by Wacht, Peter
“Your father will want to help you, child. I know that he loves you. He’ll want to keep you safe. Keep you healthy and whole.”
Kaylie closed her eyes, trying to push his words away. But they seeped through her, finding breaks in the walls that she tried to erect around her consciousness.
“He won’t accede to your wishes, no matter what you do to me,” she replied with some heat, trying to ignore the pressure building in her head that was turning into a debilitating pain. “He won’t sell his Kingdom, himself, for me.”
Kaylie lifted her eyes, defiance blazing in her strong gaze. She remembered how Thomas had acted when he was Rodric’s prisoner not so long ago in Tinnakilly. The calm attitude and hard stare. The lack of emotion. She adopted it for her own.
“A brave face, child. You are to be commended. But I know what’s in your heart.”
The Shadow Lord drifted closer, his wispy robes almost touching her, blood-red eyes peering down at her. Kaylie cringed inwardly, fighting desperately to maintain her calm outward demeanor.
“You have power, child. I can feel it. It would be a pity to waste it. It would be a pity to waste your life. To give up all that you could attain. All that you could become.”
The Shadow Lord enjoyed toying with people, having a unique knack for finding their weaknesses, then turning those chinks to his advantage. Though Kaylie was tired and worn, and clearly she struggled to maintain her composure and focus, the Shadow Lord had yet to find what he needed to break through her defenses. He had been playing with her fears for the past day in an attempt to soften the Princess of Fal Carrach but with little success. Now he tried a different tack.
The visions in Kaylie’s mind changed. The fear fled from her. At first Kaylie thought that she had succeeded, that she had won. But then she realized that wasn’t the case. That her fears had been replaced with something else. The visions began again, but this time they filled her with hope and pleasure. She saw herself at the height of her powers, a master of the Talent, stronger even than Thomas. Able to do things that no one else had ever tried or thought to do with the natural magic of the world. The visions increased in pace, her future triumphs and victories speeding through her consciousness.
“Think of it, child. The power you currently control. What it could be. What I can show you. What I can teach you. You could be the most powerful woman in the Talent in the history of the Kingdoms. Think of what you could do. What you could accomplish for Fal Carrach. For your people. For yourself.”
Her defenses became brittle, threatening to shatter, the Shadow Lord’s words sliding across her walls, seeking a crack, searching for a way through. Kaylie shut her eyes, biting her tongue. She knew what the Shadow Lord hoped to accomplish, understood it in her heart and soul, yet her desire to fight back waned. Her resistance began to fracture, to fail, but then she relaxed, allowing the tension to subside within her. An image of Thomas came to mind, strengthening her, calming her, giving her the inner faith she needed to rebuild her defenses.
“Your promises are no more solid than the wind,” Kaylie whispered, refusing to look into the Shadow Lord’s eyes. “You will never have me.”
The Shadow Lord stood there quietly, staring down at the Princess of Fal Carrach for several minutes, letting the silence build, his blood-red eyes blazing in the darkness.
“We shall see, child. We shall see.”
49
Ambush
The Ogren war party, more than a thousand strong, and one of dozens now trotting across the burnt grasslands of the Northern Steppes, felt the rumble beneath their feet, the land seemingly protesting their passage, but they ignored it. Instead, the beasts focused on the orders of the Shades that led them, the men, or what once had been men, covered in black, their faces hidden, only their milky white eyes visible beneath their black cowls. The Shades had a simple purpose. Force the Ogren toward the Breaker and the lands of men. One or two of the Ogren looked back and saw the rays of sunlight that shot down toward Blackstone, hidden in part by the peaks of the Charnel Mountains, the beams of white coinciding with the shaking ground. But just as soon as the light appeared, it was gone, swallowed up once more by the murky grey and burnt ash that dominated the landscape.
