by Peter Wacht
Thomas and Beluil waited until the moon moved well across the sky before making their move. It was simple, really, as he silently stepped among the large, dark shapes and Beluil stood guard, watching for any sudden movements. Using his dagger, Thomas slit their throats with nary a sound. It wasn’t the most honorable form of combat, but it was effective. Thomas had learned long before that when you drew steel, you fought to survive. How you accomplished that really didn’t matter, as long as you lived to fight another day.
He had just eliminated the last Ogren when Beluil growled softly. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a shadow gliding along the edge of the gully. The moon dominated the sky that night and the wind remained still. None of the other shadows created by the branches and bushes that encroached on the gully stirred. Rising from his crouch, Thomas pretended to keep his attention on the final Ogren. A deep growl issued from Beluil’s maw as the shadow came closer. Thomas communicated to his friend to stay quiet and still. Beluil obeyed, albeit reluctantly.
The evil emanating from the Ogren disappeared, but a new one replaced it and steadily grew stronger. The shadow crept closer. Sweat streaked down Thomas’ face as he waited with his back turned. The feeling of evil increased as the shadow moved at a snail’s pace along the edge of the gully. Thomas watched from the corner of his eye, but still he waited. Beluil wanted to strike, and the large wolf tensed, ready to launch himself at the approaching shadow. Thomas ordered him to wait. It was not an easy thing for a wolf to do.
The shadow continued to inch along the tree line, blending in with the darkness. At times, Thomas could just make it out. But he didn’t have to see it to know where it was. The feeling of evil intensified as it ever so slowly glided closer. The muscles in Thomas’ hand itched to grasp his sword as the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He waited, though, ignoring the cold sweat running down his brow. The shadow drifted across the open space, approaching him from behind.
The blood pounded in Thomas’ head, his mind screaming for him to do something — anything! He remained still, not yet making a move. The shadow was almost upon him, now no more than a few paces away. Just a little closer. Just one more step. In a single motion Thomas pulled his sword from its scabbard and whipped around, swinging the blade in a high, curving arc. A single moment of resistance jolted his arm before the blade continued smoothly on its course. The shadow crumpled at his feet. Beluil leaped forward, prepared to attack if Thomas had failed to strike true. The moonlight revealed an attacker dressed all in black with a black, steel sword in its hand.
A Shade. Thomas had sliced cleanly through its neck. The body convulsed a few times before finally lying still. Beluil watched it warily until he was certain that it no longer posed a threat. The head had landed a few paces away, coming to stand right side up. Thomas had seen only a handful of Shades in his lifetime and was glad for it. Deadly fighters, they reminded him of a snake. Their sinuous yet graceful movements could trick the eye, and a single touch from their swords meant death.
The taletellers said that Shades had once been men, but that the Shadow Lord had changed them with his Dark Magic. If they had once been human, there was no longer any sign of it. From a distance a Shade appeared as any other man, with long, dark hair and black clothes. Yet, their skin held a ghoulish cast. And their eyes always gave them away. Their milky white, soulless eyes. Thomas didn’t sleep for two days after that encounter, his nerves still on edge. Where he found the fortitude to stand with his back turned to a Shade he didn’t know.
Turning north a few days after entering the Highlands, and then east once again to make his way back to the coast, Thomas decided that his normal prey had taken to ground, so he adjusted his sights. Whenever dark creatures absented themselves from the Highlands, Thomas instead spent his time hunting reivers. It was remarkable, really. These enemy soldiers occupied a land in which they had failed to conquer the inhabitants, yet they often wandered around as if it was their own, not recognizing the dangers presented by the Marchers and the terrain until it was too late.
His poor luck held, however. He normally found reivers in the foothills, but not this time. Disappointed, Thomas had almost made it back to the coast when he sensed Dark Magic to the west. He immediately went in that direction, moving from the foothills to the higher elevations. The darkness that clouded his senses every time he came in contact with Dark Magic originated several leagues away, and he knew the cause.
