The Lord of the Highlands (The Sylvan Chronicles Book 5)

by Peter Wacht

  “How far back?” asked Daran, who leaned against a tree, relishing the break.

  He had expended a great deal of energy during the past few hours. The constant use of the Talent was taking its toll on him.

  “A mile, two at the most.”

  Catal Huyuk had regained his breath. They had made it halfway through Oakwood Forest, but that wasn’t far enough. To have any chance of throwing off pursuit, they needed to reach the Burren – a journey of at least another few hours, made all the more difficult since carrying Thomas on the makeshift stretcher they had built required two of them. And even then, they truly wouldn’t be safe until they made it to the Isle of Mist, a journey of an additional few hours from the Burren.

  “We must do something,” said Maden, sitting down next to Thomas, done for the moment with his attempts to keep the wound on the boy’s side from opening up once more.

  If he lost more blood, their efforts will have been for naught. But that’s something Maden didn’t want to consider. Thomas was too important to their cause. Besides, Maden feared how such a result would affect the boy’s grandfather. Rynlin had been devastated by the loss of his daughter years before. To lose Thomas— well, Maden chose not to think of it.

  “But there is not much we can do,” answered Rynlin, his attention still intent upon his grandson.

  To break the bond by removing his hand meant Thomas would have to deal with his injuries on his own, something that would prove deadly in his current condition. Rynlin had spent the last few hours wracking his brain for a solution. Finally, he thought he had one.

  “Perhaps Beluil could help us.”

  The large wolf jumped up at the mention of his name, having lain as close to his friend as possible. He and Thomas had grown up together, Thomas having found Beluil as a pup who had just lost his mother.

  “Can you help us, Beluil?” asked Rynlin.

  Beluil looked at Thomas’ grandfather, the man’s piercing green eyes reminding the wolf of his friend’s own stare. In an instant the wolf disappeared into the brush.

  “Hopefully he will succeed,” said Rynlin. “In the meantime, I suggest we go.”

  The sounds of snapping branches and the guttural cries of the Ogren gave the Sylvan Warriors a new shot of strength. Catal Huyuk walked among the trees. He would lie in wait for their pursuers and try to slow them down. Daran picked up the stretcher at Thomas’ head and Maden at his feet, with Rynlin maintaining contact with his grandson. They trotted to the north.

  They could not go much farther, they all knew, but no one would say it aloud. They were Sylvan Warriors, guardians of the forest seeking to protect it from the evil of the minions of the Shadow Lord. One of their own was near death. They would continue for as long as they could, then face the consequences.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Failure

  He was a short man with no distinct features, his coarse black hair and ruddy features suggesting peasant stock. He was much like anyone else in appearance. To make such a characterization in his presence, though, meant certain death.

  Rodric Tessaril, High King and ruler of Eamhain Mhacha, brooked no insult, no matter how slight. With his less than dazzling appearance he could not afford to. To permit an insult, any insult, created the perception of weakness. And if someone, anyone, perceived you as weak, then, in fact, you were weak. He simply could not allow it.

  That’s why he went to such great lengths to ensure no one could mistake his status. He wore at all times a large, dark purple cape even though it dragged across the floor, and atop his head sat a heavy gold crown, often perched precariously since it was a bit too large for his head. Of course, no one had the courage to comment on his often comical appearance, choosing discretion – and life.

  Rodric stood upon the dais in the throne room of the Palace, his arm resting on the golden chair that dominated the chamber. Once a reminder of the opulence and power of the Dunmoorian king, the throne room of Tinnakilly now represented the decay of the entire city. Paint strips hung from the ceiling, the faded wall hangings barely attached to their holders, the tiles in the floor more chipped and cracked than whole.

  Rodric peered out one of the large windows at the cloudy, gray sky, thinking on the events of the past few days. His plans had been right on course, yet obstacles continued to appear in his path; some expected, others not, all dangerous.

  “Still no sign of the boy?”

  “No, milord,” replied Lord Johin Killeran in a nasally voice.

  He stood in front of the dais, not risking the High King’s wrath by daring to step on it. Killeran rubbed his hands together nervously, an action that for once took attention away from his remarkably large nose. Though the Dunmoorian lord had slept little during the past three days, his breastplate was immaculate, as if the gleaming silver had been polished just minutes before he entered the room. Rodric decided it probably had. Killeran was nothing if not pompous and vain.

  “Then keep looking.”

  “But, milord,” began Killeran plaintively, stepping toward the High King, his nose leading the way. “We have searched the Gullet and the Pool and have found nothing. No one could have survived that fall, milord. No one. Even Chertney has said as much, believing that the body was pulled out by the current to Stormy Bay. There’s no reason—”

  Rodric wheeled on Killeran, his face bright red in anger, his eyes bulging, and his crown threatening to fall to the stone floor. His nose was less than a fingerbreadth from that of Killeran’s.

  “There is every reason, you fool. Every reason!”

  The High King’s shriek echoed in the chamber, making even the hardened soldiers who lined the walls tremble with fear. In a mood such as this, who knew how far, and at whose expense, the High King would go to assuage his temper.

