by Peter Wacht
“I know everything, Killeran. I am everywhere.”
Killeran spun around again, looking into the shadows of the tent but finding nothing. His heart raced with terror. How could—
“I am here, Killeran, though you may not see me.” The voice was quiet, dangerous, sure of its power. “You do not show me the proper respect.”
Killeran immediately dropped to his knees and bowed his head to the ground. “Master, I am sorry.” His body shook with terror, and he could do nothing to stop it.
“That’s better, Killeran. I’m glad to see that you still retain some of your manners.” The raspy voice, though soft, filled the tent with its presence. The power behind the voice terrified him.
“The warlocks failed me, Master,” began Killeran, his mind churning at a furious pace in search of an excuse. “If not for them—”
“Save your breath, Killeran. You think to lie to me? To me? I am the Master of Lies, Killeran! Yet you try to trick the Oathbreaker?”
The dry whisper became a shout that shook the tent poles. The structure swayed violently, threatening to collapse.
Killeran sank into the carpet as far as he could, desperate to escape the voice, yet knowing in his heart that he could not. He would never be able to escape. He mumbled something incoherent, his fear usurping his reason.
“You will listen to me, Killeran, and do exactly as I say. Is that understood?”
Killeran nodded his head vigorously, eager to please. Even more eager to stay alive.
“Good. As I said, the Nightstalker is dead. He pursued a green-eyed boy. I’m sure you are familiar with him.”
Green-eyed boy? The Kestrel whelp! He had been a fool. A complete fool. Everything came flooding back to him. Months before Chertney had told him to look for a green-eyed boy, but he had not paid much attention. He didn’t pay much attention to anything Chertney said. And now look where it had gotten him. But why send a Nightstalker after a boy? And how could the Nightstalker have died? Was that even possible?
“Yes, it’s possible,” answered the raspy voice, reading Killeran’s mind. “I’m glad to see that you admit your incompetence, if only to yourself. I have a new task for you, Killeran. You will succeed this time. If you don’t, it will be your last.”
Killeran nodded, almost banging his head on the ground. Relief swept through him. Just seconds before he was certain he was about to die. But he had been given a respite, for now. He would make good use of it.
“You will find this boy — this Highlander — and you will eliminate him. Do you understand?”
Killeran nodded.
“He has escaped me for too long.”
“Yes, Master. He will be found.”
“Good,” said the voice. “And to speed you in your task, remember this, Killeran. You have failed me once. Don’t fail me again. Otherwise this boy’s death will be pleasant compared to your own.” Just as quickly as the voice came, it ended.
Killeran remained on his knees, bending his head in submission for several minutes more. He told himself it was a sign of respect for his Master, and not the result of his paralyzing fear. He was still alive. Killeran sighed with relief and fell forward into the carpet. He would need several more bottles of wine this evening. Several more.
CHAPTER FOUR
Another Sighting
“Rumors of this Raptor continue to grow, milord,” said Kael, surveying the activity in front of him.
“What has this Raptor done now?”
Gregory stood next to his Swordmaster as both watched the afternoon’s training session. Kael was putting his charges through their paces, having paired them off into dueling pairs. His daughter, Kaylie, was out there as well, matched against Rohn. They were about the same height and both were quick and intelligent, making up for their lack of strength. The skirmish with the Fearhounds convinced Gregory that he should accede to his daughter’s demand and allow her to learn how to use a blade.
“A patrol reached a small village at the northwestern edge of the Burren the day before yesterday, drawn by smoke. They found a huge bonfire on the green, and on it burned the bodies of five Ogren.”
“And the villagers swear it was the Raptor, correct?”
“Yes, milord, they do.”
Gregory smiled and almost wanted to clap, his attention diverted for a moment. Kaylie and Rohn fought to a standstill in the beginning, as each spent several minutes testing the other’s defenses. Kaylie had struck the first telling blow with her practice sword, which pleased her father to no end.
