The Defender of the Light: Book 9 of The Sylvan Chronicles

by Wacht, Peter

  Some additional clarity was thrust upon her when the two Dragas began their descent, circling over the withered husk of Blackstone. She had never seen the ancient city of ruins before, believing that it was no more than a relic from an earlier age. What filled her eyes now terrified her and sent a chill down her spine.

  A strong wind gusted continuously through the stone metropolis, the black ash caught in its grasp and swirling uncontrollably. As a result, what was visible one second was hidden the next, but she had glimpsed enough. Camped in the midst of that charred landscape was the largest army she had ever seen, one brought together for a single purpose. To conquer the Kingdoms. She had fought Ogren and Shades with Thomas. Through those experiences, she had thought that she had learned to control her fear. But this was a discovery that frightened her to her very core. A terror that she had never experienced before.

  Ogren marched through the barren city, forming into their war bands. Shades led them, the massive beasts following the silent commands of the Shadow Lord’s captains. Off in the distance, at the very border of the ruined city, she caught sightings of swiftly moving shadows, no more than flits of movement at the edge of her vision. Fearhounds, she guessed. Perhaps even Mongrels, judging by their massive size.

  The Dragas slowly circled a monstrous keep before settling onto a huge balcony that extended out over the largest square she had ever seen, which now contained thousands upon thousands of dark creatures. Daran quickly dismounted, but not before running his hands from her hips to her thighs and resting them there, suggesting what her future might hold if he had a say in it. She cringed at his touch as he removed the straps that had kept her in her seat.

  Dropping to the ash-covered stone, Kaylie fell to her knees as her legs gave out beneath her. Unconcerned by her weakness, which was a continuing aftereffect of the application of Dark Magic upon the Princess of Fal Carrach, Malachias stepped forward, grasping her arm firmly. He helped her up, but not from any kindness. Rather, he felt the press of time, and he pulled her through two massive doors into a murky chamber. The only light came from the dimness of the early morning, the clouds covering the city placing it in a perpetual murk. The chamber awed her with its checkered floor of white and black stone and in the middle of the design a large disc with a carving caught her eye, but she couldn’t make out its etchings in the dark.

  “Who have we here, Malachias? I wasn’t expecting visitors.”

  The menacing whisper sent a petrifying chill through Kaylie’s body. Her instinct for survival told her to run, to get away as fast as she could. She tried to back out of the room in an awkward stumble, seeking the dim light of the day just beyond the entry. But Malachias’ grip only tightened around her arm and held her fast.

  “Something of value, master. The King of Fal Carrach’s daughter.”

  A cowled figure wearing black, flowing garments glided across the checkered floor to stand before her. The wispy robes shifted in the light breeze in a way that suggested that they had no weight, more mist than substance.

  Kaylie wanted to look away, to run, to hide, to do anything but stand there, but she couldn’t. Her captor wouldn’t allow it. As the shadowy figure approached, head hidden, all she could make out were the eyes, which burned a bright red. At first, she thought those eyes resembled the flames of a fire. But then she realized her mistake. Not a fire, but rather blood.

  The figure stood before Kaylie for several minutes, not saying a word. His examination unnerved her, even more so than Malachias’. Yet she refused to be cowed, and though her fear sent her whole body shaking, she forced herself to stare into those blood-red eyes.

  “You are right, Malachias.” The whisper echoed in the circular chamber. “We can use this one against her father. He will have little desire to fight if he knows that the life of his daughter hangs in the balance. It will make our assault on the Breaker that much easier.”

  The shadowy figured turned his gaze away from Kaylie, much to her relief. Her limbs, previously frozen in place, felt like her own again. She hadn’t realized that she had been holding her breath. She forced herself to stand up straight though her body fought against her.

  “And our brave Sylvan Warrior. What have you to say?”

  Daran’s normal smirk was nowhere to be found. He shuffled his feet, trying to hide his unease but failing.

  “They were exactly where you said they would be, master.”

