by Peter Wacht
The other rulers thought it was an excellent idea, and the greatest warriors of that time met Athala on the Northern Steppes, as the Dark Horde was pushing hard for the south and would soon break out of the Northern Peaks. When that happened, the Kingdoms would have little chance of stopping them. Athala called her small army of only several hundred Sylvan Warriors, naming it after a mythical band of legendary soldiers who, the stories told, appeared in times of need and fought for those who had been wronged.
The Sylvan Warriors met the Dark Horde at the edge of the Northern Peaks, fighting desperately to hold back the Shadow Lord's advance as they battled for three days and three nights. Despite the overwhelming number of terrifying creatures that swept down from the north, the Sylvana refused to yield, giving the Kingdoms the time needed by sacrificing their blood, sweat and tears. In the end, the Sylvan Warriors succeeded. They forced the Dark Horde to retreat. Before the Shadow Lord could recover, the armies of the Kingdoms arrived and drove him even deeper into what was then already being described as the Charnel Mountains, the verdant, green landscape having begun to turn a sooty black as the Shadow Lord’s presence started to corrupt the land.
But the Kingdoms couldn't destroy the Shadow Lord. They could only defeat him. So the rulers of the Kingdoms again followed the advice of Athala and made the Sylvan Warriors a permanent fighting force with no ties of allegiance to any Kingdom. The sole purpose of this elite group was to fight the Shadow Lord no matter the odds, and they had done so ever since.
Rynlin wiped at his eyes, telling himself that the tears that had formed came as a result of the biting wind, though he knew the truth of it. So many good men and women had died fighting against the Shadow Lord and his monstrous horde of warlocks, Ogren, Shades, the lightning fast Fearhounds and Mongrels, and other hideous creatures that had come from the north seeking to conquer the Kingdoms. So many friends. Gone. And virtually none remembered by those who had benefited from their bravery and constancy.
Yet even with the formation of the Sylvana, the Kingdoms still feared the Shadow Lord’s return. Therefore, after the conclusion of the Great War, they had built the Breaker and formed the First Guard, soldiers from the different Kingdoms charged with serving a year on the towering barrier, watching, waiting, and preparing for the next attack so that when the Shadow Lord once again sought to claim the Kingdoms for his own, and all assumed that he would, the Kingdoms would be better prepared to defend themselves and able to muster their armies and march north. But as the years passed no attack had come, and the Kingdoms began sending fewer and fewer soldiers to serve in the First Guard until, eventually, no one stood atop the Breaker anymore.
Rynlin shook his head in frustration, recalling the sacrifices made so long ago to ensure that the Shadow Lord and his Dark Horde did not conquer the Kingdoms. The Sylvan Warrior believed the truism that those who forget their history are doomed to repeat it. So seemed to be the case now with the Shadow Lord and his dark creatures stirring once more. Many of the Kingdoms failed to recognize the danger or willingly ignored it, worried more about the happenings in their own Kingdom thanks to the machinations of the High King rather than, at least to their own eyes, a yet to be confirmed threat to the Kingdoms as a whole. Myopic fools. By the time most realized the danger it would be too late.
Under Rynlin’s gaze, the Northern Steppes stretched for leagues into the distance, the dark smudge of the Charnel Mountains far to the north. Though Rynlin couldn’t see it, he could feel the evil pulsing from the very center of the begrimed, jagged range of towering peaks. Blackstone. The lair of the Shadow Lord. The Sylvan Warriors were weaker than in any other time since their formation, several falling prey to the creatures of the Shadow Lord during the last year and thereby reducing their ranks even more. Would they be able to hold back the Shadow Lord as they had in the past? Would the Kingdoms heed their call to arms? Would the Breaker hold back the Dark Horde?
