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

by Wacht, Peter

  Daran wanted to scream, pain wracking his body, every prick of energy making him feel as if he were being torn apart one cell at a time. Terror rose up within him as he realized that his own demise was near. And it was then that Daran understood his mistake. He had always thought that in the end the Shadow Lord would be the cause of his death. He had just never considered that it could happen in this way, at the hands of a man he had once considered to be his mentor and friend.

  46

  Watching Eyes

  Catal Huyuk lay quietly among the burnt rocks, tired and worn from his exertions of the last month. As each day passed the stress had increased. The hours, sometimes days, of hiding, knowing that a single wrong move would mean his demise. Several escapes that brought him closer to death than he would have preferred. Such as the time when an Ogren had risen from where it had been sitting against a tree, Catal Huyuk having stood right next to the dark creature for almost an hour while hidden in the brush, barely breathing, his hand gripping the handle of his axe, not wanting to kill the beast since that increased the chances of his being discovered. It had been the longest wait of his life, and he had breathed a huge sigh of relief when the massive creature had finally moved deeper into the forest. But he didn’t have time to think about all that had occurred. It had seemed a blur that began in the mountains of Kenmare with Thomas and his Marchers and had concluded here at the doorstep to the Shadow Lord’s domain.

  It had all started when he had held that tight, twisting path for several hours, keeping back the Mongrels, Ogren and Shades to give Thomas and his Marchers time to escape the mountains of Kenmare and continue on their quest to the west. Once the Shades realized the futility of attacking him in such a defensible space, and that they had little hope of catching the Marchers, the dark creatures had withdrawn, allowing Catal Huyuk to make his own escape and head back to the Charnel Mountains to continue with the task that Rynlin had assigned him.

  His leathers camouflaged him from searching eyes, and there were many of those to worry about. First it was the Dragas, a flight of six drifting in lazy circles, followed by a pack of Mongrels, the monstrous beasts the size of ponies and sprinting through the pass he monitored every hour of the day. Had been watching, in fact, for more than a week.

  He knew that he had made the right decision, thinking that the pass that offered the most direct route from Blackstone to the Northern Steppes would be the one used, the one that the Dark Horde had used once before. The Knife’s Edge. The pass led directly south from Blackstone through a gorge the sheer sides of which rose thousands of feet in height. Once in the pass the Dark Horde would be protected from attack until they exited where the trail narrowed to a tip that led from the border of the Charnel Mountains to the lowlands. From there, it was just a daylong hike onto the Northern Steppes. Rynlin had told the massive Sylvan Warrior that he expected the Shadow Lord to release his Dark Horde in a matter of days. Unfortunately, his friend had been right. He had seen the signs of increased activity, Ogren and Shade scouts following the trail. And then a few Ogren war bands to test the way. Only a few more minutes passed before he saw the vanguard of the Shadow Lord’s host. The war party of Ogren, led by their Shades, tramped through the pass almost a half mile below him in a steady, earth-shaking pounding, their rusted, blackened sword blades and spear points barely gleaming in the weak light of the Charnel Mountains.

  Catal Huyuk waited just a few more minutes for the next Ogren war party of several thousand dark creatures to march below him, satisfied now that the Shadow Lord’s primary assault had begun, that this wasn’t a diversion, for he had no doubt that the Shadow Lord knew that the Sylvana were here in the mountains, watching all the approaches that led to the Northern Steppes.

  Yet that didn’t seem to matter to the Lord of the Shadow. Based on the size of the main host Catal Huyuk now watched begin to make its way through the pass from his position on the slope looking down into the gap, apparently the Shadow Lord didn’t fear watching eyes. He probably didn’t fear much of anything.

  Staying low, Catal Huyuk slowly slid behind the lip of his hiding place, not standing until he was certain that the creatures in the pass could not see him from below or the Dragas flying in tight circles over the Knife’s Edge from above. He would need to be careful of the Dragas and the Mongrels, but he wasn’t worried. He had been fighting dark creatures for centuries, and he was already well versed in the terrain surrounding the Knife’s Edge thanks to the last few weeks and his adventures when he was younger, when the Shadow Lord first attacked the Kingdoms.