The tall grass, dry and dead where Ogren and other dark creatures had passed before, green still visible where the minions of the Shadow Lord had not yet trod, rose to the chests of the towering Ogren, some of the dark creatures almost ten feet in height. The Shades always followed the Ogren on the Northern Steppes, in part to maintain control, but also so that the Ogren created a path through the tall grass, making their passage that much easier. The problem for the dark creatures was that such an approach limited their vision as they made their way across the Northern Steppes, the Shades unable to see to the front beyond the broad backs of their charges or to the sides because of the encroaching veld. That fact was well known by their enemies, who planned to turn it to their advantage.
The movement within the high grass that tracked the Ogren war party was virtually invisible. The strong wind playing across the grass masked their approach. Moreover, the attackers were patient. There was no need to rush. Mortal enemies of all dark creatures, they knew what they were about. They knew the weaknesses of their prey, how to kill the beasts while minimizing the risk of injury to themselves. Perhaps most important, they knew that they had the edge.
The two Shades assigned to this war party trotted behind their charges, enjoying the ease of their passage, the massive Ogren flattening the tall grass for them. They concentrated on maintaining order among these unruly beasts, keeping them pointed toward the massive wall that could just now be seen off in the distance as a black smudge that gained greater clarity with each passing league. They were the advance of the Dark Horde, charged by their master with scouting the Steppes as the other, larger war parties followed after them.
The Shades were so intent on their task that they missed the flash of motion to their flanks, and by then it was too late. Two large shapes leapt out from the grass on each side onto the backs of the Shades, driving them into the soft earth. Before the dark creatures could raise the alarm, sharp teeth bit into their necks, killing them.
The two wolves, one grey, the other white, shook their bloody maws in an attempt to remove as much of the dark, bitter ichor as possible. The blood of dark creatures left a terrible taste. They watched as the Ogren war party continued to push forward through the grass, unaware that their leaders had been eliminated. The two wolves trotted after the Ogren, sensing their brothers and sisters in the grass around them, moving closer, preparing to strike.
Their leader, Beluil, had been explicit on how to attack the war parties. Take the shadow men first, the massive wolf had communicated. Then the Ogren would not fight together. Instead, they would fight on their own, making the wolves’ task that much easier. The wolves had listened to Beluil. He was brother to the Raptor, and all the wolves knew of the Raptor. The man who killed dark creatures with a savagery that matched their own. The man who was likely part wolf, they liked to think.
A roar of fright broke through the quiet, interrupting the sound of the wind sifting through the tall grass. Then another, and another, followed by even more until the ragged cries seemed to form into a single shriek that tore across the grassland. The Ogren war party, once so orderly, had stopped, dozens of the large beasts having disappeared, wild thrashing taking place in the long grass and then stopping suddenly. The Ogren still standing had pulled their weapons. They knew that they were in danger, but they had yet to identify the threat. As more and more Ogren disappeared, pulled down in the tall grass, the massive beasts began to swing their weapons wildly around them whenever they caught a sign of movement, many striking their compatriots in their panic and aiding their attackers in their work.
The two wolves that trailed the Ogren sprinted forward, using the long grass to hide themselves as they joined the fray. Their brothers and sisters had sprung the trap, the fear of the Ogr
en making their work easier. Now the two wolves wanted more kills, and they knew that they only had a few minutes to achieve their objective, for their wolf pack was thorough when faced with the task of killing dark creatures. Beluil had given them the responsibility of destroying as many Ogren war parties as possible before they reached the Breaker, and they would do that with a speed and violence their prey could not defend against. The Raptor had asked for their help, and they would give it. Besides, killing dark creatures was in their blood.
50
Broken Traditions
Dusk approached, long shadows stretching out from the stone columns that ringed the plateau named Athala’s Forge, all seeming to connect at some point to the east. Rynlin stood on the Pinnacle. The stone in the center of all the others, steps cut into its base, towered over the columns. He waited. Perhaps not patiently, but he waited, nonetheless.
