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

by Peter Wacht

  She had to do something – and quickly! The leers of the two men set off her basic instinct for survival. She struggled as hard as she could to gain her freedom from Lester’s grip, but her efforts were for naught. No matter how hard she pulled, it didn’t affect him, nor did her frequent kicks at this legs and shins.

  “A feisty one, indeed,” laughed Natul, grabbing her other arm and helping Lester drag her toward the back of the alley. “This is going to be fun.”

  Kaylie screamed as loud as she could, but she knew that it was wasted effort. No one would hear her. And if they did, in this part of the city, no one in their right mind would venture out after a scream like that. Trying to gain control of her rapidly escalating fear, she reached for the Talent. But her terror got in the way, destroying any hope of concentrating. She couldn’t believe this was happening. It couldn’t! She was the Princess of Fal Carrach. How could she have been so foolish!

  Lester and Natul had almost reached the end of the alley. Kaylie continued to struggle for a hold on the Talent. She had to succeed. She had to! Suddenly, a flash of white light burst around them, momentarily blinding her and her two attackers. Stunned by the strength of the flash, it took her a moment to realize that she was free of Lester and Natul, who were rolling on the ground in agony, their hands covering their damaged eyes. She felt a smaller hand grip her arm.

  “Come with me, girl, if you want to live.” It was a woman’s voice, and the hand on her arm was helping her get up from the cobblestones. “Now, girl! We don’t have much time.”

  With her vision still clouded by the flash of light, she allowed the woman to pull her down the alley and back out onto the street.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Dark Visitor

  Shagan let the empty wine flask fall to the soft grass beneath his tent, joining a half dozen others. The large Highlander scratched at the scar on the right side of his face, struggling to relieve an itch that never seemed to go away. At first, it had infuriated him. Now he was resigned to it, almost like a curse brought on by the fall of the Crag.

  He grabbed another flask of wine from the small table set by his chair for that very purpose. Pulling out the cork, he took a swig, some of the liquid trickling down the side of his mouth and into his long beard, staining the grey whiskers red wherever the drops touched it.

  For the thousandth time that evening he cursed his ill luck. He was in a foul mood, all because of that bastard boy. Talyn’s grandson! How could he have survived the attack? He had been there. He had seen everything, heard all the stories from the other survivors. But never any mention of this boy. So he had assumed he was dead.

  But now with the Sword of the Highlands in his hands and the Kestrel mark on his arm, that boy was about to proclaim himself the Highland Lord. In a moment of fury, Shagan threw the flask against the tent wall, then pounded the arms of his chair in frustration.

  He had grown up with Talyn and had seen the many benefits given to the Highland Lord while his friend’s father ruled the Kingdom. Gradually, Shagan’s desire had become an obsession, until he would do almost anything to achieve his goal of becoming the Lord of the Highlands, or as he liked to translate it – to lord over the Highlands. But he had never had the chance to assume what he saw to be his rightful place among his people. His claim was too weak to ask to take the Tests. Nevertheless, perhaps he could still achieve his goal and the status he deserved.

  After Talyn had passed the Tests, Shagan could have challenged him to a duel. If Shagan had won, he would have gained the right to take the Tests for himself. But he had chosen not to. He knew that if he had challenged Talyn, he would have died. There was no mercy in a challenge, not even between friends. So his anger and obsession had simmered over the decades, waiting for an outlet, yet knowing he had been stymied those many years before by his fear.

  Yet now, with the appearance of this boy, his hope had been rekindled, only to be dashed once more. During the last few hours, he had heard the stories about the boy’s fighting prowess, how he had killed the Makreen and Fearhounds and Ogren, how wolves and other animals fought for him.

  If the boy was half the warrior he was said to be, Shagan realized that challenging the boy meant a certain death. He knew it with a cold certainty, much like he had decades before. Though he was quite a bit larger than the boy, he wasn’t as strong or as fast as he used to be. Blast it! Some useless twig of a boy was going to take the Highlands away from him. His Highlands!

  “You shouldn’t drink so much before your great victory, Lord of the Highlands.”