  “This boy represents the greatest possible threat to my plans. I want him killed, and if he’s already dead, I want his head brought to me so I can confirm it with my own eyes. Do you understand me, Killeran?”

  Killeran resisted the urge to wipe Rodric’s spittle from his face. Instead, he nodded meekly in acquiescence.

  “Yes, milord. We will continue the search until the body is found.”

  “Good,” replied Rodric, stepping down from the dais and walking out through the massive doors, the hem of his robe catching the dust and dirt, darkening it even more. “Do not fail me in this, Killeran. I can’t accept another failure on your part. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, milord,” said Killeran, bowing as the High King passed.

  Killeran cursed Rodric silently as he left the room, resenting the power the small man held over him. He would do as commanded, even though he knew it would do little good. The boy couldn’t have survived such a fall. It just wasn’t possible. Still, this boy had proven his resilience before. Killeran would broaden the search, and hopefully he would find the body a bit further down the Gullet.

  Resolved in his purpose, Killeran stared at the golden throne. It was enticing, its brilliance beckoning to him. One day, he promised himself. One day he would sit on that throne. One day he would finally get what he deserved.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Disfigured

  Rodric strode purposefully down the crumbling hall, his boots crunching every now and then on the plaster falling from the deteriorating walls. Where was that fool Loris? He had demanded the presence of the King of Dunmoor more than an hour before, but the coward had not yet arrived. Probably hidden away in some whore’s bed. He pushed his irritation to the side. There was still one more thing to tend to. Then he would deal with his erstwhile ally.

  The two Armaghian soldiers stood at attention when the High King passed, bringing their halberds to their chests in salute. Rodric paid them no mind, intent instead upon what lay behind the doors that blocked his way.

  Shoving open the heavy bronze doors, he stood on the threshold for a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. After a few seconds, he walked across the room and swept open the drapes. T
he gray light of the day turned the darkness into a gloomy murk, illuminating the bed set against the far wall.

  Rodric walked over, the bile rising in his throat as he approached. The figure on the bed slept fitfully, having already discarded the blankets with his fevered movements. Rodric swallowed, sickened by the sight before him.

  The gloom revealed the horrible wound running down the right side of his son’s face. Ragin had been a fool to challenge the boy, not realizing that this Thomas was much like a cornered animal at the time, and thus much more dangerous.

  Some would say that death was the ultimate price to pay. But with respect to his son, Rodric knew better. Silently he exited the room, pulling the door closed behind him. His son would have preferred death to disfigurement, for with this wound Rodric knew that in his mind Ragin had paid the ultimate price.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Rising of the Wolves

  The wickedly curved axe came down in a vicious blow, sweeping off the Ogren’s arm. The massive beast howled in agony, trying to escape. But the Ogren pushing from behind wouldn’t allow it. Distracted by the horrible wound, the Ogren never saw the axe – one end a steel half-crescent, the other a half-foot steel blade – strike down once more. Biting into its neck, the monster died noisily.

  Catal Huyuk tried to pull the blade free, the muscles in his arm bulging, but the steel had bit deeply and was wedged in the thick bone and muscle of the Ogren’s neck. He sensed the other Ogren approaching, preparing to jump over the dead creature.

  A knot of cold dread formed in his stomach. He didn’t have time to free the blade! Desperate, he reached for the long daggers wedged into his belt. Another Ogren now stood over him, its terrifying maw spread into an even more frightening grin of bloodlust and pleasure. Catal Huyuk heard a shout from behind him.

  “Down!”

  He dropped to the ground, the ball of fire speeding through the space where he had stood just a half-second before. Another ball of fire came, and then another, and another. Each ball of fire struck an Ogren square in the chest, killing the creatures instantly. In one case, the fire was so hot it shot straight through one creature and struck another. Unable to withstand the assault, the Ogrens’ attack faltered. The huge beasts fell back despite the orders of the Shades who stood a good distance back. The Sylvan Warriors had bought some more time.

  Catal Huyuk rose wearily from the rocky ground, looking back to where Daran and Maden stood side by side, their stances and expressions mirroring his exhaustion. To have so much strength left to unleash balls of fire after such a long, continued use of the Talent was a testament to their power and abilities. Daran threw him a water bag, and he drank from it thirstily. He then pulled his axe free and wiped the blade clean on his torn cloak.

  “Get what rest you can,” Maden told his companions.

  His ready smile had disappeared, replaced by a haggard expression. Though a sorcerer, he preferred leggings and jacket, much like Rynlin. He even wore a sword at his hip, though during the running battle of the last day he had relied on his skill with the Talent instead.

  “The Shades will have the Ogren back under control and ready to attack in a few minutes.”

  None of the other Sylvan Warriors disputed his words. They had succeeded in reaching the southern edge of the Burren, but now they had to stop running. The Ogren were too fast, and the beasts had almost encircled them. The Sylvan Warriors had fought their way through the trap, seeking refuge in a ravine that opened up into a small space that backed into a large stone outcropping. The Ogren couldn’t attack from above or the sides, and only one of the creatures could come through the ravine at a time because of their great size.