  It was the sound of rocks skittering behind him that saved his life. Catal Huyuk ducked and then rolled, the rusted black blade slicing through the air where his head had just been, cutting instead into the rocky slope the Sylvan Warrior had just scrambled down. But that didn’t stop the Shade from continuing its attack, its milky white eyes tracking the large fighter’s movements as the dark creature twisted around like a snake and lunged, slashed, then lunged again, each time Catal Huyuk evading the assault with a speed that no man his size had the right to attain.

  The Sylvan Warrior fought the urge to take a quick glance over his shoulder, fearing that Ogren might be preparing to stab him in the back, for where there was a Shade there tended to be several of the monstrous dark creatures. But he couldn’t take the risk. The Shade, its movement sinuous, fluid, almost mesmerizing, was too fast, too deadly. Catal Huyuk sought to gain some space to catch his breath and pull free his battle axe, but the Shade wouldn’t permit it. Following after the Sylvan Warrior with a dogged tenacity, the Shade forced Catal Huyuk to continue to retreat farther down the steep slope. As the speed of the dark creature’s slashes and lunges increased, the blackened blade, from which a single touch meant death, came closer and closer, the Sylvan Warrior dodging, weaving as best as he could as he jumped down onto a narrow trail that limited his options for escaping the Shade. The dark creature dropped down after him, his blade a web of swirling steel that sought to cut into the Sylvan Warrior’s flesh as the Shade tracked him along the tight path. Catal Huyuk knew that eventually, and likely sooner rather than later if the trail continued to tighten, his luck would run out. He needed to turn the tables quickly. Otherwise, he was a dead man.

  The loose rock beneath his feet gave him the idea for what to do. The next time the Shade lunged, its blade skimming across the leather armor that protected the Sylvan Warrior’s left side, Catal Huyuk allowed his left foot to slide back, then continued the movement to fall to one knee. The Shade, its milky white eyes showing no emotion, sensed victory with the stumble, turning the blade inhumanly fast to slash down on the Sylvan Warrior’s exposed neck. But Catal Huyuk had been expecting that, had wanted the Shade to do just that. As soon as the blade came sweeping toward his head, he collapsed to his side and swung his left leg behind him. The impact of Catal Huyuk’s boot slammed the Shade into the rock wall that lined the trail. Before the dark creature could recover from the shock of the blow, Catal Huyuk was up on his feet, a foot-long dagger driven into the back of the dark creature’s neck.

  The Sylvan Warrior remained standing behind the dead Shade, his dagger keeping the dark creature in place, as he listened. Other than the screech from a distant Dragas, the only sound Catal Huyuk heard came from the wind whistling along the trail and kicking up the blackened ash for which the peaks he was among had been named. Satisfied that the duel had not attracted the attention of any other scouts of the Dark Horde, he stepped back and allowed the Shade to slide to the ground. Kneeling down, the Sylvan Warrior used the Shade’s cloak to clean the blood from his dagger and then return the weapon to its sheath on his thigh.

  Catal Huyuk breathed deeply several times, trying to release the adrenaline that ran through his body. He said a silent prayer to a long forgotten god, thankful not only that he had survived, but also that the clash of steel had not drawn the attention of any other dark creatures serving in the advance screen for the Dark Horde.

  Picking a fight
hadn’t been his goal, but sometimes it couldn’t be avoided. He trotted down the slope to the south, his mind once more focused on his most important task. He needed to get to the Breaker before the Dark Horde and rally the Kingdoms. For the first time since the Great War, the Dark Horde marched for the south.

  47

  The Horde Marches

  Rynlin stepped from the trees, a tall, gray shadow in the fading evening light. The Marchers Oso had placed on guard normally would have shown more concern if such an imposing figure had simply appeared in their midst. But they knew Rynlin was Thomas’ grandfather and that he had many of the same unique skills as their lord. Besides, several wolf packs now surrounded their small camp at the verge of the mountains as an additional guard, the large animals ranging for leagues around, so Oso had little fear of being taken by surprise.

