The Makings of a Warrior

by Peter Wacht

  “You know very well what I’m talking about,” said Gregory. “You used my daughter to get to the boy. Why?”

  Gregory stepped closer to the throne. Loris burrowed farther into the woodwork in response while Rodric took an involuntary step backwards.

  “I assure you, Gregory, Kaylie was never in any danger. Ragin and a troop of soldiers were always within range to offer immediate assistance.”

  “Answer the question!” ordered Gregory.

  He had promised himself that he would remain calm, collected, yet the more he thought about what had happened as he walked through the shabby halls of the Palace, the angrier he became. Rodric had used his daughter in one of his schemes. His daughter!

  “We simply wanted to talk with him,” said Rodric, trying desperately to defuse the tension.

  He had never expected such a response as this from Gregory and was caught completely unawares. At the bargaining table, he had sat across from the King of Fal Carrach many times, yet had never seen such pure rage. It terrified him. He searched frantically for a way to recover.

  “The boy, as you call him, is a murderer. He killed five of my men.”

  Gregory almost lunged up the steps, his sword halfway out of its sheath.

  “You dare to put my daughter in such danger!”

  Rodric jumped back a few more feet, almost falling off the dais in his haste. “Let me explain, Gregory. Let me explain.”

  He walked back around the dais so that Loris, who remained sitting in the throne, was now the closest target for Gregory’s wrath.

  “They spent most of the afternoon of the archery competition together and got along fabulously from what I hear. They’re friends. And as I said, with Ragin and a troop of soldiers nearby, she was never in any real danger, at least none she had not placed herself in.”

  Rodric was confident that his lie would hold. Chertney had assured him that Kaylie wouldn’t remember anything until the magic wore off.

  “Why do you want the boy, Rodric?”

  “My dear Gregory. As I said, he killed five of my men. We suspected that he might be a criminal, so we wanted to talk to him. The boy chose to fight, an almost sure sign of guilt. I should think that you, of all people, a man known for his belief in the law, would understand my desire to prevent a person such as this Thomas from performing more mischief. If the boy had spoken with Ragin none of this would have happened.”

  “What proof do you offer with respect to the boy?”

  Gregory examined the High King through slitted eyes, wondering if killing him now was worth the risk. Probably not, since Loris’ soldiers outnumbered his own twenty to one.

  “He killed five of my men when Ragin tried to talk with him. I think that’s all the proof we need, don’t you?”

  Loris nodded mutely. He had heard all he needed to send the boy to the gallows. Of course, he’d agree to anything at the moment to get Gregory out of the room.

  “Yes, I’m quite sure it was as innocent as you say,” said Gregory doubtfully. “From what I understand Ragin never tried to talk. Why bother when the person you’re seeking to speak to has been drugged.”

  “I assure you, Gregory, each of my men, to the man, would confirm my words. Thomas attacked them first and killed five of my men before they could subdue him.”

  “That’s what worries me, Rodric. That’s what worries me.” Gregory stepped back from the dais, once again in control of his anger. “Soldiers have been known to say what their lord expects, rather than the truth.”

  Rodric’s face turned flaming red, Gregory’s insult biting deeply. No one could say such things to him. No one! Then he remembered that he and Loris were still alone in the throne room, and neither had a weapon. It was quite some time before Rodric responded as he struggled to control his temper. His mind worked at a furious pace, looking for a way to extricate himself from this mess while still achieving his primary goal — eliminating Thomas.

  “I understand your concern for justice,” said Rodric malevolently, “so perhaps there is another way to settle this matter if you doubt the integrity of my soldiers.”

  Rodric walked around the throne to stand in front of Gregory.

  “Men or women accused of a crime have long been given the opportunity to prove their innocence through a test. Is that not correct?”

