure by ropes attached at each end of the horizontal pole to his wrists. Dirt and grime covered his body, as well as blood. It did not look as if the Highlander had much longer to live, yet he still smiled. "He tried to escape a few days ago. He actually made it over the palisade, but he didn't go much further after a few arrows found him. It's rather common really, the Highlanders trying to escape. We string up anyone who tries, and it usually helps to cow them for a few days."
"And then?" Dinnegan was slightly sickened by the sight before him, yet a part of him was fascinated by it. He had ordered the murders of many of his competitors during the years. It was something that he had to do from time to time, viewing it as simply another aspect of doing business. At least that's how he saw it. His victims were nothing more than obstacles to be removed.
"Then they try again. They're a stubborn lot, these Highlanders. They don't learn very quickly."
Dinnegan mumbled noncommittally as he walked past Killeran into the large cabin. The door opened to an audience chamber. The remainder of the building was Killeran's personal quarters. A finely woven carpet of green covered the floor and a dozen colorful tapestries hung from the walls. Off in a corner was a small writing table and chair. In the middle of the room stood a large chair placed on a dais. Carved from oak, it resembled a throne. Another, smaller chair had been placed before it. If Killeran was going to have to spend ten years in these uncivilized hinterlands, why shouldn't he enjoy a taste of the luxury he so rightfully deserved? Dinnegan took it all in with a single glance. His initial assessment about Killeran was right. He was out for himself first, regardless of his allies. That made him either a dangerous man or a very stupid one. You didn’t play games with allies such as these.