  The cowled figure who appeared to be more spirit than man stared at the Sylvan Warrior, his blood-red eyes boring into him. The silence grew too much for Daran.

  “He’s dead, master. Malachias can confirm it.”

  The words tore into Kaylie’s heart. The haze that covered her mind had kept the past night a blur, taking away her ability to hold onto anything solid. When she thought of Thomas, she had felt an inordinate grief. But Daran’s words burned through the mist, driving a stake into her heart. She let out a moan as her legs gave way, her sorrow all encompassing, but she remained in place, Malachias’ strong grip easily holding her up.

  “I haven’t sensed the boy for some time, so you may be speaking truthfully, but that’s no guarantee. Malachias?”

  “Dead, master.”

  A small laugh erupted from behind the darkened cowl, sounding like a snake slithering through the sand. “You’ve done well, my traitorous Sylvan Warrior. Better than I expected.”

  “Thank you, master.”

  “And the Key?”

  Malachias and Daran glanced at one another, both unwilling to meet the Shadow Lord’s gaze. Both seemed to hope that the other would reply first as the silence dragged on. Finally, Daran could contain himself no longer, the building stillness setting his nerves on edge.

  “No sign of it, master.”

  The Shadow Lord turned his blazing eyes upon Daran, the Sylvan Warrior finding it difficult to look into that penetrating stare.

  “Malachias?”

  Even the forbidding, normally unperturbed right hand of the Shadow Lord appeared uncomfortable. “I could not sense it, master.” Malachias shifted his feet, the only visible sign of his agitation. “If it was there, I would have known. I would have located it. Besides, with the boy dead, the Key is no longer a concern. The boy is the only one who could have made use of it.”

  The Shadow Lord remained silent for quite some time. Malachias kept his body still, hoping his posture displayed a sense of confidence, false though it may be. Daran couldn’t stop himself from fidgeting.

  “As you say,” the Shadow Lord finally said. “Malachias, take the girl to the cells. We’ll make use of her later.” The Shadow Lord turned and glided back into the dark gloom of the chamber. “Sylvan Warrior, return to your place. You have done well, but you still have a role to play.”

  43

  Drawing Poison

  Initially stunned by what they had seen, Thomas having fallen in front of their very eyes, and they unable to do anything but watch helplessly, the Marchers had stood guard around the Lord of the Highlands in silent vigil, overcome with sadness and grief when the magical barrier finally disappeared. Oso had leapt forward, trying to help his friend. His brother. But he could find no visible wound to treat. Just a few scorch marks the color of black ash along his side as if he had been burned. The large Highlander knelt down, searching desperately for a pulse or a breath. He thought that he detected a very shallow inhalation every few minutes, the time lengthening between each movement, but neither he nor Aric could be certain, the rise and fall of Thomas’ chest barely perceptible.

  Oso placed a blanket under Thomas’ head and over his body, hoping to make him comfortable and keep him warm in spite of the bitterly cold wind. He ordered the Marchers to set up a small camp and establish a rotation of perimeter guards. Then he sat down next to Thomas, not knowing what else to do as the sun began to rise in the east, its appearance still an hour or so off because the Breaker and Highland peaks blocked its strong rays. A knife wound or a slash from a sword, Oso could care for an injury
such as that. That was straightforward. But this? This, he had no clue what to do. His first thought was that Rynlin or Rya could help, but how was he to reach them from here? He had no way to communicate with them. There was nothing that he could do. Nothing but wait for fate to take its course.

  When Oso’s sorrow began to mix with his feeling of helplessness, that’s when the wolves began to appear. First in ones and twos, then a dozen or more at a time. Black and grey, some streaked with white or brown, the large animals padded silently toward the Marchers, trotting out from the forest and scrub. Their bright eyes sparkled as the darkness turned to light. Some turned away from the Marchers, their gaze tracking anything that moved beyond the small camp as if they had established their own guard. Others settled on their haunches, just a few feet from Oso, their eyes locked onto the unconscious Highland Lord.

