The Sylvan Chronicles Box Set Books 1-3

by Peter Wacht

  Thomas studied the different pieces, his eyes running over the curling spokes that formed the backs of the chairs. The style was familiar. Searching his memory, it didn't take him long to place the origin of the furniture. Highland woodworking. Thomas tasted the bile rising in the back of his throat and felt the anger coursing within his veins. Stolen from the Highlands. He had promised his grandfather that he would protect the Highlands and its people. Yet, a foreign army marauded through the countryside, killing his people and destroying his homeland. And he had done barely anything about it. His ire grew stronger, in addition to his shame. He imagined his grandfather looking at him now, the disappointment clear in his eyes.

  Thomas pushed those thoughts away, thoughts that plagued him ever since he learned how to fight and use the Talent. Rynlin and Rya knew of the charges given to him by Talyn. They had told him many times before that he was not ready yet to make good on his responsibilities. It was getting harder and harder for him to listen to their advice. Soon, very soon, he would return, and then—

  "So the hero remains defiant, even when covered in blood and dirt," said Killeran as he strode into the tent. He unhooked the clasp around his throat and threw his cloak on the bed, then pulled off his gloves and dropped them on the small table. Someone had cleaned the mud and dirt from his armor, polishing it anew. The breastplate gleamed brightly in the candlelight.

  Thomas watched the large-nosed lord closely, examining his movements, his habits, anything he might be able to use against him.

  Killeran walked around his prisoner slowly, hands clasped behind his back, his boots sinking into the thick rugs. He laughed softly to himself. "Normally I wouldn't bother with one such as you," he said, circling Thomas much like a shark did its prey. "You'd be dead or begging to be put to work in the mines for what you did. But you intrigue me."

  Killeran stopped in front of Thomas, staring down at the boy. Hard green eyes stared back, sending a chill down his spine. Killeran almost took a step back, but he stopped himself, his courage fortified by the chains around the boy's ankles and wrists. He cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure, while pushing down the speck of fear that entered his heart. This boy was dangerous, more dangerous than he originally thought. Killeran had shrugged off his capture by the boy as a stroke of luck. Now he wasn't so sure.

  "There is much I would like to know about you. If you answer my questions, then perhaps it will only be the mines for you." As images of the boy working in the mines popped into his head, Killeran regained more of his confidence. "If not, then you will die slowly and painfully. The choice is up to you."

  Thomas' face darkened, his green eyes blazing. This time Killeran did step back. Thomas noticed that Killeran had several nervous habits. When he was unsure of himself, he squeezed his eyes tighter together, scrunching up his face. That, and his large nose, enhanced his resemblance to a rat. He also had the tendency of crossing one arm across his stomach while cupping his chin in his other hand and tapping his fingers on his upper lip just below his nose. Even in a position of power, Killeran was still nervous, perhaps even scared. Thomas’ expression became harder.

  "What's your name boy?"

  Thomas remained silent, kneeling in front of Killeran, his face a mask.

  "I said, what's your name, boy?" Killeran repeated. "Where are you from?"

  Killeran waited a few moments for a response. "Why did you help the Highlanders? You certainly don't look like one of them."

  Thomas refused to speak, though his eyes were locked on Killeran's.

  Killeran sighed in mock exasperation. "I thought it might come to this." The pleasure in his voice was obvious, which worried Thomas.

  Killeran walked over to the small table and poured himself a glass of red wine from a gold pitcher. He took a sip from the flagon before he picked up a pair of gloves. Metal studs laced the outside of each glove, the fingers left open.

  "Do you know what these are, boy?" Killeran asked, taking another sip from his wine. He didn't bother to give him time to answer. "No, I didn't think so." He stood in front of Thomas again, holding his hands before him.

  "These are cestus, boy. Boxers used them hundreds, maybe even thousands, of years ago. You see, back then, things weren't as civilized. Now, during a boxing match, when someone is knocked unconscious, or severely injured, the fight is stopped and a winner declared. Of course, the boxers only use their hands, not cestus."

