by Wacht, Peter
For these majestic birds had become infused with the energy now surging within the Highlands, the people now free from the bonds that had threatened to destroy their rugged, mountainous Kingdom for almost a decade. There was a change moving through the Highlands, a power, a force, that offered new hope, new blood, and a new defiance.
2
Danger From Above
“Rynlin, above you!”
Even with Anara’s warning shout, the tall Sylvan Warrior didn’t have time to glance at the top of the crest that loomed above him. His piercing green eyes held an intensity that would have frightened most men and were accentuated by the sharp features of his face. The short black beard flecked with grey gave him an almost dastardly appearance. If anyone had the courage to tell him so, he would have smiled and thanked them for the compliment. But now it was all that he could do to keep the Mongrel swaggering in front of him from sinking its long teeth into his throat.
The Ogren and Shades so common to these dark creature raiding parties were bad enough, but now Mongrels had been added to the mix. Ogren, their heavily muscled bodies covered in short fur, were twice the size of a man and truly hideous creatures. Their frightening strength more than made up for their lack of intelligence, though their massive shoulders and upper body that gave them that strength sometimes proved too heavy for their spines, forcing them to walk hunched over. Their chiseled, beast-like faces looked as if they had been carved from rock. Long sharp tusks protruded from their lower lips to curl around their cheeks. Ogren were efficient soldiers. They enjoyed killing, and they ate what they killed. A single soldier did not willingly fight an Ogren, not if he or she wanted to live.
The same could be said when a soldier came up against a Shade, which was often charged by the Shadow Lord with leading an Ogren raiding party. Sinuous and graceful, its movement resembled that of a snake. Stories said that Shades had once been men who had sold their souls to the Shadow Lord. In return for the benefits afforded to them by their master, they had also paid a price, their skin taking on a ghoulish cast, their hair becoming lank and greasy, and their eyes turning a milky white. Their needs had changed as well, as they no longer required food for sustenance. Rather, they drank the souls of their victims to maintain their vitality.
Mongrels towered over Fearhounds, many reaching the size of draft horses, and their size meant that they had few things to fear. Black or grey in coloring, their sharp, hardened claws could cut through rock like a knife through paper. Their incisors, almost as long as a child’s forearm, could bite through a soldier’s steel breastplate with ease. Yet despite their muscular bulk, they were fast and could outrun a horse over a short distance. Not unexpectedly, they were aggressive. Once they had their prey in sight, they never stopped their pursuit, even when outnumbered, as they tried to take their quarry even if doing so meant that it would cost them their lives as well. For there was only one thing that mattered to a Mongrel, and that was the kill.
That certainly proved to be the case for the huge beast that stalked toward Rynlin now. The shafts of several Marcher arrows stuck out from its rough hide, but the steel-tipped quarrels apparently had no effect on the deadly dark creature. The beast continued to move with a dexterity and speed that few other animals could match. Although Rynlin couldn’t see what waited above him, he could guess. He and several other Sylvan Warriors had tracked the Mongrel pack as it crossed the Northern Steppes and entered the lower Highlands. Normally, because of the large number of Mongrels, Anara would have called together Nestor, Renn and Seneca, the Highland chiefs charged with defending the northern Highlands from the encroachments of the Shadow Lord’s minions, combining their forces to take on the several hundred dark creatures.
But this time, she couldn’t. Ogren and Shades also had tried to climb from the lower passes to the west and east of where the Mongrels had chosen to enter the Highlands, forcing Renn and Seneca to hold their ground. Anara, charged by Thomas with coordinating the Marcher defense, could only bring the small reserve that she maintained to Nestor’s aid, since he faced the greater menace as the Mongrels threatened to break through the center of the Marcher line. If the Mongrels did get past Nestor and his Marchers, even if Renn and Seneca proved successful at eliminating the dark creatures coming their way, it would still be the beginning of the end. The Mongrels would have gotten behind the Marcher perimeter and would be free to range deep into the Highlands.