He had called the Sylvana to the Circle, and they had come from all the Kingdoms, from the Distant Islands in the west to Benewyn in the east. Now he needed them to act, to do something that they had never done before, for time was short and the future of the Kingdoms hung in the balance. When the sun touched the western horizon and began to sink below the peaks, Catal Huyuk finally emerged from between the stone columns, his massive battle axe strapped to his back along with his sword. He looked tired, worn, but that was to be expected. He had been given a dangerous task, and he had accomplished it.
“My friends,” said Rynlin. “The time is upon us. The Kingdoms who remember have been roused. Their soldiers either stand at the Breaker or make their way there now, for the Shadow Lord’s Dark Horde approaches. Now it is time for us to once again take up the responsibility that has been ours for more than a thousand years, to defend against the Shadow Lord and his minions.”
“You have seen the Dark Horde?” asked Tiro, the portly Sylvan Warrior agitated.
He had learned of Daran’s treachery upon arriving at the Circle, and it had struck him in his very soul. If their greatest enemy could corrupt a Sylvan Warrior, what could they do to defeat the Lord of the Shadow?
“I have,” rumbled Catal Huyuk. “Rynlin gave me the task of watching the Charnel Mountains. The Horde began its march yesterday through the Knife’s Edge. I would think that by now the advance war parties are halfway across the Northern Steppes.”
“Then we go to the Breaker,” said Brinn Kavolin, a tall Sylvan Warrior with a short, pointy beard. “The Kingdoms will need us.”
“They will need us, yes,” said Rya, who had stepped up next to her husband at the top of the Pinnacle. “But one of our own needs us more.”
“What do you mean?” asked Brinn.
“Thomas has found the Key,” said Rya. “He goes to Blackstone as we speak to challenge the Shadow Lord.”
Murmurs rose up around the Circle, the Sylvan Warriors startled by the news. They knew of the Key, what it supposedly allowed you to do. But to go to Blackstone on his own? No one had ever survived an encounter with the Shadow Lord. Why was the newest and youngest Sylvan Warrior so anxious to press the matter?
Sensing their unease, Rynlin quickly stepped forward, his voice clearly heard throughout the Circle.
“We all know the prophecy, that the fate of the Kingdoms hangs in the balance. And we know that the Defender of the Light is the only one able to fight the Lord of the Shadow and have any hope of success, no matter how small it may be. Thomas has found the Key, so he can gain access to Blackstone. It confirms that Thomas is the Defender of the Light.”
“Yes, as we expected he was. But even if Thomas gets into Blackstone, he can’t take on the Shadow Lord by himself. No one is strong enough to do that. And he’ll be surrounded by enemies. Even with the Dark Horde crossing the Northern Steppes dark creatures will remain in that cursed city. They’ll cut him down before he can challenge the Shadow Lord.” Tiro shook his head in dismay, already having worked out in his own mind Thomas’ inevitable demise, and with it the hopes of the Kingdoms.
“That’s why if he is to succeed, he needs our help. Thomas enters Blackstone at first light. We must be there with him.”
“What do you mean?” huffed Tiro, unable to contemplate such an unorthodox suggestion. “Attack Blackstone? Attack the Shadow Lord with the Dark Horde descending upon the Breaker? That’s madness.”
“That’s necessity,” responded Rynlin. “Gregory of Fal Carrach leads the Kingdoms at the Breaker. He knows what must be done, and he will do it. He will hold for as long as he can. But we must help Thomas. We must help the Defender of the Light.”
“But that is not what we have done in the past,” said Tiro, still clearly flustered by the idea that Thomas had presented to him months before. “That is not part of our tradition.”
“We have held to our traditions for too long,” argued Rynlin. “Times have changed. The Shadow Lord has changed his strategy. He has corrupted the rulers of several Kingdoms. He has the former High King in the palm of his hand. And he has turned one of us to his evil ways.” The last reminder ended the murmurs that had begun below the Pinnacle, the expressions of the Sylvan Warriors darkening. “The Shadow Lord expects us to fight at the Breaker. That’s why he sends the Dark Horde. We must change our strategy if we are to succeed. It is time for us to play our part. It is time for us to take the battle to Blackstone. We must act!”