So many questions. So many worries. To say nothing of the fact that his wife had taken on a task both critical and dangerous, and he was in no position to help her. And what of his grandson? He continued to take risks, more than he should or, in fact, needed to take, never considering the possibility that eventually he would pay the price for doing so. But there was nothing Rynlin could do about that. His grandson had started along a certain path, reluctantly at first, but with courage nonetheless. With each step his grandson took along that road, Rynlin felt as if the boy’s ability to choose diminished, his fate having already been sealed.
His wife’s favorite saying came to mind: “You do what you must do.” He had hoped that his grandson could avoid what the prophecy suggested would happen. But all the signs pointed to the prophecy’s inevitable, deadly conclusion. The final battle between the light and the dark, his grandson in the very middle of it pitted against an opponent with unimaginable power who had never been defeated in single combat. An opponent who was the very source of Dark Magic in the Kingdoms. How could he expect his grandson to overcome that?
Rynlin pushed his maudlin thoughts from his mind. There was nothing he could do for Thomas right now, but there was something else that he could do. And taking action clearly was a better alternative than standing on top of a frigid wall allowing his fears and worries to consume him.
Taking a quick glance to the east, he saw several large kestrels circling above the northern peaks of the Highlands. The massive birds called the Highlands their home. They represented not only the Highlands, but the people living there. The people his grandson now led. They were tough, resilient, and they did what was needed even when that wasn’t the easiest path.
Rynlin grinned. That certainly applied to his grandson. Thomas would, indeed, follow his own path. If that led him as the prophecy predicted to a final contest against the Shadow Lord, so be it. His grandson would do what was necessary. His people would expect no less of him, just as he would expect no less of himself.
In the meantime, Rynlin would see if he could offer some assistance to ease the burdens weighing on his grandson. A bright flash of white light engulfed the Sylvan Warrior. When the blinding radiance cleared, a giant hawk gripped the crenels of the Breaker with its sharp talons. With a screech that echoed through the Highlands to the east, the bird launched itself from the black stone, its powerful wings driving it steadily toward the Charnel Mountains.
CHAPTER THREE
Worry and Fear
Rodric Tessaril, High King of Armagh, sat upon his uncomfortable throne as a young child would when required to pose for a portrait, fidgeting, unable to remain still. His thick fingers drummed on the arm of the throne incessantly, his right leg bouncing nervously. Not the most regal of poses, he realized, but he also knew that most only perceived him as king because of the power he wielded, despite his constant attempts to put forward a regal image. He often wore a purple cape that dwarfed his small stature and dragged across the polished stone as he stomped through the halls of Eamhain Mhacha. The much too large golden crown, perched precariously on his head and always in danger of clattering to the floor, also did not have its intended effect.
Rodric hoped to make up for his lack of stature and plain appearance with the accoutrements of his rank. But try as he might, the fear he attempted to instill came not from his appearance, as had been the case with the warrior High Kings of old, but rather because of the harshness of his rule. He had learned at an early age that a king could be loved or feared, but not both. He recognized quickly that he would never be loved, so Rodric had put all his energy into being feared. In his mind, respect was respect, regardless of whether it came from fear or love.
He ignored his perpetual insecurity for the moment, his thoughts centered instead on a matter that had plagued him for months. A matter that put his carefully crafted plans at risk. A matter that threatened his very rule.
His worry and trepidation so consumed Rodric that he failed to notice the tall lord enter the chamber. The man wore a shining steel breastplate that obviously had
just been scrubbed to a blinding sheen, a white cloak draped over his shoulders. The lord would have been described as handsome, if not for the very large nose that seemed to precede him into the throne room.
It was only after the tall lord bent to his knee and cleared his throat that Rodric emerged from the shackles of his own mind. The nervous tics finally came to an end as the High King stared at Johin Killeran, Lord of Dunmoor. Rodric’s irritation rose quickly, seeking an outlet, but he did his best to contain it for now. Though he blamed Killeran for many of his current problems, he still had a use for the often incompetent, always pompous fool.
“Anything?” asked the High King in a voice that threatened to crack, already suspecting the answer he would receive.
“No, my lord.”
