The Raptor of the Highlands

by Peter Wacht

  “You’re dead, Princess.”

  Kaylie threw down her practice dagger in disgust, cursing as well as any soldier. She had been doing so well, only to lose because she had forgotten the most important thing Kael had taught her. Don’t let anything break your concentration. How was she supposed to prove anything to her father if she didn’t maintain her composure? Wanting to strike out at something, she kicked at the dirt, sending a cloud of dust into the air.

  Kael ignored her display and walked toward the main hall. He was tired and hungry, and the smell coming from the kitchens promised an excellent dinner. Besides, if he didn’t make his escape now, she’d want another chance at him.

  “Pay attention to what you’re doing, Princess. No matter how good you are with a blade, you only have to make one mistake to lose.”

  Kaylie watched the Swordmaster until he disappeared through a doorway, frustration plain on her face. He was right, of course. She knew that, but she didn’t have to like it. Another lesson learned. Yet she had almost had him! A couple of times she had come very close to winning, missing with her lunges by a fingerbreadth or less. She had done everything right, except stay focused on her task. She promised herself that she would not make the same mistake again.

  “A very good show, Princess.”

  Kaylie jumped around, startled by the clapping. She always trained with Kael after he had finished with the recruits. She hadn’t expected anyone else to be there. Maddan. Wonderful. Of all the people to watch her fail, it had to be him.

  “What do you want, Maddan?”

  “Nothing at all, Princess. Nothing at all.” The blue-eyed boy walked right up to her. Too close for Kaylie’s taste, she stepped away from him. Many girls at the Rock found his grin irresistible and swooned at the sight of his shoulder-length blonde hair. She was not one of them. “I was just watching. You’re quite good with a dagger, Princess. Not as good as me, but still quite good.”

  Her anger burned hotter. There were only two people in the entire Rock better than her with a dagger: Kael and her father. Kael had said so himself, and he was not one to give such praise lightly. She took Maddan’s bragging as an insult.

  “That’s a lie and you know it, Maddan. Now what do you want? I have better things to do than stand here and listen to your bragging.”

  In her opinion that’s all he was really good for, as evidenced by his display, or lack thereof, in the Burren. As the son of Norin Dinnegan, Maddan was used to being treated with a certain deference. However, his father’s wealth meant nothing to her, and Kaylie took particular delight in pointing out her lack of respect for him on a regular basis. It took Maddan several seconds to rein in his own anger before speaking. No matter how often she refused to acknowledge his standing, it still irritated him.

  “So you want to be a warrior? You’re such a pretty girl, Kaylie. Why would you want to do such a thing?”

  Maddan was quite good at finding the holes in a person’s armor. His jibe hit its mark.

  “I will do as I please, Maddan.”

  “Of course, Princess. Of course. I didn’t mean to imply anything. I was simply trying to point out that you should be thinking of marriage now, rather than being a soldier. There are many who would willingly have you as a wife.” His arrogant sneer told her that Maddan was one of them.

  Kaylie’s eyes narrowed. She instantly saw Maddan in a whole new light, though she had known him for years. He was playing a new game now. A dangerous game. She knew he was greedy, but only just then realized the full extent of his avarice.

  “I may be of an age to marry, Maddan, but I will not do so until I find the right person. And I have not found the right person.” Kaylie bit off the last of her words as if she were chewing on leather, certain that he had picked up on her meaning. Turning her back to Maddan, she headed for her rooms.

  Much to her surprise, a hand on her arm whipped her back around. She stood face to face with Maddan, no more than a few inches separating them.

  “Don’t walk away from me, Kaylie,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Perhaps you have found the right person, yes? You simply don’t know it yet.”

  Kaylie refused to be intimidated. “You forget yourself, Maddan,” she replied, her icy words barely a whisper, yet her fiery eyes spoke volumes. She was the Princess of Fal Carrach and would not be treated in such a way.

