The Lost Kestrel Found (The Sylvan Chronicles Book 6)

by Peter Wacht

  It was then that the cowled attacker comprehended the enormity of his predicament. The boy was stronger than he was. The two streams of white energy had begun to eat away at the edges of the shield of black mist, the white energy slowly consuming the black tendrils, reducing the size of the shield by the second. The cowled figure’s thoughts quickly turned to escape. Needing a distraction, Thomas’ assailant flicked his wrist, a bolt of black energy blasting into the ceiling, several of the already splintered wooden beams breaking apart.

  Thomas leapt to the side, barely avoiding the massive broken joists that crashed to the stone floor. A fog of dust and debris enveloped the hall. Nevertheless, with his sharp vision Thomas saw his attacker rapidly form a portal of swirling black and then step through it. With a crack, the portal closed and silence reigned once more in the Hall of the Highland Lord.

  Thomas stood there in the grey cloud, having released his hold on the Talent. His attacker had escaped, though just barely. That fact annoyed him, but what bothered him more was the sense that there was something about his attacker that had been familiar. That he actually knew his attacker though he saw no more than a black-cloaked figure. He growled in irritation, feeling as if the hint to his dilemma remained just beyond his grasp.

  Letting the problem go for the moment, as the dust finally settled Thomas turned his gaze once more to the stone upon which the Highland Lord traditionally stood. The last Highland Lord to step onto that stone had been his grandfather, Talyn Kestrel. Perhaps one day he would as well. But not yet. Not today. No, he had more pressing matters to attend to. He needed to move faster, thinking that this latest attack was one of desperation. Whether directed by Rodric or the Shadow Lord, he didn’t know and he didn’t care. But clearly whoever had set this latest assassin upon him was nervous. No, now was the time to strike. Now was the time to follow Antonin’s advice, which had just proven useful, once again. Now was the time to attack.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Things to Do

  Garlan rubbed absently at the rough scar that marred his face. It ran from his ear down the right side to his chin and even after all these years continued to irritate him, the perpetually dry skin a constant bother. Once he had been handsome, some would even say debonair, and many of the young ladies living in Ballinasloe welcomed him, but not anymore. Now they said he grew violent the more he drank, and as the years passed he drank more and more. But he ignored what they said, knowing the truth. Knowing that the wound he had received so many years before had destroyed more than his once handsome visage.

  He had served Fal Carrach faithfully for years, risking his life for the Kingdom. Yet all he had received in return was pain. He should have been the Swordmaster by now, but that path had been blocked by Kael Bellilil, that Highland usurper who had multiple reasons to return to his homeland but still chose to remain here. Garlan had earned that position, deserved to be Swordmaster, at least in his own mind, through years of hard work and sacrifice with very little given in return.

  Garlan pushed these all-too-common thoughts away, a constant nag that never seemed to leave him. The anger that often followed these recurrent, bitter reasonings would be a detriment, as would the drink that he so desperately desired but temporarily resisted, to what he needed to do next.

  He had never expected to be called into the presence of the Princess of Fal Carrach. Much less be told that there was a threat to the crown and that he must take certain steps to prevent this threat from becoming reality. He grinned ruefully. And he had never expected the princess to have such strength and determination. There was more of her father in her than he had imagined.

  Perhaps this was the opportunity he was seeking. A way to improve his position after years of unsuccessful and unnoticed attempts at demonstrating his value. After all, often loyalty could be bought at the right price.

  Yet the audience with the princess worried him for other reasons as well. Who was that other woman standing behind the princess? She was striking. No, striking didn’t do her justice. There was something quite appealing about her, in a dangerous sort of way.