Warlocks, which meant a raiding party. But why would they risk searching for Marchers outside of the foothills? The higher passes still belonged to the Highlanders. Whoever made the decision to come this far took a huge risk, which meant Killeran was desperate. You couldn’t run the mines without workers, and only his need for more explained this course of action.
The Dark Magic of the warlocks felt very much like the evil Thomas sensed when Ogren or Shades entered the Highlands, but this darkness was more twisted, and more subtle, as if some experiment had gone terribly wrong. He had only come face to face with a warlock once before, when he accompanied Rynlin on a trip to the Breaker. The feeling of wrongness that came from the warlock never left Thomas. Just thinking of the experience made him feel corrupt and dirty.
It didn’t take long for Thomas to locate the source of the Dark Magic. He made good time coming up through the foothills and now stood on a cliff several hundred feet above a Highland steppe laced with ravines and crevices on its northern face. Gusts of cold wind sent shivers through his body, so he unwrapped his dark green cloak and slipped it around his shoulders, securing it beneath his neck. After waiting a few minutes, a flash of movement below him caught his eye.
About a mile away a group of women and children exited the trees. Most walked hunched over, too tired to think, only concerned about where they placed their feet. They didn’t bother to scout the surrounding countryside. No, he was wrong. There was a boy with them, leading the group along the floor of the ravine toward a pass that paralleled the steppe and led higher into the mountains. Large boy, rather. Though he was a mile or more away, with his heightened vision Thomas saw that this boy, who looked to be about his own age, was probably the same height as Rynlin with much broader shoulders. He too walked with weary steps, but that didn’t stop him from glancing off to the sides every few seconds, looking for any movement. He must be the leader. If so, then it could mean only one thing.
Killeran’s reivers had raided another village. These Highlanders had come a long way obviously, but unfortunately not far enough. The evil of the warlocks Thomas had been following approached rapidly from the same direction the weary troop had just come.
Thomas knelt down next to a cluster of rocks situated near the edge of the cliff. He would never get down there in time to help. Pounding his hand against the rock in frustration, he could only watch. He didn’t have long to wait. Less than a minute later the pounding of horses’ hooves echoed through the ravine. The boy knew exactly what was happening, but he had few options. Before he even saw his attackers, he ordered his people to scatter. A smart move on his part. Those who made it to the trees on either side would greatly improve their chances of escape. As his people ran for cover, the boy stood in the center of the ravine, his sword drawn.
The fastest of the Highlanders had reached the trees when the first reiver galloped into the ravine. Thomas sighed. A few would escape, but not many. They were just too tired, weighed down by the stress and fear they carried with them. The boy immediately placed himself in front of the reiver. It was a futile gesture, but one that Thomas admired. He certainly had courage.
The large boy never had a chance to make use of his sword. The horsemen avoided him and instead went after the women and children, the easiest prey. Recognizing what was happening, the boy ran toward one reiver who had jumped from his horse and grabbed the wrist of a woman clutching a small child to her breast. She struggled valiantly, just a few steps from the trees and freedom. The reiver never knew what hit him as the boy split his head in tw
o, then gave the woman a push into the forest.
When the boy turned, another reiver charged toward him. The boy let out a yell that even Thomas could hear, a cry that tugged at his heart, that demanded that he do something! But he couldn’t. Not yet. He had considered using the Talent, but there were at least three warlocks with this band of reivers, and even more in the general area. He was certain he could defeat the three, but it would weaken him greatly. If the other warlocks came upon him in such a state, he wouldn’t stand a chance. He could offer no help now, but perhaps later. If the boy survived.
The reiver charging toward the boy stopped just out of his reach, and instead of pulling out a sword, pointed his hand at the boy. A warlock. Thomas felt the Dark Magic being manipulated in the ravine below. In seconds, the boy slumped to the ground unconscious. With the only threat removed, the reivers made quick work of the remaining Highlanders. Thomas guessed that half of the group reached the safety of the forest. A few of the reivers went after them, but they would have little luck finding them. At least the boy’s brave stand wasn’t in vain.