Killeran’s response was obsequious, as he recognized the danger of the situation. He had linked his fortunes with the High King. If Rodric were to fall, so would he, the only difference being that Rodric would have farther to fall than he would.
Rodric’s gaze bore into Killeran, who refused to raise his eyes from the stone floor. The boy had escaped them in Tinnakilly, leaping from the battlements of the keep rather than face the crossbowmen arrayed around him.
Watching the boy step off the edge, Rodric’s heart had felt free for the first time since his enterprise began at the Crag those many years before. The boy had been a thorn in his side for too long. Yet the next day no body was found broken on the rocks far below. Nor the next day. Or the day following. Rodric ordered Loris, the obsequious King of Dunmoor, to expand the search well down the Gullet, thinking the body may have been carried away by the swift current south toward Stormy Bay. Yet as the days passed and the search continued, there was no sign of the boy. Now months after the incident, his worries and fears had taken up residence in the back of his mind. Always there. Whispers of failure threatening to overpower him. No one could have survived a fall like that. Could they? Or were the stories of what the boy could do true? Was he truly the Raptor? Could he still be alive?
“I need proof, Killeran. Proof!”
“I know, my lord.” The sharpness of the High King’s demand released a trickle of sweat down Killeran’s back.
“Our plans depend on it and time is running short.”
“I know, my lord.”
“Then why can’t you find the body!” Rodric had meant to yell, but instead it came out as a shriek, reverberating off the walls of the throne room.
“We’ve tried, my …”
“Enough excuses, Killeran. We have no more time for failure. We must have success.”
Rodric took a deep breath, steadying himself. Though deserved, his anger would gain him nothing at the moment. He must regain his focus and keep his larger goal in mind.
“Make sure Loris continues the search,” said Rodric, struggling to regain the calm that so often alluded him. Killeran nodded his acquiescence. “Now what of the rumors, Killeran? Are they connected to our missing boy?”
“I don’t know, my lord.”
“Then what do you know?” wailed Rodric, only able to contain his fury for so long. “The Council of the Kingdoms approaches! There can be no surprises! Everything must go to plan! Our ally expects nothing less.”
Killeran cringed at the words. Though he took the High King for a fool, for the first time he feared Rodric, if for no other reason than his erratic behavior. In Armagh, Rodric could do as he wanted with little or no consequence. Nevertheless, death by Rodric’s hand was nothing compared to what their hidden ally would do to them if they failed to do as commanded.
Killeran stammered out his response as quickly as he could.
“Nothing has been confirmed, my lord. But the Highlands are unsettled. There are few, if any, Highlanders in the lowlands. As a result, all mining has stopped. The reivers are afraid to hunt in the higher passes, and for good reason. Small groups of reivers are disappearing with nary a trace, and even large patrols are coming under assault. The attackers are no more than shadows, rarely seen, striking quickly and then fading back into the countryside. Although Dinnegan promised to address the matter while I was called back to the west, apparently things have not worked out as we expected. I’m told as well that the haunting lilt of the bagpipes echoes constantly through the Highland peaks, my lord. But no one knows why.”
Rodric smiled coldly. At least one small good had come from this debacle. His partner, Norin Dinnegan, foisted upon him by his ally, had failed to hold up his end of the bargain, to extract the wealth of the Highlands no matter the cost to those who lived there. That was a fact that he could use in the future. But a frown quickly replaced his smile. What Killeran said threatened to multiply his barely contained fears.
For the past ten years his reivers had ruled the Highlands, forcing the Marchers into the higher passes and enslaving any Highlanders unlucky enough to be caught in the open, putting them to work in the mines. But that had changed with the destruction of the Black Hole, the reivers’ primary fort and base of operations in the Highlands. Burned to the ground by the boy who should have died on the Tinnakilly rocks, production from the mines had ground to a halt. Now there was nothing being dug from that cursed land. With no gold or precious minerals, how was he to prepare his army for what was to come next? How was he to grasp the power that was so rightfully his?
