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

by Wacht, Peter

  It had only been a few hours, yet to Kaylie it felt like years since she had arrived in the Shadow Lord’s lair. When told that she would be put in the dungeon, she had expected something damp, dank and moldy. But apparently the ash and dry winds that shaped the landscape aboveground had much the same effect belowground. The black ash that covered everything in Blackstone had found its way down here as well. She took solace in the fact that at least it was dry, not a drop of water to be found. The cell that she was in contained a small slit of light in a top corner of the stone ceiling far above her that kept away some of the ever-present shadow from which she could never escape entirely in this dismal place.

  She sat on a stone bench, the only amenity in her cell, and tried desperately to fight against the dark, terrifying thoughts that plagued her. Despite her best efforts, her fears and failures, her losses and limitations, threatened to crush her. When she finally succeeded in forcing those perceptions to the back of her mind, her grief pushed its way to the forefront and tried to overwhelm her.

  Tears coursed down her cheeks as her mind drifted to Thomas. He couldn’t be dead. He just couldn’t! Yet she saw what had happened. She had held him when he fell. He had been cold, lifeless. His spirit consumed. Simply gone. Strong and stubborn as Thomas was, he couldn’t have survived Malachias’ attack.

  She allowed herself only a few minutes to grieve before turning her mind to what Thomas would do if he were in her situation. Wiping her tears from her face with a sleeve, she studied her cell once again, looking for a way to escape. To keep herself sane, to keep her dark thoughts at bay, she turned her mind solely to that task.

  Reaching for the Talent, she struggled to grasp it. The natural magic of the world was there, she could feel it, but it spilled through her fingers like water rushing through a stream. She could sense it but do nothing with it.

  “It won’t work, child. The Shadow Lord’s Dark Magic is too strong. You will not be able to make use of the Talent here.”

  Malachias stood in front of the bars of her cell, his hypnotic gaze fixed upon her. Chertney and Rodric had arrayed themselves slightly behind him.

  A shiver of fear ran through her, but she ignored it and steeled herself to engage with the right hand of the Shadow Lord. Her fear of Malachias had grown with Thomas’ murder, yet Chertney and Rodric had little impact on her now. Chertney had withdrawn within himself, likely smothered by Malachias’ presence and power. Rodric had become a shell of his former self. Never truly vibrant, the former High King now resembled someone who floundered and flopped around in his constant attempts to maintain his sanity. His stringy, greasy hair fell to his stooped shoulders. The desire for power, the yearning for control, still burned in his eyes, but his energy had diminished, as if he were beginning to understand the true price that he paid for his allegiance to the Shadow Lord.

  Kaylie curtailed her efforts to grab hold of the Talent, frustrated by her lack of success, and turned her attention to Malachias with a fierce gaze.

  “What do you want?” asked Kaylie, pleased that she had asked the question in a strong, commanding tone, preventing the tremor of fear that ran through her from escaping in her voice.

  “You, child. I want you. But not in the way Daran made plain.” He stepped closer to the bars, his black eyes sucking in the shadows of the cell. “You have a role to play now. One you can play willingly, meaning things go easier for you. Or not, depending on what you decide. Regardless, you will play your part as my master requires. There is no point in attempting to resist. It is better simply to obey.”

  “I will not be a pawn for your master. My father will fight for the Kingdoms no matter my fate.”

  “Your father will die for his treachery!” Rodric pushed himself forward, just inches from the bars. “For what he has done to me!”

  Spittle dribbled down the lips of the former High King as he tried to control his rage. He blamed the Highland Lord and many others for the loss of his throne, and Gregory of Fal Carrach was among them, in fact near the top of the list.

  “He has done nothing to you,” Kaylie replied calmly. “You have done it to yourself.” For a moment, Kaylie considered telling the former High King his daughter’s fate, then thought better of it, not knowing how the obviously mad Rodric would react.