The reivers placed chains around the hands of the women and older children they had captured, not bothering with the youngest. Thomas saw the look of defeat on the captives’ faces, their hope for freedom extinguished by the steel collars fixed around their necks and the long metal chain that attached one to the other. In only a few minutes it was over. The reivers headed back in the direction they had come with thirty captives trailing along behind them, with the boy tied to the back of the dead reiver’s horse.
It was almost too much for Thomas to bear. This was his home, and his people! Thomas gripped the rocks in front of him, his knuckles white from the strain. He had to do something. He couldn’t just sit there and watch. As the reivers disappeared from view, Thomas rose from his place on the cliff and trotted off to the northwest, paralleling their course. Tracking the reivers would be simple; just follow the evil of the warlocks.
Thomas matched his pace to that of his quarry, remaining well off to the west to prevent any chance of discovery. He stayed on his present course for several hours, until the sun began to drop in the sky. The reivers had stopped moving. Thomas wiped his forearm across his brow, removing some of the sweat that formed there. His pursuit had warmed him, so he again tied his cloak into a bundle and carried it across his back with his other supplies. He took a few sips from his water sack before stuffing everything except his sword under two large, column-like rocks, their tops balancing one another to form an oddly shaped entranceway.
He doubted the reivers he pursued would patrol this far to the west, but there was no reason to leave anything to chance. Thomas headed off into the forest, treading silently. Ari, one of his trainers, had spent many hours showing him how to walk across the forest floor without disturbing the branches, twigs or leaves. Thomas excelled at it. His grandfather once joked that Thomas could sneak up on the High King himself after walking five miles on dead branches and leaves, swipe the crown from his head and make his way back to where he started with no one the wiser. Rynlin wasn’t far from the truth.
Thomas took his time as he approached. He could now hear clearly the reivers’ voices. Though nothing was visible yet, it was louder than it should be. It sounded like this band of reivers had met up with another. The feeling of evil that Thomas had tracked came from just ahead. He continued to step forward on silent feet, then stopped.
Through the trees Thomas saw the campfires of the reivers, most of whom sat around them talking or eating. The prisoners were nowhere in sight, and that worried him. He was about to move closer when the crack of a twig off to his left froze his right foot just above the ground. Reluctant to make any motion, even moving his head just a fraction, Thomas instead used his peripheral vision to find the source of the noise.
A reiver stood off to his left, no more than ten feet away. The man leaned casually against a tree and spent more time looking in toward the camp, attracted by the activity at the fires, than outward. Thomas berated himself for not paying more attention to his surroundings. More foolishness on his part would do little to help the Highland captives and would most likely lead to his death.
That was something he wanted to avoid. He had a feeling that Rya’s anger could transcend a simple obstacle such as death. Thomas was about to step backwards when he felt a tickle beneath his nose. The tickle quickly became almost unbearable. Thomas resisted the urge to scratch his upper lip with his finger, standing there for more than a minute, balanced on one foot, trying not to give in to his desire to sneeze. Thankfully the feeling faded away.
Then he smiled. If this guard was any model, the reivers weren’t expecting an attack. That was good. It would make his job easier. Much easier. Thomas looked a final time at the guard to his left before silently stepping backward, taking extra time to ensure absolute silence. A few minutes later he was well away from the camp.
He set off at a trot through the forest, going back to the strangely shaped rocks and pulling his travel bag from beneath them. He’d wait until it was early morning, when the guards struggled against sleep. Then the fun would begin.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Silent Approach
The bright light of the full moon lit the reivers’ camp as if it were early morning, offering a false sense of security to those within. The sentries had allowed the large cook fires to die down, until they were no more than smoldering ashes. Though the darkness dissipated somewhat, the shadows remained, and it was the shadows that Thomas skillfully used as he circled the camp.