  Maddan stared down in shock at the dagger pressed against his chest. A real dagger, and quite sharp. The point dug into his skin, drawing a few drops of blood. With one quick movement, Kaylie could bury the blade in his heart. He immediately released her arm and tried to step away, but Kaylie moved with him, keeping the blade just above his heart.

  Her father had bothered her countless times about carrying a dagger with her wherever she went, even going so far as to hide it under her gown if she were attending a feast or ceremony. Maybe if her father had witnessed how quickly she had turned the tables on Maddan his opinion of her learning to fight would change. Kaylie smiled wickedly.

  “I will choose whoever I wish to marry, Maddan. But know this. It will never be you.”

  She pushed harder with her dagger to punctuate her words, the drops of blood turning into a slow trickle. Satisfied that she had made her point, literally, Kaylie resheathed her blade and walked toward the main keep.

  “Next time, Maddan, I won’t hesitate.” She didn’t bother to turn around.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Playing the Game

  Inishmore was the largest kingdom in the west, dwarfing all its neighbors except Armagh. That’s what drew Rodric to it. He craved power, and in Inishmore that’s what he saw — an opportunity to increase his power. Twenty years before a group of lords had assassinated the doddering old fool who had been king. That action had turned the once peaceful kingdom into a den of vipers. Since then Inishmorian lords and ladies spent most of their time jockeying with one another for the chance to become king or queen. Yet no king or queen had sat on the throne in Laurag since the Good King Lassin met his untimely demise.

  Oh, a handful of lords and ladies had succeeded in assuming the throne, yet none lasted for more than a few months at a time, some no more than a few days. Either their coalitions fell apart and they were forced to withdraw their claim or, more often, a competitor had them removed. Rodric saw it as the ultimate game of survival, playing in the politics of Inishmore. Over the years he had secretly supported a dozen or more claimants for the throne of Inishmore. Only one had survived, and the poison that some enterprising assassin had spread on the sheets of the fool’s bed had turned the poor bastard’s brain into so much mush he could no longer care for himself.

  Still, despite his failures, Rodric played the game. Inishmore was a rich country, with Laurag functioning as the main port for distributing the highly prized silks and spices of the Distant Island. The Three Fork River offered a fast and cost-effective route for transporting these and other goods to Armagh and the Heartland Lake. Controlling the trade along the river had certainly enriched Rodric’s coffers, and if he could take control of the country itself, whether openly or through an intermediary tucked safely into his pocket, his wealth would increase tenfold.

  That’s why the latest news from Laurag had upset him so much. He was a meticulous planner. When someone disrupted his strategies, he took it as a personal affront.

  “I don’t give a cow’s ass what Eshel thinks of the treaty, Toreal,” yelled Rodric, slamming his fleshy fist down on his desk, its top a smoothly polished wood with his likeness carved into the very center under a cover of glass. “We came to an agreement. He will do as the agreement requires.”

  Toreal watched his master carefully, ready to leap out of the way at a moment’s notice. Rodric’s temper was quite mercurial. As the bearer of bad news more often than not lately, Toreal had become particularly adept at dodging expressions of his master’s anger, such as the gold goblet that had barely missed his head and slammed into the far wall just a few minutes before. Though Rodric’
s tantrums were common, they still unnerved him. Toreal repeatedly ran his hand through his short, bristly hair in consternation. Realizing what he was doing, he shoved his hands into the folds of his grey robes. As the Chamberlain of Eamhain Mhacha, his position demanded that he maintain the appearance of calm and control, even under the most trying of circumstances. And any circumstance that directly involved Rodric was always trying.

  “I’m sorry, milord,” said Toreal in a soothing voice. He used the same voice with his young children when they were upset, and it normally quieted them down. It had much the same effect on Rodric. “I can only relay what was said to me by the messenger sent by Lord Eshel. He truly appreciates your offers to assist him in gaining the throne of Inishmore, but if he had known that you would be stationing our troops on his properties in Laurag, he says he never would have agreed to it.”

  “He would have agreed to it, Toreal, if I required he sell his mother into slavery. He can’t win the throne of Inishmore by himself. Without me, he’s nothing but another hungry dog fighting with all the others over a very large bone.”

