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

by Peter Wacht

  Following Thomas over the threshold, Rynlin remembered to lower his head just before it knocked into the top of the door frame, something that happened with an all too common frequency, thought Rya, as she shut the door behind her husband and grandson. Rynlin had a tendency to forget certain things, though slights and insults were not among them.

  He also had something of an ego. When he first carved the house from the tree, he had never considered that he could have made a mistake in the size of the door. He had been paying for that mistake in bruises and headaches ever since. So, all in all, Rya thought it was a good thing for her husband – it helped to keep him humble, just the way she liked him.

  Rya was barely five feet tall, and next to her husband appeared even smaller, but she had a commanding presence. Her dark chestnut hair and deep blue eyes had captivated many a man when she was young, yet it was her mettle that had first drawn Rynlin to her. She preferred to view herself as strong-willed; Rynlin chose another term – bullheaded – but rarely used it in her presence.

  “What have you been doing, Thomas?” Rya asked.

  She walked over to the fireplace, a wooden spoon in hand. After pulling the pot away from the flames, she stirred the stew slowly, making sure their dinner didn’t burn.

  Vegetable stew, Thomas realized, as the smell wafted through the kitchen.

  “Thinking,” he replied.

  Thomas took his place at the table and thanked his grandmother for the bowl filled with a thick gravy and large pieces of carrots, potatoes, beans and other tasty morsels. His grandparents joined him.

  “About what?” she asked, hesitant to go any farther.

  She knew what Thomas pondered. It had dominated his thoughts for the last few months. A part of her knew that it was time, but another part of her, the one that still viewed Thomas as the little boy he had been when he had first come into their lives, dreaded that this day had come. Rya did her best to remain calm.

  “You know as well as I,” Thomas replied softly.

  Rynlin stopped eating, his bowl still half full. He was not one to let a good meal go to waste, but though he didn’t like to admit it, he too had dreaded this moment.

  “What have you decided, Thomas?”

  He knew the answer – at least he thought he did – but he needed to hear the words.

  Thomas breathed deeply, trying to calm the butterflies that threatened to explode from his stomach. He knew how his grandparents were going to react.

  “It’s time. I can’t put it off any longer. My people need me.”

  Rynlin and Rya stared at him, neither saying a word. Thomas had expected yelling or a lecture on responsibility, or perhaps something on considering all sides of an issue before making a decision. Not stony silence.

  Finally, Rynlin settled back in his chair. “We knew this day would come, Thomas. I’m sure your grandmother would agree that we weren’t looking forward to it, but as I said, we knew it would come.”

  Thomas nodded. He knew how difficult this was for them. When Thomas had become a Sylvan Warrior, he had, theoretically, become an adult, and had gained the freedom to wander the Highlands as was required by his duties among the Sylvana. But this decision went beyond that. It meant that Rynlin and Rya would no longer be able to offer guidance as they had when he was younger. They could do nothing to help him in this.

  “There is an old saying, Thomas. If men cannot master war, war will master them. The same could be said for revenge.”

  Thomas gazed intently at Rynlin. At first he had thought to respond harshly, rising to Rynlin’s bait. But Thomas quickly realized that would have been a mistake. As his grandfather had done so many times in the past, Rynlin tested him.

  “I go not for revenge, but for a promise, for duty. The Highlanders never had any use for me when I was growing up in the Crag, but I can’t allow that to color my judgment. That doesn’t matter anymore. I am a Highlander. I must help my people.”

  Rynlin nodded, satisfied by the response. Tears appeared in Rya’s eyes, but she wiped them away. She too approved. It was time for him to live his own life, and to succeed or fail based on his own decisions. It was time to return to the Highlands. But that didn’t mean she had to like it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  A Loss

  The tall man placed his feet carefully, using his spear as a walking stick. The rocks lining the path were loose until you reached the plateau, meaning a single slip could lead to a deadly fall. Reaching the crest, he took a moment to enjoy the sight of the rugged peaks rising into the sky, the distance between each one covered by pine, fir and evergreen trees. He breathed in the sharp, cold air.

  He had traveled the Armagh Mountains hundreds of times – as was his wont and his responsibility. As a Sylvan Warrior, Aurel was charged with protecting nature against the evil of the Shadow Lord, something he had done for several centuries. He had never tired of the task. In fact, he relished it. His duty gave him a pleasure that few other people would ever know.

  On the other side of the plateau lay a wider trail that led higher up the mountain and then down to the plain he would have to cross to reach Branaeil, the city nestled between the Three Fork River and the Heartland Lake. He rarely visited cities, preferring the solitude of the forest, but sometimes you didn’t have a choice. He was halfway across the plateau when he realized that he was being hunted. Aurel cursed himself for a fool. He should have felt the approaching evil sooner, but his mind had wandered.

  Stopping on the path, he took hold of his spear with both hands, slowly circling around in an effort to locate the source of his discomfort. The hairs on the back of his neck straightened. The evil was getting closer, much closer. He had fought in hundreds of battles and skirmishes against some of the most terrifying creatures ever to leave Shadow’s Reach, yet he had never really gotten used to the fear and uncertainty he felt right before the struggle began.