He waited until well past midnight before silently reconnoitering the forest. The leader of this particular band of reivers had placed a ring of guards one hundred feet into the forest. Even with the trees to hide behind, Thomas saw them clearly in the moonlight and easily avoided them. Besides, at this time in the morning, most of the guards were too busy trying to stay awake. Rather than warning of potential danger, the quiet of the forest lulled them into a comfortable daze. Thomas had considered killing them, then discarded the idea. He didn’t know when the guards changed. If the next set of reivers found the bodies, or didn’t see the men they were to replace, before he left camp, then this escape would fail.
The reivers set up their camp just as Thomas had expected. The cook fires formed a loose circle that served as the perimeter of the camp with squads of reivers curled up in their blankets around each one. A small cook fire segregated from the rest held a handful of sleeping men. Thomas assumed the warlocks stayed there, away from the others. Beyond the outer perimeter of fires and off to one side was a small tent. Whoever led the expedition probably slept there. On the other side a tiny, lonely fire flickered atop a small hillock. Several dozen bodies huddled around it. The women and children captured in the raid most likely.
After Thomas quietly passed through the outer ring of guards picketed in the forest, he stopped at the edge of the firelight and waited just within the trees. Most of the sentries were asleep, making his task that much easier. He stood there in the shadows for several more minutes, getting a feel for the tempo of the camp. The cool caress of the breeze felt good against his face. Despite the ease with which he passed through the picket line, on the inside his nerves threatened to get the better him, the cold sweat running down his back confirming it. Whoever led this raiding party was either much too confident or a fool. Having only a thin outer line of sentries was a huge mistake, and one that Thomas happily capitalized on.
Dropping to his stomach in the tall grass, Thomas entered the camp, dragging himself across the ground on his elbows and knees. The tall grass concealed him perfectly, and in a matter of minutes, he passed the cook fires and sleeping reivers and made his way into the center of the camp. The dew on the grass soaked through his clothes, and this time the cool breeze chilled him, but it was a small price to pay for his current success. Thomas remained where he was for several long minutes, looking for any sign of unexpected movement, listening for the wrong sound.
/> He considered the possible need for a diversion once he freed the captives so they could reach the forest safely. The easiest way to do that, of course, was to use the Talent. A few bolts of energy certainly would cause the panic required. Unfortunately, he couldn’t chance it with a half dozen warlocks less than a hundred feet away. Not unless he was left with no other choice. As soon as Thomas drew on the Talent, the warlocks would know, and his great escape would become a grand failure.
No, he’d have to do it the hard way. First he needed the keys since the reivers had chained the women and children together. Again, he could use the Talent, but even the tiny amount of energy required to break the shackles could arouse the warlocks because of their proximity. Though the idea of taking on those lifeless bastards appealed to him, he had no right to further risk the lives of those he meant to free.
Satisfied that no one had stirred, Thomas pulled himself up and crouched low to the ground. Once he got past the campfires, he only had a short distance of open ground to cross to reach the prisoners. Moving back into the shadows of the darkened tent, he surveyed the open space before the hillock. Thomas jumped back in surprise as a dark shape loomed up in front of him.
“What the—”
Not giving the reiver time to finish his sentence, Thomas stabbed with his dagger. The sharp steel slid effortlessly between the links of the man’s armor and found his heart. At the same time, Thomas clamped his hand over the man’s mouth to prevent the reiver from screaming a warning. Thomas remained in that position until the man’s strength gave out, sapped by the steel of the dagger. As the reiver’s knees weakened, Thomas lowered him to the ground. He waited a full minute before removing his hand. Lifeless eyes stared back at him as he wiped his dagger on the man’s sleeve. Thomas ignored the accusation he saw. After what they had done to his homeland, reivers deserved little sympathy. Thomas dragged the body behind the tent, thankful for the damp grass, which simplified his task.