The Sylvan Chronicles Box Set Books 1-3

by Peter Wacht

  The most distinguishing characteristic of any Highlander was attitude. They held a confidence in themselves unseen in many other lands. Not arrogance, but a quiet belief in their abilities and in their Kingdom. Now, their eyes were dull and held no life, the confidence stolen. Nothing was there, not even hope.

  And it was his fault. He was the Lord of the Highlands, or would be, and he had done nothing to help these people. Nothing at all. He had stayed safely on the Isle of Mist while his people, the people he was responsible for, suffered. Guilt rushed into him, filling up every pore and crevice within his body. He was ashamed of who he was. He was ashamed at what his grandfather would say if he could see what had happened. He was ashamed most of all of himself, and he didn't think anything he did in the future could ever take that shame away.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Mines

  The day after arriving at Killeran’s compound, Thomas and Oso entered the mines. Killeran hoped that the experience would soften the green-eyed boy, since his attempts during the journey had failed. There were other things besides pain that would serve Killeran's purpose, many of which could be found hundreds of feet below ground.

  The smoky torches struggled in vain against the encroaching darkness. Spaced one hundred feet apart on the roughly cut wall, they were no more than pinpricks in a sea of black. To the miners, though, light or dark was of little consequence. You worked more with your hands than your eyes.

  The dreariness and hopelessness of the mines immediately pushed Thomas into planning an escape, he had nothing else to think about while hammering away at the rock. Unfortunately, any path he chose was fraught with one guarantee. He would have to deal with the warlocks.

  Yet, the plan that he formed during the monotonous, endless hours of black drudgery was much more ambitious than simply he and Oso escaping. He would not leave this place until every Highlander here did so before him. During the first night in his cell beneath the reivers' barracks, Thomas did a much better job of torturing himself than Killeran ever had. The faces of the Highlanders he had seen upon entering the fort — the sad, lost looks; the resignation in their eyes — continually played through his mind. He lay on the hard stone floor in a cold sweat, and when he finally did fall asleep a few hours before dawn, he would have preferred to stay awake.

  The face of a small boy popped into his dreams. He was lying on his side up against the steel bars, looking out at what was going on in the fort. The vitality expected in a child was missing from his eyes. He should have been smiling and playing with his friends on the village green. Instead he was locked in a cage, covered in dirt and eating watery soup for his only meal of the day.

  In the dream, the boy stared at Thomas for what seemed like days, but this time the eyes were alive — with accusation. He knew that he was in the cage because of Thomas. The boy was much too weak to even voice his thoughts. Yet his eyes spoke for him: Why? Why do you let them keep me here? Thomas didn't know how to answer.

  That nightmare gave way to another, of an old woman cradling a crying child in her arms. She too rested against the steel bars, using them to support her aching back. The woman wouldn't last in the mines much longer, and she knew it. The girl wasn't her daughter, but there was no one else in the cage who could care for her. Her mother had died earlier in the day. She had given her daughter part of her daily ration to keep her strong, but it had only hastened her own demise. The old woman raised her head to meet his watching eyes. He knew what she was thinking: We die and you do nothing. Why?

  The last vision soon followed. Thomas stood by the entrance to the mines at the edge of the pit, the dumping ground for those who died in the mines. He looked down at the corpse of a Highlander, a man who had probably once been a Marcher. The buzzards and crows had not yet ravaged his body. The Highlander had died a few hours before, the mines having slowly worn away his will to live, and having already claimed his wife. He had nothing to live for, nothing to hope for. Thomas stared down at the dead man for a long time, a deep sadness settling into his bones. He felt older than his seventeen years, but no wiser nor stronger.

  Much to his surprise, as he was about to turn away, the corpse rose to a sitting position and turned its head toward Thomas. The eyes remained lifeless and cold. "I would have fought for you," the dead Highlander said in a raspy tone. "I would have died for you. But instead I died for nothing. Where have you been?"

  Thomas woke up shivering that morning, drenched in his own sweat. The reivers came soon after that, taking him from his cell and leading him up into the dawn to join Oso and a hundred other Highlanders on the short trek to the mines. They exited through the main gate, one reiver for every worker, then followed a steep, sloping path that went down into the foothills below the fort. The entrance to the mines appeared before him, the hole resembling the gaping maw of some beast.

  Thomas followed the man in front of him, pulled on by the chains around his ankles and neck. Glancing to his left, he saw the pit he had dreamed of, exactly as he had seen it in his sleep. Thankfully, a Marcher did not lie atop it — not yet anyway. As he trudged through the mine entrance, the oppressiveness of the tons of stone pushing down on him from above almost overwhelmed him.

  It took more than an hour for the Highlanders to reach their destination in the bowels of the earth, walking carefully on the treacherous path. The mountain was silent, except for the tread of feet on the rocky floor and the occasional curse by a reiver and the slash of a whip, urging a Highlander to move faster. The Highlanders didn’t talk in the mines. Every word said equaled one lash.

