by Peter Wacht
The mines located within the foothills had proven to be spectacularly profitable, for both the High King and himself. Rodric certainly didn't expect him to keep his hand out of the pot, did he? Especially when his hand was tied to that bastard Dinnegan. A worry for another day, though. The spoils that he had taken for himself had made him a wealthy man, and even more greedy. That was now one of the problems.
He had used captured Highlanders as his miners, working them until they died. Whether it was a man, woman or child didn't matter to him. All he cared about was how much they produced. Unfortunately, his methods were beginning to work against him. As a result, finding it more of a challenge to enslave Highlanders, he had sent his reivers into Dunmoor and the Clanwar Desert on occasion in search of new workers, but without much luck.
Most of the mines were in the same general location, so Killeran had built a fort in a strategic location that now served as his point of command. After seven years, though, the lowland mines were beginning to run dry. Consequently, he had found himself out in the cursed Highlands, leading his men on raids into the higher passes and valleys hunting for new workers and new veins. Even if Killeran could only work a mine for a few days before the Marchers disrupted his activities and forced his men back into the foothills, what he could gain from those few days exceeded months of labor at the lower elevations.
To remedy the situation, and to exert greater influence on the Marchers, he had requested assistance from the High King. Rodric had been less than happy to provide it, but did so nonetheless. Killeran's men were no match for the Marchers. That had been proven time and time again. The Marchers, however, were no match for the warlocks Rodric had given him.
Just thinking about those shadowspawn made his blood run cold. He had heard of sorcerers before, but thought they were relics of the past; of a time when the power of nature was much more than it was now; of a time when evil had not yet been discovered. Every time he thought about it, Killeran found the whole idea slightly preposterous. Where there was man there was evil. That was a simple truth.
The handful of warlocks Killeran took with him this morning made him wonder if the gold and silver he was stealing from the Highlands was worth it. Though he commanded them, he knew it was only because Rodric had ordered it. The power they controlled was immense, and worst of all, Killeran had no concept of where it came from or its limits, or perhaps Rodric did and just didn’t care.
He didn't like it when he didn't know something. It made him uncomfortable, and nervous. It was difficult to tell the sorcerers apart, as they all wore dark, black robes with their hoods up, even on a warm day. The temperature, whether hot or cold, didn’t seem to affect them. Killeran found that to be particularly alarming. Their only visible feature most of the time was their eyes, which were cold and black.
Those eyes had been human once, but no more. Perhaps it was the lack of humanity that unsettled him. It was rumored that the warlocks received their dark powers from the Shadow Lord himself. Glancing at them as they stood off to the side and slightly behind him, he decided that was one rumor he didn’t need proven.
Nevertheless, it was because of them that his raiding parties were becoming more effective. The Marchers had no sorcerers of their own, and therefore no way to fight back. Finding new workers was simply a matter of locating the Highlanders’ current hiding places. At least the warlocks served a purpose — making his life easier.
Killeran lowered his spyglass, rubbing his eye with his hand. Rising from his place on top of a small crest, he wiped off several spots of dirt from his gleaming silver breastplate before turning around. It was early morning, and the sky to the east slowly turned a dusky red.
He had just finished positioning his men for the morning's raid, though it did not look to be particularly promising. He had counted only a dozen small huts hidden among the trees below the ridge. He needed new workers desperately, but he doubted he would find many this morning. Still, he would take what he could get.
After the warlocks had eliminated the dogs, the Highlanders' first defense, they had captured the three sentries guarding the village. The Marchers had no chance against the power of the warlocks. In fact, this morning's raid, if all went as planned, would be more like a cattle roundup. With his men surrounding the small hamlet, their primary task was to make sure that no one escaped. Other than that they had little to do. The warlocks would do the rest, using their black arts to render the opposition unconscious.