  Rodric stared at Loris, waiting for a response. The King of Dunmoor, an unwilling spectator for so long, suddenly realized the ridiculous posture he had assumed in his fear. He placed his feet on the floor and assumed a normal sitting position, smoothing out his clothes as if nothing had occurred. It was wasted effort, but he did it nonetheless.

  “Yes, that is correct, Rodric. In fact, we often use the Trial here in Dunmoor, all in the name of justice of course.” Loris viewed such trials as sport and enjoyed them immensely.

  “Perhaps you could fill us in, then, Loris. The accused is harbored in your dungeon, so according to the laws followed by all the Kingdoms, you are the rightful one to pass judgment on him.”

  Loris sat up straighter in his chair, warming to the subject. He did so enjoy the Trial. They were always quite entertaining. He cleared his throat before beginning.

  “According to the law of Dunmoor there is a choice. The accused can be judged by the king — me — or can face the Trial. The choice is his. If he survives the Trial, then he goes free. If he doesn’t survive, well, then justice has been done, as they say.”

  Gregory tried to remember just what form the Trial took here in Dunmoor, not having had cause to examine such things since he was a boy, when as part of his training as a prince, he was required to know the law not only in Fal Carrach, but in every other Kingdom as well. There was something about the Dunmoorian Trial that was unique. What was it?

  As he thought about it, switching his gaze from the smirk on Rodric’s face to the look of expectation and hope on Loris’, he remembered with some distaste the choice available to him. No one had ever survived the Trial in Dunmoor. But then again, if Loris was allowed to pass judgment, the decision would be swifter, and more certain — death. At least with the Trial, the boy would stand a fighting chance. It was the best Gregory could do for him.

  “The Trial, then,” Gregory reluctantly agreed, hoping he had not consigned the boy to a fate worse than the swift end provided on the headsman’s block.

  Loris grinned from ear to ear, just like a child who had received a candy from his mother.

  “I bow to the wishes of my brother ruler,” said Loris. “The boy will not be judged. Let him have a say in his own survival. He will face the Labyrinth” — Loris laughed shrilly — “and challenge the Makreen.”

  Rodric nodded his approval. It was not the way he originally wanted it to end, but it didn’t really matter. The result would be the same.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Frustrations

  Gregory returned to his chambers, the events of the past hour running through his mind as he looked for some way to improve the boy’s situation. He shook his head in frustration. In the end, he could think of nothing. He could only be satisfied that Thomas would have at least a chance at freedom. As he entered his apartments, Sarelle and Kaylie were still where he had left them. His daughter had fallen into a fitful slumber, her head resting comfortably on the Queen of Benewyn’s lap.

  “The Trial?” asked Sarelle.

  Gregory nodded.

  “I had expected as much,” she said.

  Their eyes locked for a moment, both thinking the same thing. Why was Rodric so desperate to kill the boy?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  A Test

  Chertney glided down the steps silently, his feet barely scraping the stone. He welcomed the darkness surrounding him, relishing its touch. Several minutes passed before a light finally appeared at the bottom of the steps. Most people avoided the dungeon at all costs, but Chertney was not most people, not anymore. Rather, the dank and cold of the stone walls, the emptiness, made him feel as if he were home. And in a w
ay, he was.

  He walked down the passageway until he came to the last cell in the block, which shed a bright light out into the hallway. He smiled as he entered, excited by what was about to happen, something he had not had the opportunity to do in a very long time.

  “Lord Chertney, we were expecting you,” said a tall soldier, his long black hair sticking out from the back of his helmet. His hand was never far from the hilt of his sword and his mannerisms spoke volumes about his ability as a fighter. Chertney approved. At least some of Rodric’s men appeared to know what they were doing. “The prisoner awaits you.”

  “Thank you, Captain Krayjak.”

  Chertney looked past the soldier to where his entertainment for the evening waited. The boy with blazing green eyes stood in the center of the room, his legs and arms chained to the stone floor. Around him stood twenty soldiers, many looking at the prisoner as if they held the Shadow Lord himself. The story of Thomas’ capture had spread quickly and none of the soldiers currently on guard wanted to share in their comrades’ fate. Hence their vigilance.