  The anticipation of it all was the worst part of it. As Aurel continued to circle, scanning the brush that lined the edge of the plateau, the sense of approaching evil grew stronger. It seemed as though it was coming toward him from several directions. That could only mean—

  Two Fearhounds burst from the foliage to his left, their long strides eating up the space between them and their quarry in heartbeats. The size of ponies, the Fearhounds were the color of night. It was rumored that once Fearhounds had gotten the scent, they never failed to catch their prey, for their skill was not in hunting by sight, or scent, but rather by fear, sensing it in their quarry.

  The analytical side of Aurel’s mind noted that fact, which meant he simply hadn’t run into them. No, they were sent after him. That was the only explanation. The instinctual part of Aurel’s mind brought the spear around, ready for the charge. The Fearhounds large teeth, which extended beyond their lower jaw, and hot saliva dripping from their gaping maws intensified their fearsome appearance. There was only one way to kill a Fearhound, Aurel knew, as their thick skin was like the bark of a heart tree – almost impregnable. He would have to strike true.

  As the first Fearhound came within range, having outdistanced the other beast, Aurel’s spear shot out. The sharp point tore through the creature’s eye and into its brain, killing it instantly. He immediately pulled the spear free and directed it toward the other Fearhound. Though the beast had seen its companion fall, its bloodlust hastened its charge, relying on its speed for a sure kill. Once again Aurel’s aim was true, the spear striking through the eye and killing the beast.

  He tried to work the blade free, but it was lodged too deeply. He could sense other Fearhounds on the plateau now, charging, taking advantage of his weakness. He pulled with all his strength but the spear wouldn’t budge. Reaching for the long knife in his belt, he swung the blade behind himself in a deadly arc, catching another Fearhound across the throat.

  Such a slash would have killed any other beast instantly, but not a Fearhound. The creature barely felt the wound and continued with its attack, its weight knoc
king Aurel to the ground. He tried to rise, but before he could a fourth Fearhound was on him, crushing one of his legs in its powerful jaws. The pain almost overwhelmed him, yet Aurel still tried to defend himself, bringing the long knife up in an attempt to dislodge the two Fearhounds.

  As the blade came down, aimed for the back of the creature that had bitten his leg, a fifth Fearhound arrived, its jaws nearly severing his hand from his wrist. And then the rest of the pack appeared. It was over in a matter of seconds. When the lapdogs of the Shadow Lord had finished with the body, it was barely recognizable. The only distinguishing feature was a silver amulet inscribed with the horn of a unicorn shining brightly as it caught the rays of the early morning sun.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Hint of Madness

  “You were a fool,” hissed Rodric, throwing the drapes back to allow the sun to stream into the musty room.

  Not much had changed since Rodric had brought his son back to Armagh. Ragin lay on the bed, his head resting on the stone wall. His face twisted into an angry glare at his father’s words, made all the more fearsome by the fresh scar running from his scalp to his neck on the right side of his face. A bandage still covered where his eye had once been, and strewn around the room were dozens of different patches, none of which had yet met with the Prince of Armagh’s approval.

  “He got lucky!” Ragin screamed back at his father. “If I had killed him it would have furthered your plans and given me the respect I deserve. I—”

  “But you didn’t kill him,” said Rodric, standing before his son. “You embarrassed yourself and, worse, you embarrassed me.”

  Rodric began pacing the room, stopping to open a window. Ever since they had returned from Tinnakilly months before, his son had stayed holed up in his rooms living in a world of semidarkness. He had ordered the servants to remove all the mirrors, not wanting to be reminded of the terrible wound that had marred his once handsome features.

  “In fact, we don’t even know if the fall killed him,” continued Rodric. “His body was never found.”

  “I hope he survived,” whispered Ragin, a small smile creeping onto his face, which, combined with the scar, gave him an almost grotesque appearance. “Then I can pay back the pain and suffering he has caused me.”

  “You’re even more of a fool than I thought!” shouted Rodric, rounding on his son. “The boy was injured and weak, yet he still bested you with a blade. If you meet him again and he’s at full strength, you’ll simply be giving him the opportunity to finish the job he started.”

  “I said he was lucky, blast you! The next time—”

  “Enough!” Rodric slapped his son across the face, needing an outlet for his growing anger.

  Ragin flinched under the blow, a hint of madness touching his eyes. He wished desperately for a dagger. Someday his father would pay for that. Some day.

  “I have no time for your outbursts. Because of you, I’ve had to rework my plans. And that’s taken time I can ill afford to lose with the Council of the Kingdoms only six months away. You have a simple choice. Do you plan to cower here in fear, or will you help me with what needs to be done?”

  “Leave me alone!” screamed Ragin, spitting the words out of his mouth. “I don’t want to be seen! Can’t you understand that?”

  Rodric moved back from the bed, looking down at his son in disgust. He had been wrong. His son wasn’t just a fool, he was a coward. He had no time for fools or cowards or, more importantly, people who no longer fit into his plans.