  As the minutes passed, even more wolves arrived, dozens appearing at a time. At first, they set the Marchers on edge. A few kept their hands close to the hilts of their blades, wary of the massive animals despite knowing that they were allies of the Highland Lord and were performing an important service in defense of their homeland. But the wolves made no move toward the Marchers, so the men and women of the Highlands relaxed, if just a bit. Oso barely noticed them, his focus so intent on his friend, trying to will his own life force into Thomas, who had risked so much for him when they had first met.

  The number of wolves continued to increase, until at least four packs had settled around the Marchers. The wolves knew who lay in their midst. The Raptor, brother to their leader, enemy of the Dark One. They knew his deeds. They knew him. And they knew that they needed him if they were to destroy the dark creatures that plagued their lands.

  All was quiet for almost an hour, no one, man or beast, daring even to move, and then much to the surprise of the Marchers, all the wolves rose from where they had sat or lain down and a path opened up among them, leading from the forest directly to where Oso sat with Thomas. A shadowy blur sped from the trees, followed by another pack of wolves streaming behind. This wolf was larger than any other, the size of a small horse, its fur black but for a streak of white across its eyes.

  The huge wolf stopped behind Oso, then nudged him in the back. Oso had been so intent on Thomas that he had no idea what had been occurring around him.

  “Beluil. I’m glad you’re here.”

  The large wolf stepped around Oso, turning his sparkling eyes to Thomas. He sniffed from head to foot, growling the whole time. Though Oso did not know what had happened to Thomas, Beluil apparently did, and the large wolf was clearly upset.

  Beluil’s resulting howl, echoing off the peaks to the east, shattered the stillness. Then all the wolves raised their muzzles and howled to the sun as it finally peeked over the Highland mountains and lit up the small clearing. The sound of anguish and sorrow resembled that from a horn before charging into battle, carrying along the Breaker and then into the Highlands to echo among the white-topped peaks. When the silence returned, the last of the echoes having played out, Beluil lay down next to Thomas, his massive head resting protectively over Thomas’ legs. The wolf’s eyes stared to the east, toward the mountains, never wavering, as if he expected something to come from that direction.

  It wasn’t long before Beluil’s patience was rewarded. As the sun rose just a bit higher in the sky and the Marchers maintained their silent guard, still unsettled by the number of wolves that had taken up residence around them, an angry squawk turned every eye to the sky. At the sound, Beluil rose to his haunches, his eyes still fixed on the mountains. He howled again, a call of pain and anger that all the wolves once again lent their voice.

  As the cry dissipated, Oso stared at the brightening sky, finding two massive hawks shooting down toward him. If he had not known what was about to happen, he would have drawn his sword like some of the Marchers did. But the hawks were not interested in attacking. Instead, they landed deftly right next to Thomas, and Oso closed his eyes to protect against the expected glare.

  After two bright flashes of white light, Rynlin and Rya stood before him.

  “Thank you, Beluil,” said the tall Sylvan Warrior, his dark eyes grim, his hand running affectionately through the large wolf’s black fur. “We knew Thomas was in danger, but we could barely feel him through his necklace. You helped to guide us here.”

  “Can you help him?” asked Oso.

  Rya immediately dropped to her knees and began to examine Thomas, placing a hand on his chest as she closed her eyes. Oso kept his eyes on Thomas’ chest, but through the entire time he waited for some sign of life, any type of movement, there was nothing at all. Rya pulled her hand away an instant later, hissing under her breath. She studied her grandson, seeing something that no one else could. “I don’t know,” she whispered, a tremor of fear in her voice. Rynlin bent down and grasped her shoulder, giving her an affectionate and supportive squeeze. “I will do what I can to help, but you must fight, Thomas,” Rya continued, the normal steel in her voice returning. She turned her sharp gaze to Oso. “The Dark Magic is in him, trying to consume him. But the darkness hasn’t won, not yet.”