  “Control yourself, Rodric, or you may leave.” Malachias’ soft, scratchy voice made the former High King cringe, and he stepped back to stand beside Chertney. He turned his eyes once more to the Princess of Fal Carrach. “You need to understand the power that you seek to obstruct, child. A power that none can stand against. A power that I will set upon you to achieve my master’s ends, if need be.”

  Biting off the last of his words, Malachias flicked his fingers toward Chertney. A thin trail of black mist surged down Chertney’s throat and his nose before he could defend himself. The inky cloud worked quickly, not even giving the black-clad lord time to scream as it surged through his body and sought to destroy his life force. His eyes bulged in shock, his hands clawing at his chest, tearing apart his clothes, to get at what was ripping through his insides, but to no avail. In seconds, it was over, the light leaving Chertney’s eyes as his frantic movements became sluggish, then stopped altogether as he collapsed to the ash-covered floor. The powerful warlock was no more than a desiccated corpse that resembled a mummy that had been unearthed from an airtight chamber after a thousand years of slumber. Rodric stared in horror, terrified. Malachias had just killed one of the most powerful users of Dark Magic in all the Kingdoms with barely any effort, a fact that was not lost on Kaylie.

  “As I was saying, you have a choice to make. Your father and your Kingdom will be crushed. You must think of more than yourself now that your love is dead.”

  “You don’t know that!” protested Kaylie, though her words sounded hollow, even to herself.

  “Don’t play with me, child. I am more than a man. I can see your heart. The boy is dead, and I will use you to get to your father.” Malachias turned quickly for the exit, Rodric trailing after as if tied by a string. “You do not want to end up like Chertney.”

  “The end is near, child,” he continued, his voice drifting back from farther down the murky hallway. “A new world is taking shape, and it begins tomorrow.”

  45

  Vengeance

  Daran walked down the steep trail cautiously, stopping at odd moments for several minutes at a time to listen and watch for anything out of the ordinary, his eyes scanning his surroundings warily, his senses attuned to the normal goings on of this part of his protectorate. All seemed as it should be as he gazed down upon the hidden valley that was his home. The small cottage that he had built at the very edge of the woods that lined the glade was invisible unless you knew where to look or stumbled upon it by mistake.

  He could have hurried back from his audience at Blackstone. In fact, he desperately wanted to. But he chose to take his time, leaving the Charnel Mountains as quickly as possible by changing into the shape of a hawk and flying across the Northern Steppes but then slowing his journey by transforming back and hiking through the wilderness for several hours, wanting to get a feel for what was around him and needing the time to recover from what had been a terrifying, unsettling experience. He hadn’t actually lied about the Key, but neither had he been entirely truthful. Yes, he had not found the Key. Then again, with his magical barrier collapsing and the Marchers intent on reaching Thomas, even with two Dragas at his back he hadn’t put much effort into looking for the artifact, afraid that it would take too much time and leave him vulnerable to a sword in the belly. He was grateful that the Shadow Lord had accepted his explanation and was surprised that Malachias had supported him. Moreover, he had no doubt that word of his betrayal would spread, the only question being how fast. Would he have time to complete his other tasks before he was discovered? He hoped so. Regardless, he was certain that this would be his last visit to the cottage that he had called home for centuries. Now was the time to move on and not be tied t
o any one place for long, as no doubt his former friends would be intent on exacting their revenge upon him, assuming any survived the coming onslaught.

  When he reached the valley floor, he stood at the fringe of the forest for almost an hour. Silent, unmoving, he searched for anything out of place with and without the Talent, anything that would suggest that he wasn’t alone. That his master may have decided on a different course for him, a deadlier course, passed through his mind repeatedly. But he told himself that was foolish, that there was nothing to worry about. If his master wanted him out of the way, there was no better time to do it then when he stood before him in Blackstone.

  Finally satisfied that all was as it should be at his home, Daran breathed a sigh of relief. He stepped from between the trees, walking quickly toward his cottage. He needed to find out when the Sylvana would gather, then share that with his master. Once the Shadow Lord had that information, his master could address the only real threat to his plan for conquering the Kingdoms and, with luck, eliminate the Sylvana with a single blow. If Daran didn’t succeed in obtaining the desired information, well, then maybe his fears would come to pass. Perhaps his usefulness would come to an end in the eyes of his master. But there was no point in worrying about that now. He had work to do.