He had taken him several hours to explain to the warlocks that a dead worker was a useless worker, but he had finally gotten it through to them. Now, rather than blowing a Highlander apart with a bolt of energy, they had refined their technique somewhat. By the time the Highlanders awoke, they would be in chains. All in all, Killeran thought it was a rather ingenious system, both efficient and ruthless.
Killeran brought the spyglass up again and surveyed the soon-to-be battlefield below him one more time. There was no reason for his men to hide. He wanted them to be seen. It would encourage the Highlanders to escape, and the only direction that was free of his reivers’ presence led directly to his warlocks. He grinned in spite of his cold, not realizing that as his cheeks rose up, his resemblance to a rat became even more pronounced because of his long nose.
"You know what to do?" asked Killeran in a high-pitched voice.
Kursool and his other sergeants, standing behind him and well away from the warlocks, answered in unison. "Yes, milord."
"Good, then be about it. We have little time to waste. The warlocks have discovered two more villages within a day's ride of here. I mean to have them as well by the end of the day."
"Yes, milord." His three sergeants, all hardened veterans, ran off to their posts, each one in charge of a different compass point.
He, too, would have preferred to be away from the warlocks. Though they appeared to be less than human, they did retain certain human desires. He had heard the screams of women coming from their barracks many times. Bloodcurdling screams. Screams of despair. He had never gone to investigate, afraid of what he might discover. The remains of the women that were found one morning had sickened him. Those that still lived looked as if their companions, the ones who had not survived the night, were the lucky ones.
Killeran tore his mind away from his dark thoughts. The attack would begin in fifteen minutes, in plenty of time to retain a measure of surprise. Full light was still an hour away. Killeran tried to wait calmly, though his agitation only increased as each second passed.
A letter from the High King had arrived just a few days before, demanding to know why the shipment of gold from the Highlands had dwindled to almost nothing. He'd have to think of a good reason for that. Maybe he could blame the Highlanders, and say that they had intercepted several of the wagon trains. Yes, that might be the way to do it. Then Rodric might be persuaded to send him even more men.
The High King had been reluctant so far, worried that the other Kingdoms would notice and question his motives. But if Killeran had more men, he'd have a much easier time forcing his way into the higher passes. If he could win the higher passes, the wealth he could reap from the mines there would double, perhaps even triple his monthly output. Yes, that was an excellent idea. Motioning to the warlocks behind him, he began making his way down the crest.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Learning His Trade
The smell of cinnamon rolls baking in the oven forced Thomas' eyes open. The morning sunshine was just beginning to push its way through the window. Rising from his bed, he leaned on the windowsill and looked out into the Shadowwood. A promising day. A clear sky, if a bit chilly. Thomas walked over to the washstand and splashed water left from the night before on his face and brushed his teeth with soda. After pulling on a new shirt, a relatively clean pair of breeks and his boots, he grabbed his cloak and the pack he had prepared the night before, then headed down the stairs.
He remembered quite vividly the first time he had gone across to the Highlands
on his own. It happened almost a year before, soon after he had joined the Sylvana. Rya hadn't liked that at all, and he could even recall her exact words.
"You think you're going across by yourself?" The surprise in her voice set off a chord within him.
"Why can't I?" he replied. "The Highlands are my responsibility."
Rya didn’t respond. She couldn't think of a valid argument, and Thomas knew it. That didn't keep her from trying to do what she thought was best, though.
"Fine," she said. "But Rynlin is going with you."
Up until then, Rynlin had sat calmly at the kitchen table, eating his breakfast and trying not to draw any attention to himself. Now, he had been caught in the middle of a war of wills. He had looked from Rya's fiery eyes to Thomas' flashing with anger, and once again knew that regardless of what he said, he was going to get himself into trouble.
"Thomas will have to go across on his own. I've got too many things to do today as it is."
He had then buried himself in his meal. Rya's shock at his response was clear as her eyes threatened to pop out of her head. Seeing his opportunity, Thomas quickly gathered his things and left the house before Rya could berate her husband into changing his mind.