  “You and your men may go now. I will tell you when to return.”

  “But, Lord Chertney,” the tall captain protested, remembering Rodric’s specific instructions about staying with the prisoner at all times. He did not want to be a victim of the High King’s wrath.

  Chertney looked at the soldier through cold eyes. Sometimes you had to know when to disobey your superiors, unfortunately a trait not common among soldiers.

  “Tell me, Captain, who do you fear more — Rodric or me?”

  The captain stared into Chertney’s black eyes — and saw nothing. He gulped and immediately made the most important decision of his life.

  “You, sir.”

  “An excellent choice,” said Chertney. “Now leave us. You will know when I am done.”

  The captain quickly herded his men out of the room, all of whom were more than willing to take their leave.

  Chertney waited until he was certain that the soldiers were well on their way back to the upper levels of the Palace before turning toward the boy. He was an anomaly. Neither big, nor physically imposing. He had won the archery contest and easily killed five men before sheer numbers prevented his escape. Well, that and the drug that had entered his system. Otherwise, he probably would still be free. Yet in those burning green eyes there was a strength, a purpose and a genuine confidence usually lacking in someone so young.

  At the same time Thomas studied the man who stood before him. Thankfully, the drug had worn off for the most part. His vision had cleared, and he had regained his senses, though a splitting headache confirmed it would be quite awhile before the full effects of the drug left his body. He examined the midnight black clothes, the short hair and beard, the lifeless eyes, and even more important, the smell. Pure evil wafted over him, kicking the breath out of his lungs. An evil darker than any he had ever encountered.

  Thomas was immediately on his guard. Lord Chertney was a dangerous man. The overwhelming stench of evil confirmed Thomas’ worst fears. Chertney was close to the Shadow Lord. Thomas thought he might be a warlock, but the sensation wasn’t quite right for that. The evil of a warlock was more subdued. Chertney’s was more direct and aggressive. Thomas assumed that Chertney was a step above, perhaps even a few steps above, a warlock in the Shadow Lord’s chain of command. And if that were true, he would have great skill in Dark Magic. Thomas would have to tread very carefully.

  Guessing what was to come next, Thomas immediately cleared his mind. He stared straight ahead, ignoring Chertney, imagining that he was actually part of the stone wall in front of him. At first, the remnants of the drug in his body hindered his attempts. With some effort, though, he was finally able to achieve his goal. Soon he could feel the grainy touch of the wall, the harshness of its surface, its strength, flow into him.

  “In the morning you will be given the chance to prove your innocence,” announced Chertney, standing directly in front of Thomas with no more than a fingerbreadth separating them. “To be honest, though, you have no hope of escape. One way or the other you will die. I could make things much easier for you, you know. All you have to do is answer a few questions for me.”

  Thomas felt what seemed like a cold hand run down his spine, and he shivered at its touch. Chertney attempted to probe his mind. He could feel the gentle touches at the edge of his consciousness, looking for an opening, a way to extract the knowledge locked away. Thomas focused even more on the stone walls, imagining he was physically pushing himself into it.

  “I could kill you now,” said Chertney, his stale breath caressing Thomas’ face. “But then Rodric would not be able to have his fun. It would be much easier if you answered my questions. If you do, I promise you will feel no pain.”

  Chertney looked at Thomas hopefully, but not really expecting the boy to respond. If he truly was a member of the Sylvana, his defenses against Chertney’s magic would be strong. His brief examination suggested that there was nothing remarkable about the boy, so perhaps the Sylvana accepted him because of his fighting skills. His reputation certainly made that the most likely possibility. If this boy had any skill in the Talent, Chertney would have known by now.

  “How many of you are left, boy?”