  Finally they reached their destination, a small side tunnel that branched off from the main passageway. Thomas guessed that they were at least a mile beneath the surface. One by one the reivers unchained the Highlanders from their leg shackles, then led them farther into the darkness barely held back by the torches hanging from the wall. Soon a reiver came for Thomas. He was taken down a side tunnel for several minutes until the reiver told him to stop. He heard the Highlanders ahead of him already working. The sharp clang of their pickaxes striking the rock echoed down the passageway.

  The reiver pulled a chain up from the floor of the tunnel and attached it to the shackle around Thomas' neck. He tugged on the chain where it met the rock to ensure that the metal spike was still firmly attached to the stone. Satisfied that it was, he handed Thomas his pick and told him to start digging. If anything shined in the light, dig it out and place it in the bucket at his feet.

  Thomas stood there for several minutes, examining his current plight. The darkness didn't bother him. His eyes allowed him to see quite well in the mines. Yet, he could understand how it affected the spirit of someone who could not see so clearly in the dark. The darkness whittled away at a person's spirit, until there was nothing left but the sound of the pickaxe striking the stone. In time, even that wouldn't be enough, and the person's essence would gradually seep away, and with it the will to live.

  With nothing else to do, he went to work. The hours passed slowly, and Thomas was in no rush to accomplish his task. Refusing to work served no purpose at all and could easily end in his death. Instead, he used the time to clear his mind of the shame and guilt that had plagued him for the last few days. He had failed his people. He wasn’t there when they needed him. Though he could do nothing about the past, he could do something about their present situation.

  He spent most of the day figuring out how to escape, but not just him and Oso. No, when he left this place, he was going to take all the Highlanders with him. That would help atone for his failure to a certain extent. Then he could focus on driving Killeran and his reivers out of the Highlands once and for all. It soon became clear to him that there was only one way to do that. But he would worry about that later, focusing on the task at hand.

  A reiver walked by every so often, checking Thomas' bucket. Thomas had found a few pieces of gold, but he threw those farther down the tunnel, instead filling the bucket with iron ore. He would work in the min
es as long as necessary, but he refused to turn a profit for Killeran. In the beginning, his body ached in protest and his head pounded with each swing of the pickaxe, his tortured muscles screaming out in pain. Yet, as time passed, the activity worked the kinks out of his muscles and in a way rejuvenated him.

  The last time the reiver came he unleashed Thomas and led him back to the other miners. When he finally returned to the surface, he was surprised to see that it was almost full dark, having completely lost track of the time while beneath the ground. But his day had not been wasted. He had developed an escape plan. All it would require was a little patience and luck, but first he wanted to talk with Oso.

  Thomas and the others trudged wearily back up the steep trail, many barely able to walk. Once they reached the camp the Highlanders returned to the cages while Oso and Thomas were escorted to their cells. As he was pushed roughly back into his new home, Thomas smiled. His plan would work if he waited for the right time. Now, he just had to make sure he was still alive when it was time to act.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Tossing the Caber

  "I don't know how I'm going to do it, Thomas," Oso whispered fiercely. "But I'm going to kill that bastard Killeran if I have to do it with my bare hands."

  They were alone in the basement, which was divided into four cells by steel bars. The cells were empty, as the reivers had made it a point to remove the straw normally used for beds. The only light came through a small window covered by a metal grille set high in the wall. To look outside, they had to pull themselves up the steel bars of their cells. They could then see the main courtyard with Killeran's quarters to one side and the warlocks' barracks across the muddy common ground.

  "You'll have to get in line, Oso," said Thomas. "I'm sure that besides us, there are several hundred other Highlanders who also want a crack at him."

  Oso laughed softly. The swelling on his face had gone down, and despite the strenuous activity required in the mines, the wound on his arm no longer bothered him. "You're probably right about that." He, too, had been greatly affected by what the reivers had done to his people. The fact that he could do nothing about it at the moment gnawed at him constantly.

  Neither saw each other during the day. Thomas was always at the front of the line of workers, while Oso was in the back. When they returned to their cells after a day in the mines, a small bowl of watery gruel always sat waiting on the floor for them, hours cold. They dug into the slop hungrily, eating in silence. And each night they became restless, pacing around their small cells in frustration.

  Thomas decided to wait before he told Oso his plan for escaping. There was no reason to give him a sense of false hope, and he didn't know how long he would have to wait for the right circumstances. It was a very simple plan, really, but one that depended on a key variable over which Thomas had no control. He'd have to watch and wait, and be ready to strike when the time was right.

  "So how do the Highlanders stand now against the reivers?" asked Thomas.

  His question served two purposes. First, he wanted to change the subject, as he could see that Oso was getting worked up over their current predicament. He hadn't known his new friend for long, but he had learned much about him in that short span of time. One of Oso’s primary characteristics was the need for action. If something needed to be done, he wanted to do it, and right away.

  Unfortunately, what Oso wanted to accomplish at the moment was all but impossible, yet his need for action demanded that he do something. So he walked around his cell and pounded his palm with a fist. Second, Thomas wanted to find out more about his people since he had been away from them for so long.

  Oso sighed. He knew that his anger was useless, but it was very difficult for him to let things go. "Some have accepted defeat and think only of their own survival. Others continue the struggle." Oso stopped pacing and looked at Thomas, though he continued to pound his fist into his palm, the smack echoing in the small basement. "Were you raised in the Highlands?"