  Shagan jumped up from his chair, flailing desperately for his dagger, the raspy voice sending a chill down his spine. He didn’t succeed in grabbing his dagger until the fifth try, and only then when he looked it into his hand. He finally peered into the darkness, searching for the source of the voice, yet shadows greeted his eyes.

  The laughter of his men entered the tent through a small slit in the back wall. Perhaps one of them had decided to have a little fun with him on this night. Well, once his head stopped pounding and his world stopped spinning, he’d find the jokester and make an example of him. Shagan sat down heavily in his chair once more, this time leaving the dagger within easy reach on the table. He didn’t want to struggle with the task of having to put it back in its sheath.

  “As I said,” repeated the raspy voice, this time with a menace that chilled the air of the tent, “you should not drink so much the night before your great victory.”

  Without warning, a Shade stepped out of the darkness, standing right before Shagan. Seeing the ghoulish cast of the skin, the greasy dark hair and the milky white eyes, the large Highlander knew he couldn’t be hallucinating. Shagan leapt back, or at least tried to through the wine-induced haze. Instead he stumbled out of his chair and knocked over the table. Seeing the dagger on the floor, he dove for it.

  A hand shot out, catching him in mid-motion around his throat. The Shade held him in an iron grip, lifting him off the floor. Though the Shade appeared to be slight, he showed no effort or strain in dealing with Shagan’s massive weight. It was much like a child holding a feather.

  “You will listen to what I have to say,” said the Shade, its milky white eyes showing no emotion, no feeling, nothing.

  Shagan tried to nod, but realized he couldn’t. He could barely breathe. He knew he didn’t stand a chance if he attempted to fight. He’d be dead in an instant, and then his men would find his crumpled, withered body the next morning, the Shade having sucked out his soul for nourishment.

  His terrifying fear gave him a sudden clarity, the effects of the wine disappearing for the moment. He would do anything the Shade wanted, anything to avoid that fate. Sensing his submission, the Shade released the Highlander, allowing him to stand on his own. Shagan gasped for breath, his hands going to his bruised throat.

  “Decades ago you wanted to be the Highland Lord,” began the Shade. “Now you want it again. But you don’t have the skill to challenge the boy. I will help you.”

  Shagan almost laughed, then realized it would most likely mean his death.

  “Why should I trust you?” he asked. “Ten years ago I did what your master wanted. Because of me you gained the Crag. But Killeran got the power. Not me, as had been promised. I’ve been living in a flea-infested hovel since then. Why should I trust you now?”

  Shagan stepped back in fear, realizing he may have crossed over the line with his words. Yet the Shade stood there still as a statue.

  “Do not ask questions,” said the Shade, the creature’s voice brooking no argument. “As I said before, your decision now will determine if you live or die. You do not have the skill to defeat the boy, but that doesn’t matter. I will help you. During your duel, I will use my magic. You will—”

  “You have Dark Magic?”

  Shagan blurted out the question before he knew what he was doing, so intrigued he was by the statement. He had never heard of a Shade ever having skill in Dark Magic. Shagan’s hands went back
to his throat as he began gasping for air. It felt like a hand was squeezing his throat bit by bit, and it was getting harder and harder for him to breathe. Spots began to cloud his vision. The Shade remained where he was, not moving, its hands by its side. Suddenly, the pressure disappeared, and Shagan could breathe once more.

  “Most don’t, but my master has favored a few of us. Now back to my reason for being here. When the Kestrel passes the Tests, you will challenge him.”

  “Why not kill him with your magic now?”

  Shagan’s eyes bulged as he realized what he had done once more. He should never have drunk so much wine. He was going to die. He could see it now in the Shade’s eyes. But for some reason the Shade relented.

  “Because I need a distraction. You will be my distraction. If he suspects an attack with Dark Magic, he can defend against it. With you occupying his attention, before he realizes what I’m doing, it will be too late. After you kill him, you can do whatever you want, Lord of the Highlands. What is your answer?”