  “True, milord,” replied Toreal in a more confident tone, pleased to see that his master had calmed down. “What shall I say in return?”

  “You shall tell him quite simply that the agreement we signed still stands, and that if he does not adhere to it, he will no longer receive the gold he so desperately needs. Tell him also that I will relay to some of his closest friends in Laurag the details of our arrangement. As soon as they find out that he’s essentially become my vassal in hopes of winning the throne, he won’t live out the day. Tell him he’d then become the bone for all the other dogs to fight over. Tell him that, Toreal.”

  “Harsh words, milord.”

  “They are, Toreal, but necessary. He has a copy of our agreement. He should have read it before he signed it. It says quite clearly that in exchange for Armagh’s gold he would allow me to quarter one hundred Armaghian soldiers on each of his properties in Laurag at his expense.”

  Eshel had in fact tried to read the entire agreement, but had been distracted by the wine Rodric continued to pour for him as they discussed the final details of the treaty. If nothing else, Rodric was meticulous. He knew how to get what he wanted, and the easiest way to do that was to play upon his opponent’s weaknesses. One of Eshel’s many weaknesses just happened to be Ferranagh red wines.

  “Without the law and the agreements made between Kingdoms and between persons, we would have nothing to hold our society together…”

  Toreal listened to Rodric’s lecture with one ear. He had heard the High King’s rationalizations of his political actions many times before. Rodric loved having everything in writing, if for no other reason than to do what he was now doing to Eshel. At first the hypocrisy of Rodric’s words had shocked Toreal, yet after hearing the same speech over and over, he no longer paid attention. Rodric adhered to an agreement only for as long as it suited him. Once it proved a hindrance, he would be the first to break it. Yet still Rodric expected others to follow their agreements with him to the letter, seeing their unwillingness to do so as a personal betrayal.

  “Now leave me, Toreal. I have more important matters to attend to today.”

  “Yes, milord. I will relay your response at once.” Bowing before turning on his heel, Toreal slipped out of the room and closed the door behind him, leaving Rodric in silence.

  The High King leaned back into his chair and pulled the folds of his purple robes tighter around him. Dealing with a fool like Eshel was simple, and much like the bite of a mosquito — more of an annoyance than anything else. Dealing with his next visitor would prove more difficult, and much like the bite of a bloodsnake — deadly. He never relished these meetings, but it was the price he had to pay for getting what he wanted. As Rodric constantly reminded himself, the High King was to be feared and respected. Still, Rodric’s next guest never failed to make him afraid.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  A Lesson

  Rodric realized at a very young age that there was little difference between a king and a common man besides the quirk of fate. Though that knowledge didn’t please him, he could certainly put it to use. It was quite simple really. Power was based on perception. If you appeared to be a king, rather than a common man, than in most people’s eyes you were a king. That had made life much easier for Rodric, since he didn’t look like a king at all. The storybooks glorified kings such as Ollav Fola, whose shadow supposedly covered out entire armies. They spoke of his long blonde hair and striking features.

  Rodric didn’t have the long blonde hair or strong chin. His skin was splotchy rather than fair, and he had coarse black hair and a plain face. Worst of all — in his own opinion — he was short. Still, he soon discovered several ways to make up for his natural disadvantages.

  As he paced in front of the Golden Throne of Eamhain Mhacha, he glanced nervously at his arrangements for the hundredth time. He had little to fear. The servants had learned long before that to fail in even the slightest task was to be avoided at all costs.

  The throne room of Eamhain Mhacha, despite the rain that poured from the skies and struck heavily against the glass windows that ran from floor to ceiling, still shone brilliantly thanks to the hundreds of torches affixed to the walls. The pure white marble columns that rose to the ceiling reflected the light throughout the chamber. Even more impressive, the throne itself glowed liked the sun. The brightness appealed to Rodric. The aura of brilliance centered on him, giving him a dramatic sense of grandeur. The purple robe and large golden crown he wore to mark his station aided the deception.