  Crouching down, once more she gingerly placed her hand on Thomas’ chest. She remained in that position for several long minutes. Rynlin stood behind her anxiously, scratching Beluil’s massive head absently to calm his nerves. Whoever had done this to his grandson had much to account for, and the enraged Sylvan Warrior already knew what he would do when he found the one who had caused his grandson’s injury. That thought, continually running through his mind, kept his growing fear for Thomas from overpowering him.

  “Rynlin, give me your hand,” said Rya, her voice anxious. “Thomas is still with us, but just barely. I need your strength if we’re to help him.”

  Rynlin dropped to his knees, reaching out and taking hold of Rya’s left hand as she kept her right on Thomas’ chest. A white glow began to emerge from her palm, dim at first, flickering, before settling into a consistent stream. The glare increased in intensity, growing so bright that no one could look at it directly, having to turn away or shield their eyes. Once Rya had the power that she needed, she began to direct it into Thomas’ body, searching and cleansing, trying to drive out and cauterize the taint that sought to eat him alive.

  At first it was a straight-forward task as she applied the Talent, but then she met the resistance that she had expected and been searching for. It was then that she knew she had found the source of Thomas’ malady. Gripping her husband’s hand even more tightly, to the point where Rynlin gasped in pain, she redoubled her efforts, calling forth more of her Talent and what she was harnessing from Rynlin, waging a battle within Thomas that sent his body at first into a fit of shaking and then into convulsions as the power of the natural world scoured through him.

  “Hold him down, Oso!”

  Rynlin couldn’t move as his wife drained him of the Talent, taking more and more from him as she struggled with the Dark Magic that tried to devour Thomas. The wolves and Marchers looked on anxiously, all having sensed that they had reached the climax of the fight.

  A cold wind began to blow across the clearing, unhindered by the bright, warm sunlight that streamed down upon them. That wind soon took shape as a twisting darkness began to seep slowly from Thomas, then faster and faster as Rya pulled the Dark Magic from her grandson, much like a poison being drawn from a wound.

  The swirling blackness quickly gained speed, whipping around haphazardly for a moment before a form began to appear within the mist. But Rya refused to allow the evil to become substantial. Having extracted all the Dark Magic from her grandson, she turned her attention to the swirling mass that was beginning to take the shape of a man, initially wispy in form, ephemeral, though the blood-red eyes were unmistakable. Maintaining her hold on the massive amount of the Talent that she had used to cleanse Thomas, she directed her power toward the blackness. The blazing white light that streamed from her hand burned into the dark, swirling cloud, the white-hot
energy raging through the inky darkness and leaving behind a black ash that drifted away on the wind. In seconds, with a terrifying shriek that sent a bolt of fear through many of the Marchers, the evil was gone, and all was quiet in the clearing.

  Oso looked down at his friend. Thomas lay comfortably on the ground. He was no longer shaking, and he appeared to be breathing normally. His color also had improved as the cold that had seeped into his body had been replaced by a natural warmth. Beluil stepped forward, licking his friend’s face with his broad tongue, leaving a trail of saliva in his wake.

  “Will he be all right?”

  “Yes, Oso,” said Rya, finally releasing her husband’s hand. His wife had been holding on so tightly that Rynlin had to rub his crushed fingers in an attempt to regain some feeling. “Dark Magic had settled into Thomas. I don’t know how he fought it for so long, but he has always been a stubborn boy. If we hadn’t gotten here when we did to extract it, he would have died within the hour, the evil of the Shadow Lord consuming his spirit.”

  Rya peered down at her soundly sleeping grandson, her hand trailing in his hair. She had almost lost him, but thankfully not. Then her tears began to flow down her cheeks.

  Rynlin would have comforted his wife at such a time, but his mind was on other matters. His normally grim expression had become murderous.

  “Tell me what happened, Oso. Tell me who needs to pay.”

  44

  Pawn