  Garlan shook his head, clearing his thoughts as he strode quickly down the hallway toward the guards’ quarters. No matter. And no time to ponder. He had things to do. Then once they were completed, he would walk into Ballinasloe to his favorite tavern and have that drink he so desperately needed and deserved.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Surprise Attack

  More than one hundred reivers stepped carefully through the woods, avoiding the crunch and crack of broken branches or dry leaves as much as possible, silently closing in on the small Highland village with the goal of springing their trap before the inhabitants awoke. The sun had just begun to brighten the sky to the east, the night-time dew soaking into their boots and leggings as they tread through the long grass and underbrush. They wanted to hurry, knowing that time worked against them and that they may have already lost the advantage of surprise. Still, they hesitated. The reivers had ruled much of the Highlands as their own for almost a decade, but in just the last year their supremacy had begun to disintegrate.

  As a result, to a man they were wary, spending as much time scanning the village for movement as the forest surrounding them. They had heard the stories from their comrades. The sudden strikes. Marchers attacking lightning fast and without mercy, before sliding back between the trees and disappearing, rarely giving the reivers an opportunity to fight back.

  But today, though still nervous and a little on edge, they felt more confident. They had spent the last hour approaching the village and their attempted stealth appeared to have paid off. All remained quiet among the Highland homes that lined the beaten down path leading into the hidden valley. In addition, just behind the reivers stood two short men draped in black cloaks. The cloaks covered them so completely that only their eyes, black orbs that glowed in even the slightest light, were visible. Warlocks. The warlocks were the reason the reivers had succeeded for so long in the Highlands, stealing the hidden riches of the land and enslaving its people. The Marchers had no defense against their Dark Magic.

  Two scouts emerged from the forest just in front of the largest reiver, a broad-shouldered, hardened soldier with a scar that ran the length of his forehead down the right side of his face and continued beneath his collar. He viewed the scar as a mark of honor and ability. The man who had caused the gruesome injury had died, and he had not.

  “Anything?” asked the tall reiver, gripping the hilt of his sword in anticipation.

  Smoke had begun to rise through the chimneys of several of the small homes, the village beginning to awaken as the Highlanders started their morning cook fires. But no one had emerged onto the small village green yet. For a brief moment a pang of worry rushed through the reiver captain. He had expected at least one or two guards, yet none had been seen.

  Perhaps this close to the taller peaks of the Highlands the Marchers didn’t expect the reivers to make an appearance. Admittedly he and his men preferred the relative safety of the lower Highlands, as it was too easy to get cut off in the higher passes, giving the Marchers the opportunity to hound them and whittle down the reivers’ superior numbers one by one. But the easier pickings to be found in the lower Highlands had dried up. It was as if the Highlanders had simply disappeared in the fog and mist that continually plagued these mountain peaks. Thus, the reason the reiver captain had been forced to take his men higher into the mountains in search of more slaves.

  “No, Boru,” answered one of the scouts. “All quiet, but likely not for long.”

  “Then let’s get to it,” said the reiver captain, motioning for his men to tighten the noose.

  The warlocks stepped forward as well, standing behind Boru and sending a shiver through his body. Courageous to the point of being fearless in battle, Boru nevertheless feared the two creatures at his back. They felt like predators breathing down the back of his neck, and that unnerved him. At one time these creatures may have been men. But he didn�
�t think they were now. They had become something else, something to fear, something less than human. Stories being what they were, he assumed that some of the tales about how they had obtained their Dark Magic had to have a few kernels of truth in them. But even if these stories contained just a few kernels, that was enough to keep a constant prickle of alarm flowing up and down his spine as he made use of their nefarious but useful skills.

  Reaching the very edge of the clearing, Boru raised his sword, then slashed it down through the air. The reivers immediately charged into the Highland village, yelling and screaming, brandishing their swords, maces, and axes, hoping to terrorize the Highlanders and create chaos, thereby making their victory all the easier. Well versed in their task, the large raiding party broke into small groups as they stormed into the houses, knocking down doors and setting several of the homes on fire. The attack lasted only a few minutes, and as soon as it began Boru concluded that something was wrong. With exclamations of surprise and angry curses, the reivers assembled once more on the small village green at the center of the clearing, not a single captive in hand.