“It sounds to me like you’re simply trying to protect your grandson,” Tiro replied weakly, seeking any excuse to keep the Sylvana to what they had done before to defend against the Shadow Lord.
“Indeed we are,” said Rya coolly, her eyes burning brightly with anger. “And we are trying to assist the Defender of the Light. You know the prophecy, Tiro. We all do. Whether we like it or not, the time is upon us. There is no prophecy for what comes next. No one has defeated the Shadow Lord in single combat, so I do not know if my grandson will survive. But I will do everything possible to ensure that he does. Remember, in addition to my grandson’s fate, the fate of the Kingdoms rests on what occurs tomorrow. History can no longer be our guide. We must make a new history.”
“Would you ignore a Sylvan Warrior in need?” asked Rynlin, his quiet voice carrying across the small plateau. “Would you leave him to his doom knowing that you could have done something to help?”
“We would not,” grumbled Catal Huyuk, staring daggers at Tiro, who wilted under the gaze. Catal Huyuk usually said little during these councils, so when he felt the need to speak the others listened. “We have all seen the signs. We know what is coming even if we don’t want to acknowledge it. We must help Thomas. What I saw of the Dark Horde this morning reminds me of what we faced in the Great War. But that doesn’t matter. Thomas is our only hope against the Shadow Lord. Waiting at the Breaker as we’ve done in the past does nothing for him. Even if we hold the Dark Horde for a time at the Breaker, if Thomas doesn’t destroy the Shadow Lord, if he can’t even fight the Shadow Lord, it won’t matter. We must make for Blackstone. Otherwise, we are doomed.”
“We barely stand a chance now,” complained Tiro. “Our numbers continue to dwindle.”
“That can’t be argued,” said Catal Huyuk. “But though our numbers have decreased, our power has increased. Have you not sensed the strength in Thomas? The opportunity that he creates for us? We must use his strength and combine it with our own. We must help him.”
The other Sylvan Warriors nodded their heads or murmured their agreement, believing in the truth of their massive friend’s words.
“Then what would you suggest?” asked Tiro, turning his attention to Rynlin.
“We do what we do best,” he replied simply.
“And what would that be?”
“We kill dark creatures,” said Catal Huyuk. “We ride for Blackstone.”
“So you want us to attack the Shadow Lord in his lair!” demanded Tiro. “We’re not ready for that. That has never been done before. Thomas or no, this still seems madness to me.”
“Traditions are made to be broken,” said Ry
a. “And now is the time. Just because we’ve never done it doesn’t mean it can’t be done.”
Tiro was about to offer another excuse, but the words died in his mouth. Always before when the Sylvan Warriors were to ride into battle, they would summon their mounts from the Valley of the Unicorns, which was hidden not too far from the Circle. Such had been the way since the Sylvan Warriors first came to be. But to Tiro’s shock and amazement, the unicorns were trotting up from their valley of their own volition.
The other Sylvan Warriors followed Tiro’s gaze, also astounded by the sight. The unicorns stopped at the edge of the Circle, finding their Sylvan Warrior and standing next to him or her. Their gazes were insistent, their eyes demanding. They wanted to ride. They wanted to fight.
Tenlin, a brown unicorn, stepped toward Tiro, then bent his head to lower his massive, eight foot horn. Tiro stood there too surprised to move. As the seconds passed, he stared into Tenlin’s eyes and then realized what the great steed wanted. Reaching out his hand, Tiro touched Tenlin’s horn.
Images immediately flashed across the Sylvan Warrior’s mind. Tiro saw the fearsome dark creatures pouring out of the crevices that dotted Blackstone, preparing to march on the Kingdoms. He saw the Ogren war parties making their way across the Northern Steppes and breaching the Breaker. He saw the burning and the slaughter, the agony and the heartbreak that would befall those beyond the towering wall. And he knew that Rynlin and Catal Huyuk spoke the truth.