  "For a time."

  "Then you know what it is to be a Highlander?" Oso's question had many underlying meanings.

  "Yes, I do."

  Highlanders were warriors, and had been for millennia. To hear that some had given up the struggle disheartened him. Even when there was no chance of victory, throughout the centuries Highlanders had refused to surrender. Accepting defeat went against their very nature.

  Oso nodded. "Those who have given up are few. Most of us still fight, though we don't have the resources to challenge Killeran directly. In any normal battle, yes, we could defeat him, though the casualties would be high. But we rarely have the opportunity to fight a normal battle."

  Thomas understood. No one could challenge the mastery of the Highlanders on the battlefield when fighting with conventional weapons, such as a sword or spear. Killeran had an advantage that the Highlanders could not defend against — the warlocks. The only way to stand against the Dark Magic of the warlocks was to combat it with a power of their own, but the Highlanders had no one with such skill. The last Highland sorcerers had died during the Great War.

  "Another problem," said Oso, "is that we don't have a leader. When the Lord of the Highlands died, there was no one to take his place. His son was murdered and the grandson disappeared. Some say the grandson still lives, but more likely he's been dead for years. As a result, the leader of each village up in the higher passes rules as best as he or she can, but none have the ability to bring the Marchers together again and make the Highlands one. Most are simply concerned about survival. It is a very difficult situation."

  Thomas' heart clenched when Oso mentioned his grandfather. He was glad that Oso couldn't see his face in the dim light of the basement. A wave of guilt broke against his resolve, and the shame he had held back during the day while working in the mines flooded across the mental barrier he had constructed. His failure rose up to confront him once again.

  His grandfather had left him with several tasks to accomplish right before he died. Thomas knew that the only way to remove the shame and guilt once and for all was to complete those tasks. Until then, he would continue to mentally whip himself. But could he accomplish them? Self-doubt plagued him.

  "If a leader was found, would they fight?"

  Oso thought for a moment before answering. "Yes, we would fight."

  That was a start at least. If Thomas could rally the Highlanders, his chances for succeeding would be that much greater. Still, when it was time to reclaim his grandfather's title, he certainly would have his work cut out for him.

  "Right now, though, I can think of only one person who could lead us," said Oso, pacing around the small cell again. Thomas watched him in silence. "As I said, it is rumored that the grandson survived, and many still believe it, if only because it gives them hope. If we are to regain our freedom, we need the Lost Kestrel. Of course, as I said, he probably met the same fate as his father and grandfather, but who can say. At the moment, hope is our only ally. Unfortunately, as time passes, even our hope dies."

  "You never know, Oso. You never know."

  "You're right about that, Thomas. You never know. But until I see this Lost Kestrel with my own eyes—” He leaned against the wall of his cell. “Well, hope is a good thing, I guess. Especially when you have nothing else."

  "Skepticism is a good thing, too," said Thomas. He had learned what he wanted, so he decided to change the conversation once again. Their talking so far had been serious, and in some ways discouraging. Their cells were bleak enough. "How did you get your nickname?"

  Oso settled down against the wall. A smile appeared on his face, and he finally stopped pounding his fist into his palm.

  "From time to time, some of the villages gather together. It's very much like a fair, such as the great Eastern Festival at the border of Dunmoor and Fal Carrach, though on a much smaller scale. We have vendors and hawkers, dancing and sporting events." From Oso's voice, Thomas gathered that his friend enjoyed the last the most. "One of the competi
tions is tossing the caber. You throw a pole as far as you can."

  "That sounds simple enough," said Thomas.

  "In concept, yes. Actually doing it is another matter. The pole is about thirty feet long and two hands wide. Trying to balance the thing is almost impossible. You hold it with two hands at the bottom, so it's sticking straight up in the air, and you rest its weight on your shoulder. Then you try to run up to the line without dropping it or hurting yourself and then heave it." Oso laughed with pleasure.

  "That can't be very hard at all," said Thomas.

  "Yes, well—" Oso looked through the bars at his friend, who sat across from him in the dim light. Thomas' green eyes sparkled with mischief. "Thank you for the sarcasm."

  "My pleasure."

  "Anyway, when I was thirteen, I tried it for the first time and I won. I beat men who were bigger than me and two or three times my age. It was the most fun I've ever had." Thomas saw that his friend was flushed with pride. For the moment, Oso had forgotten their present circumstances. "One of the men I beat was named Coban. He came over to congratulate me after the contest. He said I was as strong as a bear. Someone else overheard and gave me the nickname Oso, from the old tongue. It's stuck with me ever since."

  "Coban, you said?" asked Thomas. "Coban Serenan?"

  "Yes, you know him?" Oso leaned forward in surprise, suddenly curious.

  "Yes, I do," said Thomas. "You said that this contest was when you were thirteen, so it was after the fall of the Crag."

  "Yes, it was."

  Thomas sighed with relief, a huge smile crossing his face. He had assumed that everyone in the Crag had died. If Coban fought his way free, others probably did as well.