  Of course, his retainers and the hundred soldiers — silver breastplates shining brightly, their faces resembling the stone of the columns — who ringed the room only added to the effect. All in all, Rodric was rather pleased with his efforts. The nervousness that normally plagued him at times such as these had diminished. He actually felt comfortable for once. He was the High King of Eamhain Mhacha! No ruler was more powerful than he! Rodric’s confidence disintegrated in a split second.

  “Milord,” said Toreal, having opened one of the massive doors to the throne room just enough to squeak through. “Lord Chertney.”

  The doors swung inward at a shocking speed. Toreal barely escaped being crushed as the two slabs of oak slammed against the walls, the boom echoing violently throughout the room and startling its occupants.

  “Rodric,” said a dark shadow standing on the threshold. “It was good of you to see me on such short notice.”

  Shivers of fear ran up and down Rodric’s spine. Crawling beneath his throne and hiding passed through his mind. He hated the fact that he was afraid, and he hated the man who stood at the other end of his throne room even more for making him afraid. Rodric stepped back as the shadow strode into the room, but his heel ran into one of the legs of the throne. He had nowhere to go. In an attempt to retain his dignity, Rodric sat down in the golden chair.

  Lord Chertney looked more like a king than Rodric ever would, and Chertney knew it. The tall, wraithlike man glided closer to Rodric, his eyes burning intensely, his posture speaking of power and dominance. The black leather armor he wore sucked in the light of the torches, creating a shadow that settled around him.

  “I would like to speak with you alone, Rodric,” said Chertney, coming to a halt just a few steps in front of the throne, his deep voice booming throughout the room. Though Rodric’s throne sat on a dais, much to Rodric’s chagrin Chertney still towered over him.

  Rodric stared at the insolent smile on Chertney’s face and the slicked back hair. The swine! Rodric fought hard to maintain his composure. How dare he enter his throne room without permission! How dare he call the High King of Armagh by his first name! How dare he tell him, Rodric, what to do! Though his face turned red with anger, he replied in a calm voice.

  “Lord Chertney, it is a pleasure to have you with us once again. I’m sure that whatever you wish to discuss can be heard by those here with us.”
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  More than anything else, Rodric wished desperately not to be left alone with this man. If he truly was a man. The soulless eyes made him wonder. Rodric’s kind, composed words did not have their desired effect.

  “I will speak with you alone, Rodric,” hissed Chertney, his eyes blazing red with anger. “If you won’t clear the room, I will do it myself.”

  A cold sweat ran down Rodric’s back as he gazed into those eyes. It was rumored that Chertney drank the blood of the men he killed in battle to absorb their strength. Rodric had dismissed the story as just that, a story. Now, staring into those eyes, he believed them. Knowing that having Chertney order his people to leave his throne room only would increase Rodric’s humiliation, he tried to save face.

  “I can see, Chertney, that you must have a matter of great import to discuss with me,” he said with some composure, though he seethed inside. “As you wish then. Toreal, please clear the room.”

  “Yes, milord,” answered Toreal, who had walked a good distance away from the doors, just to be safe.

  The soldiers and retainers in the throne room didn’t need much urging to leave. In less than a minute Chertney had his wish, the doors slamming shut just as Toreal stepped through.

  The throne room that had glowed so brightly just moments before now took on a gloomy cast. The fear that tickled Rodric’s spine settled in his stomach. He clenched the armrests of the throne, desperately trying to keep his hands from shaking.

  “So, Chertney, you have your private audience,” said Rodric.

  Chertney raised an eyebrow. The false confidence in Rodric’s voice appeared comical to him.

  “This is not an audience,” began Chertney, stepping on to the platform, his voice traveling to the farthest corners of the room with ease. “This is a lesson, Rodric. How are things progressing in the east?”

  Rodric put on his most ingratiating smile. “Everything goes as planned. In just a few years, by law, the Highlands will be mine. But until then, our strategy has worked out quite well. The time for the next step approaches, and we will be ready.”