Hearing a deep growl just a few feet above his head, Rynlin knew that his time had run out. The two Mongrels were working together. The one in front of him charged forward, its sharp claws digging up the rock and dirt, and Rynlin could sense the one above him preparing to leap. Better to face the danger in front of you, he thought. But he only had one chance, and he could only hope that he was fast enough. Sprinting toward the charging Mongrel, he ignored the beast above him. Just before the onrushing Mongrel’s slavering jaws clamped down on his chest, he rolled to the side, trailing his Talent-infused blade across the side of the dark creature. A steel blade would have just skittered across the rough hide of the Mongrel, but not one blazing with the power of the natural world. The glowing steel sliced through the Mongrel’s toughened exterior and bit deeply into its flesh, the creature’s innards spilling out as the beast toppled to the rocky ground.
Yet even with his success against the attacking Mongrel, he knew that it was too little too late. He could never turn in time to face the second Mongrel that he sensed had launched itself from the crest above him into the air, less than a second from tearing into him from behind.
“Down!”
Rynlin obeyed the shouted command instinctively, dropping flat on the ground as a blast of white hot energy shot through the space where he had been crouching. The energy sizzled through the air and tore open the chest of the Mongrel that had tried to attack him from behind, leaving a smoking husk in its wake as the dead beast crashed onto the stone and dirt.
“Thank you, my love,” said Rynlin, pushing himself up from the soil and dusting himself off. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Let’s hope it never comes to that,” replied Rya Keldragan, Rynlin’s wife, who examined her husband with a critical eye to ensure that he wasn’t injured. “I doubt that you’d do well managing things on your own.”
No more than five feet tall, Rya carried herself like a giant. Her dark chestnut hair covered one side of her face, pushed there by the strong, cold mountain breeze. As she swept her hair out of the way with a quick swipe of her hand, she revealed deep blue eyes. Eyes that Rynlin had gotten lost in time and time again, much to his pleasure.
“The others?” asked Rynlin.
“Well,” replied Anara. “Maden Grenis held the left flank in support of Nestor. The twins aided me on the right. Those two seemed to take particular pleasure in destroying the last of the Mongrels.”
“Yes, they certainly would,” answered Rya. “For them, it’s personal.” Elisia and Aurelia Valeran, twin Sylvan Warriors from Kashel, one with midnight black hair, the other with shocking white, coordinated their efforts in a way that only those who could apparently read the other’s mind could. In fact, several Sylvan Warriors did, indeed, believe that the Valeran sisters could read each other’s mind, but the two refused to confirm the suspicion, preferring to keep their peers in suspense. “But you appear to have a knack for it as well, arriving at the most critical time at the most dangerous part of the conflict.”
Anara nodded at what she took as a compliment. Not very tall, the red-haired, pixie-faced Marcher had a tenacity that few could match. Rya thought that it had served her well when she was forced to work in the mines and survive the Black Hole when the former High King had maintained his dominance over the Highlands through a regent who was charged with extracting as much wealth as possible from the mountainous Kingdom. Furthermore, the young woman’s determination clearly was a major asset as she led the Marcher forces in the north while Thomas Kestrel, new Lord of the Highlands, pursued the Ke
y.
“I’m just doing what’s necessary,” she answered modestly, flipping a dagger from one hand to the next, a habit that helped to soothe her nerves but often put others on edge. As a result, she always had a blade close at hand. “Renn and Seneca report that the Ogren raiding parties failed to make it out of the lower passes. So, for now, our lines hold. But who can say for how long?”
“As long as necessary,” said Rynlin. They all knew that the number of dark creatures seeking to infiltrate the Highlands had grown exponentially in just the last few weeks. They couldn’t say for certain as to why the Shadow Lord had expanded his efforts to gain control of the Highlands, but Rynlin and Rya had their suspicions. It all came down to time, which seemed to be running short for the Kingdoms. If these larger raids were any indication, the Shadow Lord would release his Dark Horde soon, whether toward the Breaker or through the Highlands would depend on whether the Marchers could maintain mastery of their homeland.