  Killeran circled Thomas again, enjoying the sound of his own voice. "But centuries ago, boxing matches were decided in a slightly different way. They were often fought to the death, and the cestus were very useful for breaking someone's bones. As we do today, betting on boxing matches was a profitable business. Today, the winner is either obvious or picked by a judge. But before the sport became more civilized, it was often difficult to determine the winner, because in some matches both boxers died. So they counted how many bones had been broken. The one with the fewest broken bones won, posthumously of course."

  Killeran laughed wickedly. "Now let's start over. What's your name, boy?"

  Killeran stopped behind Thomas, who still refused to answer. There was no reason to make things easy for Killeran. No reason at all.

  "I said, what's your name, boy?" A flash of pain shot through Thomas as he landed face down on the rug, the back of his head throbbing from Killeran’s blow. Killeran yanked him back to a kneeling position with the collar around his neck. "What's your name, boy?"

  This time Thomas didn't even have the chance to answer. Killeran struck him again, this time on the side of the head where he had been hit earlier in the day. He toppled to the floor in agony. Killeran let him lie there this time.

  "You see, boy, being difficult is really no help to anyone — you or me. If you answer my questions, it will go much more smoothly between us."

  Killeran's voice was calm and reassuring. Thomas ignored it. Spots danced in front of his eyes, and he couldn't see straight. Worst of all, his head wouldn't stop spinning. He thought he was going to be sick, but he refused to give Killeran the satisfaction.

  "Now, let's move on to another subject." Killeran began pacing in front of him. "You have a very unique fighting style. One that surprised me at first. You see, I'm a student of combat, yet you fought in a way I had never seen before. In many ways you fought like a Marcher would, in others you assumed a style of fighting that I've never seen before. In fact, for a time I thought you were fighting like a Carthanian would, and that civilization disappeared thousands of years ago. Where did you learn to fight like that?"

  Killeran's voice almost begged for Thomas' answer. The force of Killeran's kick into Thomas' stomach forced him over onto his back. He lay there trying to catch his breath, and it was several moments before he finally tasted air again. Thomas wanted to curl up into a ball and wish his pain away, but he gritted his teeth instead, focusing on what he would do when he escaped.

  Killeran walked back to the table and took another sip from his goblet of wine. "I see it's going to be a long night." The thought didn't displease him.

  In the next few hours, Thomas learned what the ancient boxers must have felt like after a fight. He thought after being dragged behind the column for the entire day his body could never hurt so much. He was wrong. Eventually, he was able to close his mind to the pain and actually withdraw from his body somewhat. His mind grew numb under Killeran's onslaught and he lost track of time, hovering on the brink of unconsciousness.

  Finally, after what seemed like days but was only hours, Killeran tired of his sport and called for the guards, who picked up Thomas by the arms and dragged him back toward the tree. As he left the tent, Killeran's final words echoed painfully in Thomas’ head: "You will talk, boy. It's just a matter of time, but you will talk."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A Pact

  Though Oso's exhaustion consumed him, he couldn't sleep. The chain around his neck holding him to the tree was only part of the reason. His worry for his new friend dominat
ed his thoughts. They had taken Thomas away hours before, and every second that passed became more nerve-wracking for him. Oso owed his life to Thomas. If not for him, the women and children of his village would be with him right now. His having to work in the mines was one thing. He could deal with that. He might even survive for a time, and possibly even escape, though the odds of doing so were slim. No one had ever escaped from the mines before, except by dying.

  However, the thought that he had failed in his responsibility, that the women and children would die underground because of him, was something he could not bear. Thomas saved him from that — the shame, the recrimination. Now Oso owed Thomas a debt, yet he couldn't repay it. Not now. Not chained to a tree like an animal.