That day had turned out to be more exciting than he had ever expected. No sooner had he set foot in the Highlands when a feeling of evil drew him off to the west. He had never forgotten the sense of darkness that came from the Nightstalker, but this was a sharper, unfamiliar feeling. Nevertheless, it was not to be confused with any other. Dark creatures wandered the Highlands. His Highlands. As a Sylvan Warrior, keeping his homeland free of the Shadow Lord’s minions was his responsibility. He tracked the evil for most of the morning, finally finding the source some two or three leagues from where he landed on the coast.
A pack of Fearhounds had attacked a small farmhouse hidden away in a valley, most likely built there to avoid Killeran's reivers. Unfortunately, it wasn’t very well protected, and the farmer's closest neighbor lived several miles away. The farmer had gotten his family inside before the Fearhounds attacked. Despite their repeated attempts the Fearhounds couldn’t break in because of the stone walls and stout wood doors, so they had taken up residence in the yard.
Moving on silent feet through the surrounding forest, Thomas climbed a small hill rising above the farmhouse. The huge dogs were oblivious to everything around them except their selected prey. After scanning the area to ensure that there were no other dangers to worry about, he pulled several arrows from his quiver. He shot three Fearhounds before the beasts even realized they were under attack. By the time they discovered from which direction, six lay dead in the short grass with arrows through the eye.
Thomas had been very careful with his shooting. The only sure way to kill a Fearhound because of their thick almost armored hide was with an arrow through the eye. They could shrug off any other blow. The remaining three made a futile charge up the hill, never thinking to circle around and come through the trees, which would have made it more difficult for Thomas to get a clear shot. Most sane men ran at the sight of a single Fearhound, much less stood their ground against three. But Thomas’ feet were rooted to the soil. So caught up in his task, the thought of fleeing never crossed his mind.
He had marveled at their size and speed. Fearhound, in his opinion, was a misnomer. There was no mistaking their resemblance to normal hounds in terms of the shape of their bodies, but they were actually the size of small ponies, their top two canine teeth extending beyond their lower jaw. Thomas targeted the largest Fearhounds in the pack first. He did so again as the three beasts attacked.
Two of the charging Fearhounds died before they reached the base of the hill. Thomas let the third get a little closer. He had done well so far, and he didn't want to make a mistake. The snarl, the sharp teeth, the saliva dripping from the mouth of the enraged Fearhound heightened his anticipation, his adrenaline from the skirmish coursing though his veins.
He focused solely on his target — the eye. Sighting carefully, he took a deep breath, then released the bowstring. The arrow flew true to its mark, taking the last Fearhound in the eye and knocking it back down the hill.
The whole skirmish lasted no more than a minute or two. Yet, by the end of it, Thomas was sweating profusely. It was then that he realized exactly what he had accomplished. If Rya found out about what he had just done, she'd do much worse to him than the Fearhounds ever could. When his body started to shake he decided it was time to go. The farmer would have to clean up the mess himself.
When had he stopped thinking? The better question was when had he completely lost his senses? Only a fool would stand calmly on a hill and shoot arrows at a pack of Fearhounds, so certain of his skill that he knew he could kill all nine. But he had done it, without even considering the Talent as a possible weapon. He hadn't wanted to waste his strength.
The shakes left him a few hours later, replaced by a feeling of satisfaction. Thomas had known since his time on the Stone that his true enemy was the Shadow Lord. Though he could not get at him directly, he could hurt him in other ways. Every one of the Shadow Lord's creatures that Thomas destroyed was another prick in the skin of the Shadow Lord, and a miniscule weakening of his power. A more noble cause Thomas could not imagine.
From that point forward, Thomas took every opportunity to cross into the Highlands. Yet, his desire to go there came only in part from the fact that the Highlands was his responsibility, as decreed by the Sylvana. Rather, he was still unsure of how to handle the burden placed on him by Talyn.