  Using the Talent, Daran removed the magical protections that he had placed on his cabin, pleased to discover that nothing had disturbed his wards during his absence. His traps would have alerted him. When he pushed open the door and stood backlit in the waning afternoon light, he realized his mistake too late.

  “Have you been here long?”

  “Long enough.”

  “How did you get past my defenses?”

  “An easy task. Remember, I was the one who taught you the ways of the Talent. I was the one who showed you the ways of the Sylvana.”

  “And for that I’m thankful.”

  “But that wasn’t enough for you.”

  Daran closed his eyes in resignation, sighing. “No, it wasn’t.”

  Rynlin Keldragan rose from the bench he had waited upon, his tall presence filling up the small cabin. He looked at his former protégé with disgust, his eyes burning brightly with anger, his posture menacing.

  “Thomas lives, Daran. Your master will not be happy.”

  “No, he won’t,” Daran agreed. A bolt of cold fear shot through the red-haired Sylvan Warrior. He shook his head in acceptance of his failure. That news wasn’t really as surprising as it should have been. He had watched Thomas grow up, he knew his strength. If any could live through such an attack, it was him. But that information was more than disheartening. It was a death sentence for Daran, and it sapped his will like wine draining from a newly opened cask. He was stuck between the Sylvana and the Shadow Lord, now having betrayed both. His death was assured. It was just a question of which threat would get to him first.

  Daran thought to lie, to extricate himself from what was an unwinnable situation. But he saw no escape route. No way to turn the situation to his advantage. No way to push the blame somewhere else.

  “What did he promise you?”

  For several long moments, Daran refused to look at the forbidding visage that stared down at him. It took all of his strength to force his eyes to his former mentor. But still he couldn’t speak.

  “Riches? Power? Everlasting life? After all these years I would think that you would know the truth of what you have committed yourself to. What you have betrayed your brothers and sisters for.”

  “It was a losing cause,” whispered Daran, suddenly tired, as if he finally felt the many years of betrayal weighing down upon him. “The Sylvana are decreasing in number. It’s just a matter of time before all are destroyed. You’ve seen what power the Shadow Lord holds! You’ve seen the forces that he controls!”

  Rynlin looked at his former pupil with pity. “You’ve been consumed by your fears, Daran.”

  “I have been consumed by reality, Rynlin! No one can stand against the Dark Horde! Not this time! Rather than die in some pointless battle, I shall live and enjoy the bounty the Shadow Lord has promised me. Or at least I would have.” With this last outburst, it seemed that all of Daran’s strength fled him, his body sagging as if he were about to collapse to the rough-hewn floor.

  “Yes, we are fewer in number.” Rynlin’s voice was quiet but harder than steel. “We have lost several Sylvan Warriors in recent years. I believe we have you to thank for that.”

  Daran cringed at the claim, not bothering to rebut the charge. There was nothing he could say that would change the truth of his former mentor’s words.

  “But that doesn’t mean we will give up. That we will surrender to a fate over which we have no control.” Rynlin’s voice was filled with contempt. “We will not do as you have done, placing your fate in the hands of a creature that cares only for itself. That views you simply as a pawn, as a means to an end.”

  Daran laughed. “You think you can win? That you can defeat the Shadow Lord and his Dark Horde?”

  Rynlin looked at Daran with a cold smile, now questioning why he had taken such great pains to help Daran achieve his goal of becoming a Sylvan Warrior so many centuries before. The betrayal hurt, but Rynlin refused to let it show. The harm sustained by his grandson made him hurt even more and filled him with a rage that he could barely contain.

  “Who can say?” said Rynlin. “The only certainty is that we still retain our free will, something that you have given up. We still have the ability to decide for ourselves how our end might come. Yours has already been determined, whether you know it or not.”