  Rya stood when her husband approached, appearing strangely uncertain. She had been forcing Thomas to sip from a light broth so that he could regain his strength. Though no physical wound showed from his combat with Daran and Malachias, he was exhausted, coming so close to dying that he was halfway over the edge and about to slip down into a pitch-black abyss from which he’d never emerge if not for his grandmother’s intervention. Rya kept telling him that the only way to recover was to eat and rest. Good advice, but it didn’t appeal to him knowing that Malachias had taken Kaylie. He didn’t have time to wait until he felt stronger. He could sense events speeding up, and he needed to get ahead of them. He needed to move. The tug, the unseen force that was pulling him toward Blackstone, had increased with such intensity that it felt like an ache in his chest.

  “Daran?” she asked hesitantly.

  “No longer a threat,” Rynlin said quietly. His voice was hard, though Rya detected a note of regret. The statement saddened Rya, but she knew that Daran’s end was necessary and deserved. “There’s something else.”

  Thomas had pushed himself up to a standing position from where his grandmother had made him lie down. Rynlin didn’t even notice, still surprised, after all this time, of how quietly his grandson could move.

  Rynlin sighed. He had hoped for more time. More time for Thomas to recover. More time for the Kingdoms to prepare. But in his mind the words of the prophecy kept running as if on a broken reel, gaining speed and force with each passing second.

  Thousands of years of predictions, of truths shaded in mystery, were hurtling rapidly toward a point of impact. Toward a specific time where no further predictions or prophecies had been made. Where the result of this one event, the meeting between the Lord of the Shadow and the Defender of the Light, would set a new course for the history of the Kingdoms. Whether the result would fall in black or white, as one of the lines of the prophecy foretold, lay balanced as if on a scale. The slightest push to either side would lead to a distinct future. But which future? That was the greatest, most frightening unknown.

  “I got word from Catal Huyuk. The Dark Horde comes. The Shadow Lord’s army will be through the Charnel Mountains by daybreak.”

  “So it comes to pass.” Oso had joined them, Beluil coming up as well, nudging Thomas with his snout, almost as if in admonition for not obeying his grandmother.

  Thomas stood there silently, leaning against his longest friend and running his fingers through Beluil’s thick fur. He turned his gaze to the northeast. He could sense the Shadow Lord, knew that his nemesis remained secure in his mountain fortress in the once vibrant but now dead city of Blackstone. He fingered the Key, which he had attached to his Sylvan Warrior necklace. Using the Talent to conceal it from those who might seek to regain it had worked better than he had expected, as neither Daran nor Malachias had sensed the magic that he had applied to the steel Key to hide it in plain sight. A trick he was quite familiar with and had employed for the first time during his escape from the Crag when he stood in the river and hid behind a screen made of the Talent from the reivers who pursued him. He pushed those memories to the side, recognizing that their popping into his thoughts now was a sign of the fatigue that plagued him, a heavy weariness having settled into his mind and body. He admitted reluctantly that his grandmother was right. He needed to rest. But not now. Not with the Dark Horde on the march and preparing to descend on the Kingdoms. He knew what came next, what he had to do. He understood the risk as well. But perhaps even if he couldn’t save himself, he could at least save Kaylie.

  “The Shadow Lord thinks that I’m dead. I’ll have to disabuse him of that notion.”

  “Even if you make it to Blackstone safely,” said Rya, her concern obvious, “you’re not strong enough right now to use the Talent to transform into a kestrel and fly. And even if you could make use of the Talent in that way right now, by the time you arrived, you wouldn’t have the strength to fight the Shadow Lord, at least not with any chance of surviving the encounter.”

  “He won’t have to,” interrupted Rynlin.

  He had seen the movement among the wolf packs, the large wolves shifting, creating a path out of respect for the animal that trotted toward them now.

  Acero, the unicorn that had selected Thomas following his elevation to Sylvan Warrior, came to a stop just a few feet away. Thomas stepped forward, gingerly, his legs still finding their way beneath him. He rubbed Acero’s nose with affection, enjoying the calm that filled him as he massaged the massive animal’s black coat. Acero nuzzled Thomas, then stepped back. Carefully, Acero lowered his twisting black horn, almost nine feet in length, Thomas reaching out with his fingers and touching the sharp point.