This was his land, and his people, but what could one person do? What could he do? And would the Highlanders really want to see him?
They had never really considered him one of their own, viewing him as an outsider and a freak, in some respects, because of his mother’s abilities. Because of his uncertainty, instead he tried to help his people when he could in his own way. Though his guilt remained, his constant forays across the channel lessened it somewhat.
Thomas walked into the kitchen and greeted his grandparents, who sat at the table finishing their breakfasts. Rya's eyebrows rose in a questioning glance upon seeing Thomas set his weapons and an extra quiver of arrows by the door, her face twisting with concern. Thomas ignored her and scooped out a helping of porridge, sprinkled some sugar on top, settled into a chair and dug in hungrily.
Rya didn't like her grandson’s more and more frequent excursions to the Highlands, but she couldn’t stop him. Though Thomas was a Sylvan Warrior, and the Highlands were his to protect, that didn't stop her from worrying. Of course, Rynlin showed little concern for the actions of his grandson, which irritated her to no end. She felt like she had to do the worrying for the both of them.
"So where are you off to this morning?" she asked, already knowing the answer.
"To the Highlands."
"Of course, the Highlands. You certainly do have a good day for it." No matter how hard she tried, small flecks of worry crept into her voice.
"Have you heard of this Raptor?" asked Rynlin, jumping into the conversation. "This person, or creature perhaps, is developing quite a reputation."
Thomas almost leapt out of his seat upon hearing the name, but he controlled the reflex, just barely. Keeping his eyes averted, he focused on eating the rest of his porridge.
"No, no I haven't," said Rya. Maybe her husband was worried after all.
"Well, it's supposedly a man or creature of some sort," said Rynlin, leaning forward in his chair so that he was directly across from Thomas. Thomas tried to ignore Rynlin, but it was hard to do when his grandfather hovered over his breakfast. "The few people who live in the Burren and Oakwood Forest, as well as many Highlanders, have sworn they've seen it, whatever it may be. It's even been seen near the Breaker. Anyway, almost every time Ogren or Shades or Fearhounds are sighted in the region, this Raptor shows up as well. People say this Raptor fought a Shade and tore it apart limb by limb."
Rynlin sat back in his chair, giving Thomas s
ome room, but his eyes retained their questioning gaze. "Personally, I think it must be a man. You need hands if you're going to use a bow, and that seems to be one of its preferred weapons. Are you sure you haven't heard any of these stories, Thomas?"
"A few perhaps," he replied, scooping the last of the porridge into his mouth. He hoped that his expression was one of innocence. Unfortunately, he didn’t think he was fooling anyone.
The slow speed of Rynlin’s investigation wore on Rya’s nerves, so she took over for her husband. "Rynlin, you always take so long to get to the point." She turned her steely eyes on Thomas. "You're getting quite a reputation, Thomas."
"Maybe," he said noncommittally. At times he could be remarkably mature. At others, much to his grandmother's annoyance, he could act like a child. "It really wasn't something I was looking for. I’m just doing what I’m supposed to be doing as a member of the Sylvana."
"You are, Thomas," said Rynlin. "But you don't have to rid the Highlands of every single dark creature all by yourself."
"I assume you're being careful?"
"Rya, after everything you and Rynlin taught me, don't you think I can take care of myself?"
"We don't doubt your skills, Thomas," said Rynlin. "We just don't want you to get overconfident."
"Don't worry. I won't."
Swinging his legs out from underneath the table, Thomas slung his pack over his shoulder with his bow and extra quiver of arrows. After adjusting the sword at his hip, he made his way to the oven and grabbed a few cinnamon rolls cooling on the windowsill before heading for the door. On his way out, he gave his grandmother a kiss on the cheek. He had learned a long time before that killing someone with kindness, especially someone as irascible as his grandmother, was often the best course of action.
"You're insufferable," she called after him as he walked out the door, laughing under her breath.
"I know," he replied as he closed the door behind him. The Highlands were beckoning.