  “Not a soul, Boru,” said one of the reivers, spitting into the grass in anger. “It was made to look like the village was inhabited, what with the cook fires and all, but no one’s here.”

  The arrows flew through the early morning shadows with a terrifying hiss before Boru could give any thought to that fateful discovery. Wave after wave, whistling through the air, darting between the trees and slicing into the reivers. Boru, the largest and most obvious target, felt the brunt of the attack. Three arrows sprouted from his chest in quick succession, driving him backwards. As his strength left him, he fell onto his back on the soft grass, watching his men drop around him, cries of pain, anguish, and fear rising up all across the green. Although even the smallest of movements proved a struggle his mind continued to work, telling him that the Marchers had planned the ambush well, pulling it off perfectly.

  Boru glanced up as the two warlocks walked forward seemingly unafraid of the attack. A hail of arrows fell upon them, yet not a single one struck home, deflected by swirling shields of black mist that had formed around them as soon as the first arrow had punctured Boru’s chest. He held out hope that the warlocks could regain control of the situation and give his few surviving men a fighting chance.

  Then to his shock two bolts of white energy burst from the edge of the clearing, blasting through the warlocks’ shields and driving through their bodies, their Dark Magic instantly disintegrating into a black dust that slowly disappeared. The two cowled figures stood their ground for a moment longer, steam rising from their chests, small fires beginning to burn on their cloaks and shirts, before they pitched forward, dead before they hit the dirt.

  As darkness encroached on Boru, a coldness seeping into his body, he realized to his chagrin that his friends had been correct. Something stirred in the Highlands. Something deadly.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Helping Hand

  Catal Huyuk grunted from the strain, the corded muscles in his arms bulging from the effort of keeping the rusted blade from slicing into his chest. He had tracked this handful of Ogren for the entire day, waiting for them to make camp for the night. Then, once they had settled in for the evening, he had planned to sneak into their midst and slit their throats. Not the most gallant approach, but certainly the most effective. Moreover, it would mean five fewer Ogren killing and rampaging through the countryside.

  He had left the Ogren to their tasks, moving a good distance away to wait until nightfall. But his plan had fallen apart when two other Ogren had appeared behind him out of the brush. They were as surprised to see him as he was to see them. He should have expected as much, knowing that the Charnel Mountains were filled with Ogren and other dark creatures, many seeking to cross the Northern Steppes and cause havoc in the Highlands. But he had been so focused on the group that he had been tracking that he had let his guard down.

  The mountain of a man had acted instinctually, drawing his dagger and stabbing one creature in the eye, killing it instantly. At the same time he swung his massive battle ax in a deadly arc, trying to disable the other Ogren by taking its leg off at the knee. The Ogren had shown unexpected dexterity, jumping over the strike and lunging at him with a growl. The beast’s momentum knocked Catal Huyuk to the ground, which had led to his current predicament. He had managed to get his battle ax up in front of him, holding it like a staff when the Ogren swung its massive sword down, seeking to cleave him in two. He had caught the blow with his battle ax’s handle, but the advantage remained with the Ogren, which used its bulk to continue to push down on Catal Huyuk, forcing the breath from his body as the hilt of his battle ax came closer and closer to the tip of his nose, and with it the pitted and corrupted steel of the Ogren’s sword.

  The Ogren roared in triumph, sensing victory, its sword slowly, ever so slowly, inching its way toward its target. Catal Huyuk struggled for breath, spots beginning to dance in front of his eyes. He heard the answering roar of another Ogren off in the distance, and he assumed that the party of dark creatures he had been following were hurrying this way to join in the fun. Catal Huyuk berated himself for allowing his overconfidence to get the better of him. This was not how things were supposed to work.

  Close to losing consciousness, and knowing that if he did so his fate was sealed, he gathered his legs beneath him and with a last burst of strength pushed off the ground, dislodging the Ogren and sending it flying into the brush. Before the Ogren could disentangle itself from the thorns and grasping vines common to the Charnel Mountains, Catal Huyuk lunged at the beast. He twisted the grip of his battle ax so that the half-moon blade faced away and the long spike that protruded from the other side of the weapon faced downward. Then, using the last reserves of his strength, he raised the battle ax above his head and swung down, the spike impaling the Ogren to the rocky ground.