  For the hundredth time he glanced toward Killeran's tent. Each time before, he had hoped to see Thomas emerge. Yet each time he had not, and his worry and anger increased. Oso sat up a little straighter. He thought he saw movement around the tent's entrance. A few minutes later dark shadows moved toward him, their identities hidden by the night. After Thomas' raid the night before, Killeran had not allowed any fires. He was afraid there might be more like Thomas out in the forest somewhere. The shadows eventually took shape, and Oso saw the sergeant and the reiver making their way to the tree with Thomas hanging limply between them.

  The two reivers roughly threw Thomas back against the tree. Oso's new friend looked horrible. Thomas' face was swollen along one jaw, with a large bruise over his right eye. A cut above his left eye dripped blood slowly down the side of his face to fall onto his torn shirt. And those were only the obvious injuries. Oso was afraid of what he might find in the morning, when the sunlight exposed everything Killeran had done to Thomas. His friend appeared oblivious to what was going on around him as he slumped against the tree. The reiver forced his head back against the bark and strung the chain through Thomas' collar.

  A white-hot rage welled up in Oso. He tested his chains for the hundredth time, lunging forward in an effort to get at the reiver. The chains held, much as Oso had expected. Still, it felt good to try.

  "Don't like what Lord Killeran did to your friend?" asked the reiver, laughing softly under his breath. "Well, you'll get your turn. Don't worry about that." The sounds of laughter drifted off into the night, following the footsteps of the two reivers as they headed for their bedrolls.

  Oso waited several minutes before talking, unsure of what to say. He felt responsible for what had happened to Thomas. He should have been the one to experience Killeran's wrath, not Thomas. The shame that Thomas had helped him avoid with the women and children took hold of him nonetheless.

  "Are you all right, Thomas?"

  Thomas took a few moments to answer. The pounding in his head echoed through his entire body. "I will be." Thomas' voice was a whisper. If he spoke any louder it would only exacerbate the pounding.

  "I'm sorry, Thomas. This is my fault. If not for me, you wouldn't be in this situation. You should have let me die."

  Thomas chuckled softly, ignoring the pain that ran through his body in waves. "We will get out of this together, Oso. Blaming yourself won't help."

  "But—"

  "No buts, Oso." Thomas' voice was stern, and louder than he intended. His head felt like it was going to split in two. "I made the choice to help. You didn't make it for me."

  "Thomas, if I had not failed in my responsibility to the village—"

  "Oso, are you trying to take away my ability to choose?" asked Thomas in anger. "If you take away that, you take away my freedom."

  "No, not at all," Oso replied. He was confused. He was trying to apologize. Why was Thomas getting angry? "I was just trying to apologize."

  "No, you weren't," said Thomas. "You were trying to blame yourself for what happened, and by doing that you were taking away my choice. There is no reason for you to apologize. Is that understood?"

  Oso nodded, then realized Thomas might not be able to see him in the darkness. "Yes."

  "Good." Thomas placed his head gently against the bark, taking a few deep breaths. He tried to block away the pain as best he could. "Sometimes the only freedom a person has is the ability to choose, whether it's a particular course of action or something as simple as what to have for dinner. If you take away that choice, you take away that person's freedom. If you don't have your freedom, you have nothing."

  Oso sat staring at the shadow of his friend for a long time. His friend's words banked the fire of his anger. Thomas fell asleep soon afterwards. Oso couldn't sleep. Thomas' words kept running through his mind, especially one: freedom. He had always thought of himself as free, even if the reivers occupied part of the Highlands. But was he truly free? By morning, he had still not found an answer.

  CHAPTER SIX

  A New Home

  The next few days were much like the first for Thomas and Oso, and their hardships only served to bring them closer as friends. A bond began to form between them, a bond that grew stronger with each step. Neither had a brother growing up. Now it felt like they did.

  During the day they continued to walk behind the last two reivers in the column, most of their attention focused on the ground in front of them. They had gotten better at it, so much so that by the fourth day they had mastered the skill and rarely fell down anymore, though the thought of being dragged behind the horses for a short time as a brief respite did appeal to them from time to time.