Kael had taught them earlier in the day how to sweep the legs out from underneath their opponent. Kaylie used the move to perfection, swinging out with her leg and knocking Rohn to the ground after unbalancing him with several lunges of her blade. Rohn had been so busy defending against the assault that he failed to notice the real attack. Kaylie had won the first round.
Maybe he was a pig-headed fool, Gregory thought. Kaylie had mastered the dagger despite his wanting her to occupy herself in a more lady-like way, and she was well on her way with the sword, though she had only been training for a month. Perhaps he would allow her to take part in the dagger competitions at the upcoming Eastern Festival. If nothing else, it would keep her from pestering him about it, and he could certainly use the respite.
“And did this Raptor happen to have light-brown hair and fierce, green eyes, Kael?”
“I don’t know, milord. The Ogren attacked during the night. Before the villagers could mount a defense, the Ogren were dead. They never saw what happened.”
Gregory grunted. Just as he had expected. These stories were becoming all too common.
“There is one thing of interest, though, milord. The five Ogren all were killed with arrows through the heart. And it has been reported by several of the villagers that soon after the attack, the howl of a wolf was heard. It may have simply been a coincidence, milord, but who knows.”
“Yes, who knows,” repeated Gregory.
Wolves rarely visited that part of the forest. Though the evidence was sketchy, his intuition pointed him in one direction. He was certain that the boy who had appeared in the Burren just a month before and saved him, his daughter, and his soldiers, and the Raptor were one in the same. But he couldn’t prove it yet. That brought up an interesting possibility, one added to the puzzle by his daughter. Were the Raptor and the Lost Kestrel one in the same?
Gregory looked across the field, pushing his thoughts aside. Kaylie had once again bested Rohn. Allowing him to advance on her, she had waited for just the right moment to knock his sword out of the way and lunge forward herself, taking him in the gut. Gregory couldn’t keep his pride from showing as a huge grin appeared on his face. She was his daughter after all, and perhaps a warrior queen in the making. Maybe she could handle herself in the ring at the Eastern Festival. Who knows? Maybe just as Kaylie hoped she would become the next Alessandra, fabled ruler of the Highland Marchers.
CHAPTER FIVE
Hoping to Meet
“Yes, Beluil, I know she found out what happened the last time we were in the Burren. But we’re not going to the Burren this time. Now are you coming with me or not?”
The large black wolf with the patch of white fur across his eyes sat on his haunches, his expression one of recrimination as he watched Thomas. True, they were not going to the Burren. Instead they were going even farther west.
Beluil protested again. The image in Thomas’ mind resembled Rya, her chestnut hair strewn about and her eyes burning fire. Though a tiny woman, she resembled a giant when there was cause.
“All she did was yell at us last time. Like I said, we’re not going to the Burren, so we shouldn’t get into any trouble. We’re only going to the Eastern Festival for a few days. We’ll be back before they return.”
Rynlin and Rya had left the day before to meet Daran at the Breaker. Larger squads of Ogren and packs of Fearhounds had been crossing the Northern Steppes lately, and they wanted to find out why. His grandparents we
re supposed to be gone for about two weeks. Still, Thomas’ reasons for wanting to go to the Eastern Festival did not seem completely legitimate to Beluil. True, Thomas had never been to a festival before, and Beluil certainly wanted to explore the land west of the Burren, but he didn’t think Thomas revealed everything to him.
The image in Thomas’ mind changed. In place of Rya stood a girl with raven-black hair and dazzling blue eyes.
“That is not why I want to go to the Eastern Festival,” he protested, putting an extra shirt and pair of breeches in his travel sack. He had already collected some dried fruit and cheese. “I told you before. I just want to see what it’s like at the festival.”
Beluil smirked as he listened to Thomas’ sputtering reply. His friend could kid himself all he wanted, but Beluil knew the truth. Oh, well. If Thomas was going to have some fun, he might as well do the same. Rising from his place in front of the fire, Beluil stretched his legs and arched his back, working the stiffness from sleeping curled up like a ball out of his limbs.