  Gasping for air, Catal Huyuk took several deep breaths to steady himself. That damn Daran! The red-haired Sylvan Warrior, always ready with a joke and never seeming to take anything seriously, was supposed to have met him here among the southern peaks of the Charnel Mountains several days ago. But he had never appeared. What could have happened to him, he didn’t know. If that scoundrel hadn’t died making his way here, Catal Huyuk would make him wish that he had.

  Hearing a rustle in the trees behind him, the Sylvan Warrior pulled his ax free and turned to face his next opponent. As he feared, the Ogren he had been tracking had heard the roar of its now dead ally and had decided to investigate. The first of the Ogren rushed forward, sword held above its head for a quick killing downstroke. Rather than hold his ground, Catal Huyuk charged toward the beast, rolling beneath the strike and with a backward swing slicing through the thick muscle of the beast’s hamstrings with his battle ax. The Ogren howled in pain and surprise as it toppled to the ground, unable to push itself back to its feet.

  Catal Huyuk rose to his feet faster than a man his size should be able to and continued his rush forward as a second Ogren stomped from between the stunted trees. The beast blocked the Sylvan Warrior’s overhead strike, catching the ax’s blade on its shield, but it missed the foot-long dagger that Catal Huyuk drove into its gut. The Ogren’s strength quickly evaporated as Catal Huyuk pulled his dagger free. The beast sank to its knees, blood gushing from the puncture in its belly as it collapsed face first onto the uneven ground.

  The Sylvan Warrior quickly stepped back to the center of the small clearing to gain room to maneuver, hearing more rustling among the trees. Much as he expected, the remaining three Ogren stepped into the glade. But these three were less impetuous than their now dead fellows. They had demonstrated rare caution and entered the clearing from three different sides, effectively encircling him. One Ogren let out a roar of triumph. The other two stared at him, intent on their prey, hunger in their eyes.

  Catal Huyuk shook his head in resignation. Perhaps he would be dinner after all. His battle ax had grown hea
vier in his hands, his already diminished energy ebbing as the fight continued. He had killed four Ogren, but the effort had taken a toll. He was exhausted and his strength was waning. But he refused to be easy meat. He turned slowly as the three Ogren circled around him, taking their time, enjoying the chance to play with their prey. As the Ogren went round and round, calling to themselves in grunts and a guttural language that Catal Huyuk couldn’t understand, the circle tightened. Wiping the sweat from his brow with a sleeve, he gripped his battle ax tightly in one hand, the dagger in the other, waiting for what he knew would come next. The three Ogren would attack at the same time, giving him no chance to evade his former prey. He was fast, but not fast enough for such an onslaught. He knew how this fight would end. Still, he wanted to take at least one more Ogren with him before he died. Hoping for two would likely be too much.

  One of the Ogren roared, and Catal Huyuk took that to mean that the final attack was about to begin. The two Ogren on his sides charged forward, their speed surprising for creatures of such size. He turned to face the first, axe and dagger ready to strike, when a spear-like bolt of white hot energy sizzled through the air, striking the Ogren in the chest and burning its way through its body. Silence descended on the glade as the two Ogren stared in disbelief as their comrade fell dead into the underbrush with a loud crash.

  Catal Huyuk grinned, then spun around and charged the Ogren that had planned to attack him from behind. Another bolt of energy slashed through the air, but Catal Huyuk ignored it, having eyes only for the Ogren that stood before him. The beast was too slow, its surprise at the quick turn of events hampering its movements. The Ogren tried to raise its sword in time but failed to do so, as the Sylvan Warrior drove the half-moon blade of his battle ax into the creature’s chest and almost out through its back. The Ogren collapsed, dead before it struck the sooty soil.