  Shagan licked his lips in anticipation. Finally a way to achieve his goal, but at what price? Nothing was ever free, especially when it had to do with the Shadow Lord. But did it really matter? If he didn’t agree, the Shade would kill him. He had no doubt about that.

  Shagan nodded, and for the first time the Shade showed some emotion. The gaunt, skeletal creature smiled, revealing razor sharp teeth. The sight chilled Shagan to his very core, making him wonder if death now was preferable to what lay before him. Once you accepted a gift from the Shadow Lord, you were never free.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  The Tests

  “Are you sure you’re ready, Thomas?” asked Oso, unable to keep the worry from his voice.

  Oso had barely slept, his mind straying to what was to happen on this day, even though he would be no more than a spectator. Amazingly, his friend hadn’t even stirred during the night.

  Thomas grinned broadly, slapping his friend on the back as they navigated around the many tents and pavilions set up on the plateau.

  “Relax, Oso. I’m ready.”

  “All right. All right. It’s just that—”

  “I know, Oso. I’ve been thinking about this moment for half my life, worrying about what would happen. Would I succeed? Would I fail? Would I live up to my grandfather’s expectations? And now that it’s finally here, I feel free. No matter the outcome, I’m doing what I should be doing. That’s all that matters.”

  Thomas picked up the pace. He was a bit anxious, though he wouldn’t admit it to his friend. Too much was riding on this for him to fail. So much, in fact, that he didn’t want to think about it.

  “Better for you to keep an eye on Shagan.”

  Oso nodded. “Don’t worry, Thomas.” His own worry disintegrated as his attention turned to this new task. “You can count on me.”

  “Of that I have no doubt,” said Thomas.

  They walked the rest of the way in silence, each consumed by his own thoughts. When they reached the last line of tents, they saw the other Highlanders already in place, standing in a loose circle around the Pinnacle. Oso slapped his friend on the back for good luck as they approached the throng.

  As Thomas entered the crowd, it parted, giving him a path to walk through. Coban stood at the end, waiting at the foot of the Pinnacle. Oso followed Thomas through the crowd, stopping at the first row of Highlanders with the men of Raven’s Peak. Oso made sure he had a clear view of Shagan.

  Thomas continued past the crowd, which had left a wide circle open around the Pinnacle. Stopping a few feet in front of Coban, he nodded to his friend in greeting. Because Coban had been the Swordmaster for the last Highland Lord, he was responsible for officiating the Tests.

  “Thomas Kestrel, grandson of Talyn Kestrel, the last Lord of the Highlands, asks to take the Tests,” said Coban in a voice the carried to the very last row of Highlanders. “Will you allow it?”

  The gathered Highlanders immediately murmured their assent, the request being nothing more than a traditional formality.

  “So be it,” said Coban. He then ascended to the top of the Pinnacle. “To become the Highland Lord you must pass three Tests: one of skill, one of courage and one of knowledge. We begin with the Test of Skill.”

  As Coban began the ceremony, Thomas allowed himself a moment to relax, probably the last moment he’d be able to relax for quite a long time. His eyes wandered the crowd, picking out a few familiar faces. For a moment, he thought he had seen the image of his grandfather in the crowd, but that wasn’t possible. Was it?

  A familiar voice spoke in his head: It is time, Thomas. It is time for you to stand on high. Thomas’ eyes scanned the crowd, but the image of his grandfather didn’t appear again. Talyn was here with him in spirit, somewhere, and that knowledge offered Thomas some comfort and relief.

  “The candidate must defeat the Highlands’ best swordsman and best spearman in single combat,” said Coban. “Only then can we determine the candidate’s true skill, for the Lord of the Highlands must be our greatest champion.”

  A buzz began in the crowd, the Highlanders’ excitement difficult to contain as Renn and Seneca stepped forward, Renn holding a spear and Seneca a sword.

  “The candidate must disarm both his opponents, but to kill them is to fail the Test. The swordsman and spearman must fight to the death, though they can grant the candidate mercy if the candidate so requests.”