“As long as necessary,” repeated Anara. “Thank you both for your help. Without you, I don’t know what would have happened.”
“We do what we can,” replied Rya. “As others do what they must.”
Anara looked at Rya for a moment, the shorter woman’s commanding presence intimidating for most, but not for Anara. She had seen too much of the world, good and bad, for Rya to unnerve her as the Sylvan Warrior did to so many others. Rather, she spent a few seconds trying to puzzle out Rya’s cryptic comment before deciding that she didn’t have the time to stand their thinking, remembering all that needed to be done after this latest battle. Aiding the wounded. Burying the dead. Preparing for the inevitable next attack. Having nothing else to say, Anara nodded and trotted off in search of Nestor.
“An intense young woman,” said Rya.
“Yes, she reminds me of someone I know.” Rynlin smiled when he said it, understanding that his wife likely wasn’t in the mood to be teased. “He’s all right, you know, at least for now. We can breathe easy for a while longer.”
“I know,” replied Rya. “I just worry about him.” She held a slim, silver necklace in her hand. She examined the amulet carefully for a moment, taking in the craftsmanship, impressed by the skill required to carve the unicorn's horn so delicately into the soft metal. When she thought about her grandson, it felt warm against her skin, confirming for her that Thomas was well wherever he was off to the west.
The necklaces had been in the Keldragan family for millennia. They were said to be made from the same magic that had created the world, though Rynlin didn’t believe it. A nice story, but a false one. He did believe in what the pendants could do, however. These particular necklaces were attuned to the members of the Keldragan family. Each necklace served as a beacon, identifying where the Keldragans were located in the Kingdoms. Moreover, it was these necklaces that the Keldragans had crafted and then given to the Sylvan Warriors shortly after that legendary band of warriors had formed under the direction of Athala with the charge of defending the Kingdoms from the predations of the Shadow Lord the first time that evil creature sought dominion over the continent. In the thousand years since every individual who had passed the tests to become a Sylvan Warrior had received a necklace to acknowledge that accomplishment and serve as a physical reminder of the responsibility that person had assumed.
Rynlin nodded, his thoughts turning to his grandson as well and the prophecy that had ruled Thomas’ life since his birth two decades before.
When a child of life and death
Stands on high
Drawn by faith
He shall hold the key to victory in his hand
Swords of fire echo in the burned rock
Balancing the future on their blades
Light dances with dark
Green fire burns in the night
Hopes and dreams follow the wind
To fall in black or white
He had thought for quite some time that Thomas was the Defender of the Light referenced by the prophecy and fated to battle the Lord of the Shadow in a contest that would determine the fate of the Kingdoms. The events that had followed, Thomas becoming a member of the Sylvana and Lord of the Highlands as well as other occurrences, had confirmed it for him. Yet to do what was required of him, their grandson must find the Key in order to bypass the Dark Magic protections put in place by the Shadow Lord and enter Blackstone unharmed, for without the Key only those foolish enough to have sold their souls to the Lord of the Shadow could set foot in that lost metropolis without dying a horrible death.
That’s where Rynlin had been stuck, despite centuries of effort to find some clue as to what the Key might be, an actual Key or something else, as well as where it might be located, as it had been lost during the Great War when the Sylvan Warriors had worked with the Kingdom armies to force the Dark Horde back into the Charnel Mountains. What had irritated Rynlin all the more was that he, Rya and several other Sylvan Warriors had been there when Athala had crafted the Key and Ollav Fola had used the artifact to fight the Shadow Lord when that evil creature had first tried to conquer the Kingdoms, but neither Athala nor Ollav Fola had ever revealed what it was and where it had been hidden, taking the secrets of the Key and how it could be used to their graves. It was Thomas who had solved the puzzle, that conversation vivid in Rynlin’s mind. But the only way to know for certain was to find the Key and try to use it.