“If we happen to bump into her at the Eastern Festival, that’s all well and good. But I’m not going to make it a point to find her,” said Thomas as they walked out of the cottage and into a cold early morning wind.
Beluil ignored his friend. If Thomas didn’t want to admit his attraction to the black-haired girl, that was fine by him. He just hoped he wouldn’t have to listen to it the whole way to Tinnakilly.
CHAPTER SIX
A Game of Chess
Grinding his teeth in frustration, he examined the ceiling of the meeting room, somewhat amused by the frescoes. They showed a triumphant king — Dunmoorian he assumed — receiving a vanquished foe after a bloody battle. The artist certainly had taken considerable license with history. Dunmoor had never conquered anything.
Voices around him regained his attention. This meeting should have ended hours ago, he thought, frowning in irritation. In fact, it should never have even been necessary. His father simply should have told these two what he was going to do, what they would have to do in return, and then be done with it. But these commoners who masqueraded as rulers actually had the gall to defy his father.
Ridiculous. Totally ridiculous. Armagh was the most powerful kingdom on the continent, and his father the most powerful ruler. When he assumed his father’s place as High King, these discussions would prove completely unnecessary. He would treat these peasants as nothing more than the vassals they truly were. He would rule, and they would obey.
For the hundredth time Ragin Tessaril, son of the High King, shifted in his high-backed chair. The lack of a cushion on the hard wood was becoming more of an annoyance as the day passed. Yet to sit on a cushion could be perceived as a sign of weakness. That would not do, his father had told him. You can never afford to appear weak. You had to be strong — always.
Perception was all that mattered. The oversized purple robe lined with mink and sable and the heavy gold crown his father wore demonstrated his belief in that theory. His father wanted to remind their guests that Armagh was a sleeping giant, better to be obeyed rather than awakened. Yet, why his father even wanted him here, he didn’t know.
For the past three hours Gregory Carlomin of Fal Carrach and Sarelle Makarin of Benewyn had blocked all of his father’s plans. Though Loris of Dunmoor sat by his father’s side, he was a nonentity in these negotiations. The blank expression on the man’s face made you wonder if he had ever had an original thought. It was remarkable, really, that Dunmoor continued to exist as a separate kingdom with such a dolt ruling it.
Many times during the last few hours Ragin wanted to offer his thoughts on the excuses given by Gregory and Sarelle. He stayed quiet, however. His father had been insistent about that. As a result, he had wasted his morning in this musty room watching these two take turns playing the fool.
He should have been out at the Festival with his friends having fun. Sitting in the Tinnakilly palace watching his father fail to achieve any of his goals due to the obstinacy of these two was not what he called a good time. The frustration obvious in his father’s voice pulled him back to the conversation once more. Why bother with this charade in the first place? If you were the High King, you should act like it.
“The reports of dark creatures and bandits roaming the borders of the Highlands worry me, Gregory. The time is fast approaching when I will have to take action regarding that Kingdom due to that most despicable of incidents, yet I fear that if I wait much longer there will not be much of the Highlands, or the Highlanders, left.”
Rodric looked from Gregory to Sarelle as dispassionately as he could. The past few hours had passed from one failure to the next, as these two repeatedly stymied his desires as innocuously as possible. For most of the items they requested more time to think. With no way for Rodric to force any of the issues, each delay was a victory for them and a defeat for him. That would end soon enough, though. Sooner than they expected, in fact.
“Just what do you propose, Rodric?”
Sarelle glanced to her left before speaking. Seeing the hard glint in Gregory’s eyes, she had decided to take the bait. Gregory really was quite handsome with his grey hair and rugged good looks, especially when he was angry, yet she hoped his anger did not get the better of him. Now was not the time.
“Well, as you both know, Lord Killeran of Dunmoor has served as Regent since the death of our beloved brother king, Talyn Kestrel.” Rodric bowed his head slightly to acknowledge the man murdered more than five years before.