  Thomas studied his opponents, seeing in both the confident demeanor and posture of veteran fighters, the best the Highlands had to offer obviously, or they would not be standing across from him now. These men had fought in hundreds of skirmishes, fighting for a longer period of time than Thomas had been alive. To most people, such knowledge would have dispirited them. But not Thomas, knowing that his grandfather watched.

  “The candidate may select any two weapons except the bow. What weapons do you choose?”

  Thomas examined Renn and Seneca once more, appraising both much like his other grandfather, Rynlin, had done to him when they had first met. Finally, he made his choice.

  “A quarterstaff.”

  “A quarterstaff?” Coban asked, not sure if he had heard correctly.

  Many of the watching Highlanders gasped in surprise at the unorthodox choice.

  “A quarterstaff,” confirmed Thomas.

  Coban nodded, though he didn’t understand Thomas’ decision.

  “And your other weapon?”

  “I don’t need another weapon.”

  The gasps of surprise became cries of shock, and even Thomas’ two opponents looked at him skeptically, wondering whether this boy meant to insult them by using just one weapon or he simply didn’t know what he was doing.

  They hoped he understood that fighting to the death meant exactly that. To not do so would dishonor both of them, and they couldn’t allow that. Though Thomas may be the only hope for their people in escaping from the tyranny of the past decade, he would have to prove himself just like every other Highland Lord had since the Highlands gained its independence.

  “You don’t need a—” Coban stopped trying to figure out the logic of Thomas’ decision and simply nodded his assent. “A quarterstaff.”

  A Highlander tasked with bringing the candidate his weapons stepped through the crowd and approached Thomas, carrying a finely carved quarterstaff made of ash. Thomas took a few seconds to get a feel for the weapon, pleased with its balance. Thomas nodded his approval.

  “Then we begin,” said Coban.

  Renn and Seneca stepped forward, approaching Thomas with the grace demonstrated by the large cats that inhabited the Highlands. For them, there was no wasted movement. Every action had a purpose. They chuckled as they examined Thomas, who stood casually with his back to the Pinnacle, leaning on his quarterstaff for support. The boy didn’t seem to have a care in the world. They’d certainly do their best to change his attitude.

  As they closed on Thomas, Renn moved to his left and Seneca to his right. He had
expected such a maneuver. The two Highlanders began circling him. Thomas moved away from the Pinnacle so that he’d have room and wouldn’t get boxed in against the rock.

  The tactic surprised Renn and Seneca, who thought Thomas would remain with his back to the Pinnacle to limit his opponents’ avenue of attack. But Thomas knew that wasn’t the way to win this fight. He had to end it quickly or he wouldn’t stand a chance, thus his decision to fight on open ground so he could take advantage of his speed and agility.

  He had chosen the quarterstaff as his only weapon for a number of reasons. First, he didn’t want to kill either man, which was more difficult to do then with a sword or spear. As soon as he became Highland Lord he would need their support and help. Besides, the Highlands couldn’t afford to lose any more men of their caliber. Too much was at stake.

  Second, the quarterstaff was an excellent weapon against both the sword and spear. It matched a spear in its length and could be used in the same manner as a sword.

  Third, he had already had some luck with a quarterstaff when dueling the Makreen – albeit with a slightly different type of quarterstaff, but nonetheless, why stop now?

  Renn and Seneca watched Thomas carefully as he spun in a small circle to match the circle the two Highlanders wove around him, Thomas’ quarterstaff spinning slowly in his hands, ready for the first attack. He didn’t have long to wait. Renn jabbed with his spear and Thomas easily deflected the blow. Seneca followed right after with his sword, then Renn again and Seneca once more. Each time Thomas knocked away the lunge, knowing that they simply tested him, gauging the speed of his defense.

  Believing that they had learned enough, Renn and Seneca began the main assault with both attacking at the same time from opposite sides. Thomas’ quarterstaff was a whirl of motion as he defended himself, digging deep within himself for the resources needed to turn away the assault. The attack continued for several minutes, and many times Thomas escaped harm by only a hairsbreadth.