  If the Sylvan Warriors faced ordinary men, they could have held their position indefinitely, no matter the size of the attacking force. Such was not the case with Ogren. Yes, they could survive for a time, but when Maden and Daran tired to the point where they could no longer make use of the Talent, Catal Huyuk would be on his own. If Rynlin released his link with Thomas to join the fray, the boy would die. Then it would only be a matter of time, and they would have fought for nothing.

  “They’re coming!” shouted Daran, eyes no longer twinkling with their usual mirth.

  Catal Huyuk retook his position in the middle of the ravine, hearing the thundering footsteps of the Ogren announcing their approach. He pushed back his long black hair from his face. The knot of leather he usually wore at the nape of his neck had been ripped from its place by a branch during their flight. Hefting his trusted axe, he realized the end likely would come soon.

  “What was that?” asked Maden, his soft voice carrying easily through the enclosed space.

  Catal Huyuk listened as well. Yes, he could hear something in the distance, but what? He couldn’t place it. He pushed it from his mind. He had business to attend to.

  “Beluil succeeded,” said Rynlin from farther back in the ravine, his sharp-featured face appearing almost gaunt because of the struggles of the past day, though his piercing green eyes still burned with determination. His hand remained on his grandson’s forehead.

  Thomas’ condition had not changed during the entire journey, hovering close to death, held back only through his grandfather’s strength and, as Catal Huyuk suspected, sheer will. Yet the effects of the bond began to show. Though Rynlin had not participated in any of the fighting, he appeared as tired and worn as his companions.

  Catal Huyuk smiled evilly. He heard them now, the howls of the wolves drifting into the ravine. The Ogren heard the howls now too. That explained why the latest attack had stopped before it even began. There were few certainties with respect to nature, but one fact remained constant – wolves hated dark creatures, and given even the slightest opportunity, they would do whatever possible to kill the creatures of the Shadow Lord.

  Catal Huyuk walked warily to the entrance of the ravine, making sure a sly Ogren did not lie in wait. His grin turned into a huge smile. Several hundred wolves had followed Beluil into battle — or perhaps slaughter was a better term. Half of the Ogren following after the Sylvan Warriors were already dead, lying on the ground in pools of their own blood. The remaining Ogren and Shades had a very short time to live.

  The wolves had broken up into groups of four or five, each group surrounding a dark creature. The wolves did not attack rashly, instead waiting for the best chance. Then, when the opportunity presented itself, a single wolf would dart forward, seeking to hamstring its prey.

  If the wolf failed, it stepped back, allowing one of its companions to try. It was really only a matter of time. The Shades were already dead, and the Ogren would last for only so long. As they tired they would make mistakes. Then they would die. The Ogren knew it, as did the wolves, whose attacks became bolder.

  Beluil then appeared, trotting past Catal Huyuk to his friend, his nose bright red from dark creatures’ blood. Catal Huyuk followed after. Thanks to Beluil and his friends, they would survive. And, more important, their effort had not been wasted. Thomas would live.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  New Adversary

  A chill wind swept across the crumbling balcony, swirling a thin layer of black dust into the air. The wind had no effect on the pitch-black cloak, which lay still, its folds impervious to the effects of nature. Finally, the bottom half of the cloak moved, responding to a shift in weight by the man wearing it. The only visible feature were his eyes — bright red eyes that burned with hunger.

  “I am disappointed by Chertney’s efforts,” said the black-cloaked figure. “Very disappointed.”

  The voice came out as a hiss that held more danger than even that of a bloodsnake. The man continued to look out over the blackened city, which appeared to have been charred by a great conflagration, then to add insult to injury had suffered through an earthquake that ripped the ground apart and devastated most of the structures.

  Few buildings remained whole in Blackstone, and those that did were beginning to feel the effects of time. Huge gaps and cre
vices crisscrossed the deserted city, which resembled the bottom of a dried-out lake baked by a desert sun.

  “This boy is more of a problem than I expected. I thought Chertney would eliminate him with little trouble.”

  The shadowy figure finally turned away from the city to look at the tall, rail thin man who stood before him in the gray robes of a sorcerer. The bald man stared back, seemingly undisturbed by the burning orbs that met his gaze. There was no expression in the man’s eyes, no feelings.

  “I must adapt my plans, Malachias. I must move faster.”

  “Yes, master,” replied Malachias, his dry voice devoid of emotion.

  “You will not fail me, will you, Malachias?”

  “No, master.”

  “For if you do, there will be a price to pay.”

  “Yes, master.”

  The threat washed off the gaunt Malachias, having barely any effect. He understood quite well the penalties for failure, having been given the privilege by his master several times to mete out necessary punishments to those who failed to serve the Shadow Lord as expected. And what fun that had been. A smile almost broke out on his face, but Malachias stopped it. Now was not the time to demonstrate his glee.

  “Then go and do as I have commanded, Malachias. Show me that you deserve better than Chertney.”

  “Yes, master.” In a blink of the eye, Malachias disappeared.