  “Fine,” he said, heading for the door. “I’ll make sure you get your wish.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Fixation

  The steel blade whipped out, searching for an opening. Steel was met with steel, though muted by the pieces of leather covering the blades, turning away the blow. Kaylie stepped back for a moment, wiping long strands of black hair from her sweaty brow. The practice session with Kael Bellilil, Swordmaster of Fal Carrach, had lasted for more than an hour, much of that the result of her abilities. But Kael would never tell her that. Not yet, anyway. She was becoming a fine fighter, but he didn’t want her to become overconfident.

  Kaylie crouched once more, circling her opponent slowly. Kael simply watched and waited, allowing her to be the aggressor. Ever since Tinnakilly they had met in the practice yard at the end of the day, with Kael instructing the princess in how to use a blade. She was a spirited girl — and stubborn. You could see it in her deep blue eyes. There was a confidence there now and a purpose that had been lacking until only recently.

  Only months before she had simply accepted her role as Princess of Fal Carrach, unwilling to push too far beyond the comfort of what she was familiar with. But no more. As a result of recent events she had discovered a whole new world – one of danger, betrayal and love. Though she’d never admit the last to herself, Kael knew the truth of it.

  She was also very intelligent and had learned quickly to use her petite size and speed to her advantage. As if his thoughts were a signal, Kaylie darted forward, her sword aimed for Kael’s knee. Smart and clever. Disable a larger opponent, then move in for the kill. It had been one of his first lessons.

  Kael grinned as his sword deflected the blow, then came back up immediately as Kaylie tried to catch him unawares with a strike to his arm. The clang of steel on steel continued for several minutes as the two combatants made use of every inch of the practice yard in their struggle. With the sun almost below the trees to the west, Kael decided it was time to stop.

  “Enough, Princess. We can continue tomorrow.”

  Kaylie reluctantly ended her attack, allowing the exhaustion she experienced after each practice session to take hold of her body. It was a good feeling, one of accomplishment and success.

  “Fine,” she grumbled. “Tomorrow then.”

  “You know, Princess, you’ve come a long way in a very short time,” Kael said. “Just make sure you don’t lose sight of the larger picture.”

  Kael sat heavily on one of the benches that marked out the practice area, unwrapping the leather from his blade. He had the grizzled appearance of a veteran, which was confirmed by the scar running halfway across his neck.

  “What do you mean?” asked Kaylie, sitting next to the Swordmaster and beginning the same process of freeing her steel blade.

  “You know very well what I mean,” answered the bald Swordmaster. “You have focused almost all of your attention on learning the sword during the last few months, to the exclusion of almost everything else. I know why you’re doing it, girl, but at some point it’s not going to be enough. You’re going to have to move on.”

  Kaylie sighed resignedly. Leave it to Kael to see through her so easily.

  “But it’s what’s been keeping me going,” she replied. “Every time I think of what happened—”

  “Stop beating yourself up, girl,” interrupted Kael, using the tone so familiar to the newest recruits in the Fal Carrachian military, a tone they dreaded. “Don’t forget, girl, a body was never found. That Thomas was a tough one.”

  “But no one could survive a fall from—”

  “You’ve said it yourself many times. He had special skills. What’s done is done. It’s time to move on. You need to see everything that’s going on around you, not just a small part of it. You won’t be the swordfighter you can be – the leader you need to be — until you do.”

  Satisfied that his message had gotten through, Kael rose from the bench and walked toward the armory. He wanted the blacksmith to work out some of the nicks in his blade.

  Kaylie watched him go. She stayed there until well after dark, thinking on Kael’s words. She knew he was right. It was time to move on. But could she?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Moving Forward

  Thomas felt the rush of air that came off the mountains, buffeting him, trying to force him down. His strong wings carried him onward, undeterred by the mighty blasts. Using the Talent to change himself into a kestrel, he now flew sever
al thousand feet above the land.

  He wasn’t sure what kind of reception he would receive at Raven’s Peak. He had chosen the village carefully. Oso lived there now, his best friend among the Highlanders. Coban also lived there. The former Swordmaster of the Highlands, best friend to his grandfather, Talyn, would know what needed to be done. Also, many of the people he had rescued from the Black Hole now resided in the village situated high in the upper passes of the Highlands, several days west of the now destroyed Crag.

  Worries plagued him as he navigated around the Highland peaks. Thomas had waited almost ten years before returning home. Why should the Highlanders even care? Why should they feel any allegiance to an outsider? More to the point, though Thomas had tried to help his people as best he could – freeing Oso and the other Highlanders from the Black Hole, eliminating as many dark creatures and reivers as possible during his frequent wanderings through his homeland as part of his responsibilities as a Sylvan Warrior – they had suffered quite a bit since the Crag fell.

  Would Coban and Oso support his claim? Would the people of Raven’s Peak? While growing up the Highlanders had always perceived Thomas as different and had treated him that way when he lived in the Crag, accepting him only because he was Talyn’s grandson. In fact, rumors had circulated throughout the Highlands; rumors that Benlorin Kestrel would one day remarry and have more children. Then the Highlanders wouldn’t have to worry about having a witch’s brood ruling them. Did his people still feel that way?