Of course, Loris barely heard Rodric’s words. He spent most of his time glaring at Gregory. There was no love lost between the two adjacent kingdoms, as border skirmishes occurred frequently. Unfortunately, his efforts at intimidation had so far been for naught, as Gregory ignored him.
Loris had considered assassinating Gregory and his daughter while they attended the Eastern Festival. But even he realized that if anything befell the ruling family of Fal Carrach during their stay, the blame would fall squarely on him. Besides, Gregory had brought a large contingent of soldiers with him. Trying to get past his guards was virtually impossible.
The King of Fal Carrach knew his adversary quite well, and Loris’ weak chin and scraggly beard did little to enhance the image of strength and imperiousness Loris tried to present. Lately, the Dunmoorian king had talked more and more of challenging Gregory to a duel.
This only confirmed Rodric’s suspicion that Loris spent most of his time sitting on his brains. Gregory would kill him in an instant, pleased to remove a thorn from his side. Then again, Rodric mused, maybe he should encourage Loris in this ridiculous idea. The fool was becoming more of a liability as the days passed.
“But Killeran tells me that even he, an able general” — Rodric cursed under his breath, thinking of Killeran’s current string of failures — “has had some problems defending the Highlanders from these attacks. Therefore, I propose establishing a small garrison of Armaghian and Dunmoorian soldiers on the southern edge of the Highlands to assist Killeran in his efforts.”
Did Rodric think he was a political imbecile? Had his crown finally stopped the flow of oxygen to the man’s brain? Gregory could barely stop himself from falling out of his chair and convulsing on the floor in laughter.
Rodric wanted him to allow a garrison of Armaghian soldiers on the Highlands’ southern border? On his northern border? Did he really think he would agree to such a request? Such a garrison would function perfectly as a staging point for Rodric to do whatever he wished in the Highlands, or Fal Carrach for that matter. It was totally unacceptable.
For the entire morning Gregory had sat there listening to ridiculous requests — demands, rather — from this pompous bastard who hardly fit into his robe or crown. He’d tell this poppycock just—
Gregory felt a slight nudge in his side. He looked at Sarelle and was rewarded with a glimpse of her dark green eyes. Green eyes that reminded him of a dew-covered forest awakening to the morning’s first light. They certainly were beaut
iful, as was she. Beautiful and clever. But this time her eyes spoke with purpose, warning him to keep his anger in check.
“Your intentions I’m sure are quite honorable,” said Gregory. There was a bitter taste to his words. He had no love for diplomacy. Most of the time it involved nothing more than lies and subterfuge, two things he despised. But he understood their value at this particular moment. “Still, I believe this is a subject I must think more on before replying. This is not a decision to be made lightly. From all reports, the Highlanders do not have much to fear from dark creatures, or bandits for that matter. Rather, it seems they must protect against an even more sinister enemy.”
Gregory had probably said too much, and Sarelle’s sharp elbow to his side confirmed it. Those eyes — dangerous and beautiful. Still, he felt the need to talk more openly so there would be no misunderstanding. He had ruled Fal Carrach since the death of his father, more than twenty years before.
During that time, what he had hated most was having to act like a diplomat. Dancing around an issue was a complete waste of time. He would have preferred a much more direct approach, rather than having to play a game of linguistics and nuances. A game in which Sarelle excelled, and even enjoyed.
“I must agree with Gregory,” she said apologetically, as if delaying her decision actually embarrassed her. “The information coming from the Highlands is quite sketchy. For example, this Raptor. No one can confirm whether it is man or beast, or if it truly exists at all. And these thieves and bandits whom others call slavers that are said to be wandering the Highlands. Why is it that Killeran, a supposedly capable commander, has not driven them out? It is most odd, is it not, Gregory?”
The King of Fal Carrach nodded, his expression darker than a moonless night. Both he and Sarelle left little doubt as to whom they thought was responsible for these marauding bands.