  Instead of the flash of memories as had happened when the two had first bonded, Thomas instead felt a jolt, like a sharp charge that filled the air during a thunderstorm in the Highlands. A feeling of warmth swept through him, draining away his exhaustion, replacing it with a renewed energy, as his friend shared his own power with him. Though still not back to full strength, Thomas felt more like himself now. Reaching out for the Talent, the natural magic of the world surged within him, giving him the confidence that he needed in his weakened state that he could take the next step, the one that would put the prophecy to the test. Thomas smiled, hugging Acero’s broad neck in thanks.

  “Thomas, you still don’t need to rush off,” urged Rya. “I know why you want to. I understand. I truly do. But don’t allow your emotion to get in the way of your reason.”

  “I do need to,” Thomas replied, smiling softly. “I can’t leave Kaylie there. You’re right. That is a key motivation. But, as I said, the Shadow Lord likely believes that I’m dead. Malachias and Daran would not return to Blackstone if they didn’t believe it to be so. I need to make use of that belief for as long as I can.”

  Rya closed her eyes in reluctant acceptance. Not because of how Thomas had answered her. She had expected that, knowing her grandson. And he was right. He did need to take advantage of the unforeseen opportunity that he’d been given. What upset her was that time had run out. The day that she had been dreading ever since Thomas had confirmed that he was the Defender of the Light was almost upon them, and she was afraid that as a result she was going to lose her grandson.

  “You’re right, Thomas. I just don’t like it.”

  Thomas stepped away from Acero, giving his grandmother a long hug before turning his gaze back toward the Charnel Mountains and Blackstone.

  “In the past, the Sylvan Warriors have defended the Kingdoms, using the Breaker as their primary defense,” said Thomas. “But not this time.”

  Rynlin grinned wickedly. “No, this time we’ll take the fight to the Shadow Lord and give you the distraction that you need. The Kingdoms can hold for a time without us. Gregory knows what he needs to do.”

  Rya nodded, agreeing with the logic of the plan, though the worry for her grandson stayed with her.

  “When do you leave?” asked Rya.

  “As soon as the sun sets.”

  “We’ll be there when you need us,” said Rynlin. “Have no fear of that.”

  48

  Defiance


  Kaylie leaned her head back against the hard rock of her cell, the dark penetrated only by a grey ray of light from the slit high above her that offered her the only evidence that there was life beyond her stone and steel enclosure. She sat there miserably in the quiet and cold, but thankfully alone. When Malachias had left, Chertney’s body had remained, a reminder of the power that the Shadow Lord’s servant wielded. But as the hours passed that reminder had faded until only a pile of black ash clumped on the floor. She had pulled her knees to her chest, making herself as small as possible. She told herself that it was to keep warm, but she couldn’t lie to herself, not completely. She knew, in part, that it was her reaction to the fear that coursed within her and threatened to paralyze her. A fear that she struggled to control.

  All the terrifying stories that she had heard about the Shadow Lord ran through her mind on a continuous loop. They played upon her fears, eating away at her. No matter what she tried, she couldn’t force them out, couldn’t lock them away. Only her thoughts of Thomas interrupted the flow, and then only briefly. When that happened, sadness and grief crushed the breath from her.

  “You don’t have to be here, child.” The whisper sounded like a shout because of the silence of the cell.

  Kaylie looked up sharply. The Shadow Lord stood before her, in the cell, his looming, dark presence sucking all the light from the room, but for the blood red of his burning eyes. She averted her gaze, fearing to look for more than a second.

  “Your love is gone, yes, but your father remains. So all is not lost.”

  Her fears increased as his words washed over her. How did he know what she had been thinking? Once again, she reached for the Talent, yearning to feel the warmth of the natural magic of the world flow within her. But as with every other time that she had tried to grab hold of the Talent during the past day, she failed. It was as if a glass wall had been built around her. She had assumed that the Shadow Lord’s Dark Magic was the reason, and it was. But she didn’t realize that the Shadow Lord was also the true cause of the fears and uncertainties that threatened to paralyze her. That he was seeking to turn her to his purpose through the subtle manipulation of his Dark Magic playing with her mind.