Worrisome indeed. And unable to forget his hidden ally, potentially deadly. His fingers began tapping on the armrest once more, his right leg again bouncing furiously. He ignored Killeran for quite some time, retreating into his thoughts as had become more common these last few weeks, retreating into his fears. Had the roles been reversed in the Highlands? Had the hunters become the hunted?
CHAPTER FOUR
A Plan
Just days before the Highland chiefs gathered at the Pinnacle they had been a somber lot, beaten down by almost a decade of continuous warfare against reivers and dark creatures. Yet it wasn’t the constant fighting that had almost broken them as a people. No, they were born fighters. They excelled on the battlefield. All the other Kingdoms acknowledged their superiority as a military force; all the other Kingdoms had gladly made use of their martial services before the Highland Lord had ended that practice decades before after several Marchers were betrayed by their employer; and all the other Kingdoms were thankful that the Highland Marchers only had a small army, because if they were more numerous, they likely would have ruled the entire continent if they so desired.
The number of Marchers had dwindled after the assassination of Talyn Kestrel, Highland Lord, just ten years before. Pursued by their enemies into the higher passes of their homeland, they had struggled to keep their families safe and their rugged land free. In the beginning they had clung to their hope, believing the stories about the Lost Kestrel, Talyn’s grandson. When the Crag fell, the grandson’s body was never found. Had he survived the assault? Would he appear in their time of need?
Several Marchers, led by Coban Serenan, Swordmaster of the Highlands, had searched for the boy after the surprise attack, following his trail through the forest surrounding the Crag until they lost it in the untamed mountains of the eastern Highlands. The boy had made it to a clearing that held barely visible signs of a small fire. But from there the trail disappeared with nary a trace of where he might have gone. Try as Coban and his Marchers might, there was nothing for them to track. They had lost the last Kestrel.
A few Marchers still continued to search, having faith that their fortunes had to turn at some point. But as time passed their struggles worsened. Although the reivers were no match for the Marchers, Killeran’s warlocks and their use of Dark Magic negated the Marchers’ superiority in arms. As a result, the Highlanders’ hope had deteriorated with each passing year, almost disappearing entirely. Until just a few days ago when their hope had been rekindled and then set ablaze.
Because the Lost Kestrel was no longer lost. The Lost Kestrel had been found.
The rough encampment encircling the Pinnacle had been t
ransformed into a military camp. Coban had taken charge, immediately sending out runners to spread the word. Soon the signal fires that dotted the Highland peaks, dormant for so long, sprang back to life. And as the bagpipes played, their strong notes extending to the farthest reaches of the Kingdom, the Highlanders learned that Thomas Kestrel, grandson of Talyn, had returned. The boy had assumed his grandfather’s place on high as Lord of the Highlands. Moreover, he had gained some measure of revenge, killing the traitor who had betrayed the Highlands and unlocked the Crag, ensuring its fall and the misery that followed, in a duel. By nightfall more Marchers had begun to appear. First in ones and twos, then in droves as the chiefs called to their villages, and their fighters, men and women, responded with vigor and hope.
As they arrived, Coban and the chiefs were there to greet them, directing them to marked locations as the army camp took shape and the training began. The Highlands felt alive once more, and the Marchers had a purpose. They would reclaim their homes and their homeland. Although the last ten years had weakened the Highlanders, their desire and will to earn their freedom had never died. Yet they understood that achieving that objective required completing one task, and the Marchers acknowledged that it would be a challenge, possibly an insurmountable one, for their freedom depended on eliminating the reiver army.
“We don’t have enough Marchers to defend the whole of the Highlands,” complained Renn, a stout Highland chief with a flowing mustache that dropped almost to his chin. “The reivers are too many and we are too few.”
It had been a constant theme for much of the morning, as Thomas sat quietly, listening to his chiefs voice their concerns. Seneca and Nestor had had their say. Renn felt the need to repeat the primary issue. The Marchers did not have enough fighters for a major push against the reivers.