  Chertney walked around the circular cell, running a hand against the chains hanging from the ceiling. Thomas stared straight ahead, keeping the image of the wall in is mind. The pressure increased as Chertney searched for a breach in his defenses. All Chertney needed was a crack, a tiny crack, and he would be able to drain Thomas of whatever information he wanted. Thomas gritted his teeth in response, concentrating entirely on the wall. He could feel the gritty surface on his skin and taste the cragginess of the rock.

  “There can’t be many of you left,” continued Chertney. “Are you still preparing for the return of the Shadow Lord?”

  Chertney stopped for a moment to examine Thomas, then resumed his leisurely walk around the cell. A strong one indeed. Chertney increased the pressure of his mental probing and was rewarded with the sight of a few drops of sweat popping onto the boy’s forehead. Chertney was reaching the limit of his strength in the Dark Magic. If he didn’t break through soon, he never would.

  Thomas’ body shook slightly because of the effort. It felt as if a hundred blacksmiths armed with mallets were trying to pry open his skull. The incessant pounding rattled his mind, making it harder and harder for him to maintain his focus. Desperately he tried to hold on, knowing that the slightest wavering in his defense would spell the end.

  If Chertney discovered his skill in the Talent, Chertney would kill him in an instant. Thomas bit down on his lip, hoping the immediate pain would help him maintain his quickly shattering concentration. Much to his relief, the physical pain allowed him to grasp some of the strands that threatened to unwind, and he held on to his defenses by his fingernails.

  “You know, this time, you won’t be so lucky. Are you planning to meet us at the Breaker once again?”

  Chertney stopped abruptly, feeling how close he was to victory. The shell was about to crack. He redoubled his efforts, putting all of his remaining strength into tearing down Thomas’ defenses.

  Thomas dropped to his knees from the strain and closed his eyes in pain. His head felt like it was about to break apart. Chertney had chiseled his way through his defensive barrier to the very last layer, and even that was beginning to bend. Clenching his teeth in anger, he refused to concede victory.

  The pressure continued to push down on him, pressing until it seemed that it would never end. Then miraculously it did. Thomas raised his head and quickly rebuilt the defenses in his mind. Thomas expected a final attempt from the warlock, but it never came. The dull ache in the back of his head became the constant hammering of a hundred hammers. Chertney stood over him now, his frustration plain.

  “You have surprised me, boy. I thought you would have weakened, but obviously you have learned your lessons well. The Sylvana made an excellent d
ecision. A pity you will be leaving their ranks come tomorrow.”

  Chertney walked toward the door, not bothering to look back at Thomas.

  “Of course, if they have taken someone as young as you for a member, they must be in desperate straits indeed.” Chertney laughed softly. “My master certainly will be pleased to hear that. It will make things that much easier for him.”

  Chertney stepped out into the hallway and made his way to the steps leading back up to the main floor of the Palace. This boy was an enigma. He would have enjoyed studying him longer, but judging from the determination he had just shown, it would have taken days to break through his defenses, and Chertney did not have days. Ah, well. He still had learned a few things that might prove useful, and come morning, there would be one less Sylvan Warrior to worry about.

  As soon as Thomas was certain that Chertney had left, he collapsed on the cool stone floor, letting go of his defenses and drinking in the quiet of the cell. He had almost failed. Almost. The pounding in his head moved to its own rhythm, but Thomas no longer cared. He was completely drained, all of his energy spent on this single task. He soon fell into a fitful slumber, even with the pain drumming in his head. After what had just happened, nothing planned for the next morning could be any worse. Could it?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Recrimination

  Kaylie dabbed out the tears that threatened to form in her eyes once again. It seemed like she had been crying forever, yet it had only been a few hours since she had returned to the Palace. After her father told her Thomas’ fate, she had run into her room and shut the door, not able to bear another person’s company. She felt evil and corrupt, not wanting to be around others. Falling onto her bed she had cried into her pillow for several long minutes until the discomfort of wearing wet clothes forced her to change.