  “Maybe so,” replied Daran with a weary resignation. “But that doesn’t mean I have to die today.”

  A blast of Dark Magic shot from Daran’s hand, straight for Rynlin, who took hold of the Talent just in time, crafting a swirling mist of white energy that took in the darkness. The two magics spun around each other, sparking when they touched, until slowly the white light of the Talent exerted its dominance over the Dark Magic, changing it, consuming it, until the black disappeared. Through it all, Rynlin’s stony eyes stared at Daran.

  “That’s the best that you can do?” asked Rynlin, contempt dripping from his voice. The deadness in his tone made Daran’s blood run cold. He had hoped that a sudden attack would give him an advantage, but it was not to be.

  “No, I can do much better,” snarled Daran, realizing that the next few minutes would determine if he lived or died.

  In a matter of seconds, Daran released more than a dozen shards of black energy aimed for his adversary. But even that couldn’t break through the shield that Rynlin had created. Each fragment of Dark Magic slammed into the swirling white energy with no effect, but the speed of the assault meant that Rynlin couldn’t do as he had done previously, seeking to convert Daran’s Dark Magic for his own purposes. Instead, all he could do was deflect the continuous attacks, and because of that Daran’s cottage paid the ultimate price. Each shard of black energy that struck the shield was deflected and slammed into the house, destroying walls, windows or ceiling, whatever it came into contact with. Within seconds, two walls had collapsed, and the roof had been blown off, leaving gaping holes that allowed in the last light of the day.

  Daran knew that he had no choice but to continue his attack, having no good means of escape. If he wanted to live, he had to defeat his opponent.

  “You were always so full of yourself,” said Rynlin. “Always so sure of yourself, as if the rules of the world never really applied to you.”

  “Stop talking, old man. I don’t need to listen to your pronouncements anymore. The lectures that would drag on and on. Stupefyingly so. How much of my life I wasted having to listen to you drone on I can’t even measure. So much of my life stolen from me.”

  Rynlin smiled at Daran, knowing what his former pupil sought to do. Irritate him. Distract him. Daran wanted to see if his goading could lead him into a mistake. But not now. Not when thoughts of his grandson remained foremost in his mind.

/>   “True,” agreed Rynlin. “You have wasted your life. But you have only yourself to blame.”

  The sharpness of Rynlin’s words seemed to strike the traitorous Sylvan Warrior like a physical blow. Before Daran could respond, a stream of white energy surged from Rynlin’s hands, cascading over Daran, who formed a shell of Dark Magic around himself right before the Talent struck.

  “You cannot defeat me, old man,” screamed Daran, as he fought to maintain control over the thin barrier of Dark Magic that he had formed around himself for protection. “I learned everything you taught me. And then the Shadow Lord gave me even more power and knowledge. More than even you can comprehend.” Despite his taunt, it was all that Daran could do to withstand Rynlin’s attack. The shell that he had crafted so quickly had begun to shrink, tightening around him.

  “There’s where you’re wrong,” said Rynlin, his deep blue eyes sparkling with malice. “Because I didn’t teach you everything that I know.”

  Rynlin’s gaze turned to stone as he increased the power that he commanded through the Talent, expanding the stream of energy that surged around Daran so that it compressed the shield until it began to crush down upon the red-haired traitor, forcing him to his knees. Daran tried desperately to maintain his defenses, but there was nothing that he could do. Rynlin was too strong for him, too knowledgeable, too implacable. Slowly, inch by inch, the blazing white energy ate into his shield, tightening around him even more, until he started to feel the first few pinpricks of pain as barely visible darts of white energy slashed through his shield and cut into him. That first jolt of pain shook Daran’s concentration, and that one second of lost control proved to be the end, as those initial pinpricks became a swarm of daggerlike thrusts of white energy into Daran’s body. First in his chest, then his back, his thighs, his arms. Rynlin refused to let up, the white-hot energy blasting through the last few remnants of Daran’s shield until the only thing that could be seen was a man-shaped figure that had collapsed to the floor of the cabin surrounded by a blinding white nimbus.