Thomas had explained that much like before he became a Sylvan Warrior, the pull that he felt toward the Pinnacle in the Highlands that served as the Sylvana’s meeting place kept getting stronger when it was time for him to take the tests to become a Sylvan Warrior. So much so that he knew exactly the direction he needed to go, even if he wasn’t quite sure where he was going and when he would get there. If he turned in the right direction, the pull grew stronger. The same feeling had come over him again, but this time whenever he turned his mind toward finding the Key. It was faint, he had admitted. Barely a touch on his consciousness, but still there, nonetheless. The mistake in examining the prophecy was to fail to connect the line preceding the one that referenced the Key. Finding the Key required faith. Thomas had to give up what little control he exercised and allow a greater power to guide him in order to achieve his larger goal.
Rynlin’s initial reaction was skepticism, pushing back at his grandson’s conclusion. But Thomas’ logic made sense, so his grandson had convinced him. And in all honesty, they had little else to go on. Perhaps it was time to take a risk, to allow faith to guide them. And so Thomas had set a course west with a band of Marchers with the goal of finding the Key.
“Drawn by faith,” Rynlin murmured, fingering his own necklace, the warmth giving him the confidence that Thomas was on the right path.
“What was that?” asked Rya, used to her husband’s distracted looks and comments.
Rynlin looked at his wife, startled, finally coming back to himself. He smiled sheepishly. “Nothing, my love. Nothing at all.” He began to walk toward the aid station Anara had set up, wanting to see if he could help those Marchers injured in the fight. “Wasn’t Daran supposed to be here?”
“He was,” said Rya, walking next to her husband. “We could have used him. It was a close thing for a while.”
“It was,” Rynlin replied. “Close indeed.”
His thoughts began to wander down a darker path. The red-haired Sylvan Warrior, who always had a ready smile, had failed to arrive several times in support of his comrades, despite their repeated requests for assistance. The first time was worrisome. Now, after almost a handful of missed appearances, it was becoming ominous.
3
Two Competitors
“Thomas, being a good leader doesn’t mean that you always have to be in the lead,” said Kaylie. “Sometimes you need to allow others to step forward. You need to give others the chance to demonstrate what they can do.”
She stood close to Thomas at the bow of the ship, her left hand resting on his right, their shoulders touching. He knew that what Kaylie
was explaining to him was important. And she was right, he had to admit. Not allowing others to step up demonstrated a lack of faith in their abilities. But this had been a topic of conversation for the last few days ever since the attack by the Great Sharks, and he wanted to move past it.
“You don’t need to take it all on your shoulders. I’m here. Oso. Aric. Every one of the Marchers, man and woman, will do what is necessary. They understand how important this mission is and the risk involved. They’re here because they want to be here. They understand the importance of what they’re doing. Please, let them do what they do best and don’t place yourself in any unnecessary danger.”
Kaylie gripped Thomas’ hand when she said the last. Her anger at the risks that he had taken to this point in their journey, such as launching himself onto the skull of a Great Shark that threatened to capsize their ship, had dissipated to a certain extent and instead been replaced by an intense worry. She understood the hazards that he faced and the burdens that he carried, the task that only he could accomplish. She also expected that he would seek to change the subject and that she would allow it for now. If she pushed too hard, he would ignore what she had to say, but a planted seed could grow with time, something that Rya Keldragan had, in fact, taught her during one of their training sessions.
“Do you really think that it will be as bad as you say?” asked Thomas, smiling to himself. This discussion with Kaylie brought to mind the many conversations that he had engaged in with his grandmother when he was younger, usually after he had done something that had irritated or worried her. There was never really any use in arguing your case whenever Rya had decided that you were in the wrong or had done something foolish. Because she was usually right. It just took him awhile to see that. So better to listen, to take in the advice, and make use of it in the future.