  The nights were harder. For Oso, he had to sit in silence against the tree as the reivers took into Killeran's tent, and then a few hours later dragged him out. Killeran was very good at what he was doing, making sure he didn’t break any bones. But that didn't prevent him from inflicting a great deal of pain.

  The second night, after Thomas' latest ordeal, Oso asked what Killeran was doing to him and why. In a mechanical voice, Thomas replayed the events of the past few hours, explaining how Killeran began with the cestus and then moved on to the flail. Eventually Killeran grew bored with trying to beat information out of him and let him go for the night.

  The story chilled Oso's heart. He couldn't understand how his friend could endure so much. Yet he had. Night after night. Though Thomas had ordered Oso not to blame himself, he could not rid himself of the guilt that plagued him. However, instead of letting the guilt sit within his heart and fester, he used it for a more positive purpose, promising himself that when the time came to repay his debt to Thomas, he would be ready.

  Thomas actually began to enjoy the days. At least then any pain he felt was inflicted by his own carelessness. Killeran succeeded only in finding out Thomas' name, and that because a reiver heard Oso call him that when they were talking one night. After a while, Killeran hadn't bothered to ask questions. He only wanted to inflict pain, taking a sadistic pleasure in the task.

  Thomas hated Killeran. He hated him more than he had ever hated anything or anyone in his life. After that first night in Killeran's tent, and having to feel those cestus pound into his body again and again, he swore to himself that one day Killeran would die a slow, painful death. Every night thereafter he swore the oath. Sometimes it was the only thing that kept him from breaking.

  On the evening of the fourth day, as the sun slowly slid behind the mountaintops, the column of reivers finally rode into a small valley surrounded on three sides by steep cliffs. Where the valley narrowed Killeran had constructed a large, square wooden palisade. Watch towers stood on each corner 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 were Killeran's private quarters, barracks for his soldiers and the slave pens. At times he thought it was all a bit much when he considered the power exercised by his warlocks, as no sane Highlander would come near the walls. Of course, at times he doubted the sanity of the Highlanders with their never-ending desire to disrupt his plans.


  "So how do you two like your new home?" asked Killeran, who had ridden back from the head of the column. The boys' expressions were the same — hard, flinty, filled with malice.

  Killeran laughed. They could dream of whatever they wanted now, even his death, but once they were in the mines they would think of little else but their own deaths.

  "Sergeant, escort these two to the cells beneath the barracks. I don't want them mixed with the other workers yet."

  "Yes, sir."

  As Killeran rode triumphantly into his fortress, the sergeant and a few reivers prodded Thomas and Oso through the gates. It looked very much like they had expected. There were two large barracks, one built next to the outer walls, the other parallel to it that served as the reivers' quarters. Another barracks, on the other side of the fort, and a good distance away from the other two, must be for the warlocks. No sane man would stay near a warlock any closer than necessary. A smaller barracks, which resembled a quaint cabin, they quickly discovered to be Killeran's, as he threw his reins to a guard and strode up the steps into his quarters. Then they saw the cages.

  Near the warlocks' barracks, running along the outer palisade, were five steel pens. They resembled the cages used when tracking dangerous animals, but were built on a much larger scale.

  Thomas and Oso stopped dead in their tracks, unable to take their eyes from them. They were filled with people, a few to the point where there was barely any room to sit or lie down. The slave pens. Both Thomas and Oso had heard of them, but no one who had ever seen them had escaped from the fort before.

  The sight sickened them. The people were dirty and unkempt, and obviously undernourished. Their clothes were nothing more than rags. A tear came to Thomas' eye. There were children in the cages, many children, and they looked to be doing the worst of all.

  The sergeant poked them from behind with the butt of his spear, forcing Thomas and Oso forward. He directed them to the reivers' barracks. As they passed closer to the slave pens, Thomas averted his eyes. He couldn't bear to look. The pain he had endured during the past four days was nothing compared to what he experienced now. What shocked him the most upon seeing the Highlanders in the cages was not their appearance, but rather their manner.