The Legend of the Kestrel (The Sylvan Chronicles Book 1)

by Peter Wacht

  He mentally kicked himself for being too stubborn to visit her during the year that preceded her death. It was his own stubbornness that had kept him away, and the only person that matched him in stubbornness was Marya. For the thousandth time he told himself he should have gone and made peace with her. But he hadn’t. And he had lost her. Looking across the fire, Rya had risen from her seat and placed Thomas close to the fire, bundling him in several blankets. She sat next to him and watched him sleep. Worrying about the past solved nothing. He had a second chance, and this time he wouldn’t make the same mistake.

  Getting up from his seat on the rock, he wiped a few crumbs of bread from his shirt. He then stretched his back to remove the kinks. He was no longer a young man, and sitting on a hard rock for a long time was not his idea of comfort.

  “You’re going to take a look?” asked Rya quietly, not wanting to disturb her grandson’s slumber.

  He nodded.

  “Be careful,” she said.

  Rynlin smiled at that. She had said it so many times in the past, and he had always come back safely. Yet she still worried about him. Glancing a final time at his grandson, Rynlin walked silently into the brush surrounding the clearing.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Confirmation

  The smell of smoke and burnt wood made it hard to breathe as Rynlin crept noiselessly to the edge of a grove of trees on the plateau holding the Crag. An evening fog covered much of the land, serving as a shroud for what was once the stronghold of the Lord of the Highlands. The forbidding structure had become a wasteland. Thomas’ report that the Crag had been attacked surprised Rynlin. The Crag had never fallen, and the tale-tellers liked to say that it never would. But the tale-tellers had been wrong. What bothered Rynlin even more, though, was that he couldn’t figure out how it happened.

  Because of the Crag’s location, no matter how large the encroaching army, only a small portion of the attacking force could actually march up onto the plateau and attack the stronghold at one time. Even then, the walls were so thick that siege engines or catapults had little effect. The Crag even had its own water supply from a spring running directly into its main well. And knowing Talyn, he had at least a year’s supply of food stored away.

  Rynlin slowly moved east along the edge of the small forest, studying what had once been the greatest fortress in all the Kingdoms. He saw several large holes in the walls, something that only a few days before was inconceivable. Most were large enough for more than a dozen men to walk through standing abreast of one another. Through the holes, Rynlin picked out a few of the buildings of the inner ward. Those made of wood had burned to the ground. Rynlin turned north in his reconnaissance and finally found what he was looking for. The inner wall had also been blown apart, revealing what was left of the main fortress. A single wall remained standing; the rest was a pile of rubble.

  Rynlin became more and more uneasy as he continued his investigation. There was only one weapon that could do that kind of damage to a wall. The Talent, or Dark Magic more likely. In his heart he knew it was Dark Magic. But even then, it would have required more than a dozen warlocks working together. That in itself would have worried him, since anyone using Dark Magic against the Crag did so for only one reason, a reason he didn’t want to consider. That realization sent a shiver of fear through Rynlin. If his assessment proved accurate, the destruction of the Crag was the least of his worries.

  What bothered him more at that moment was the fact that those who had destroyed the Crag were still on the plateau. Maybe not the warlocks, but the others who had attacked the Crag remained. Men were involved. He knew that from the reivers. But his instincts told him something else as well. Then he knew what was wrong. It was so obvious he had completely missed it. The lights. There were no lights. When it was dark, men preferred lights. Rynlin stole a quick glance at one of the holes in the outer curtain. Yes, he was right. Each hole was at least twelve to fifteen feet high. The warlocks had made such large holes for a reason. And doing so required a tremendous amount of strength. There were not many warlocks who could do such a thing on their own, and even working with a dozen or more it would be a tiring exercise. Men didn’t need holes that big to walk through, and they required light during the night. Some other, more dangerous creatures, didn’t.

  Rynlin dove to the ground as the blade of an axe swept through the air where his head had been only a second before. Rolling back to his feet, he heard the massive blade land solidly in a tree. He cursed himself for a fool. He had been so busy trying to figure out how the Crag had fallen that he had not paid enough attention to his surroundings. Ogren! That’s what had conquered the Crag. The reivers were only a small part of it. Once Ogren had gotten inside, the Marchers were doomed. That’s what needed such large holes. That’s what preferred the darkness to the light. And that’s what he fought now.

  The monster roared in anger as it struggled to pull its axe free. Twice the size of a man, its heavily muscled body covered in fur, Ogren were truly hideous creatures. They lacked intelligence, but their strength more than made up for that shortcoming. Their massive shoulders and upper body sometimes proved too heavy for their spines, forcing them to walk hunched over. Their chiseled, beast-like faces looked like they had been carved from rock. Long sharp tusks protruded from their lower lips to curl around their cheeks. Ogren were efficient soldiers. They enjoyed killing, and they ate what they killed. A single man did not willingly fight an Ogren, not if he wanted to live. But Rynlin didn’t have a choice.

  As the Ogren worked its axe free, seemingly oblivious to everything else, Rynlin gathered his will. Extending his hand, a stream of fire shot out, enveloping the Ogren in flames. The creature screamed in agony as its flesh burned. The creature fell to the ground, desperately beating at the fire covering its body. The pieces of armor it had worn had already melted, and bits of charred flesh began to peel away from its body.

  Rynlin trotted deeper into the forest, moving away from the Crag as fast as he could. The beast’s dying screams had brought life to the plateau. Torches had appeared on the inside of the Crag. Someone was coming to investigate. If any warlocks remained here, one look at the Ogren would tell them all they needed to know about the intruder. The thought of taking on the bastards who were responsible for destroying the Crag appealed to him, but being surrounded by Ogren and whatever else had been used to conquer the Crag was not his idea of fun. Besides, if one Ogren was about, then others would be as well. And they loved to hunt at night.

  Several hours later an exhausted Rynlin walked back into the clearing where Thomas lay asleep. Rya still sat by the fire, watching over her grandson. Seeing the dirt covering his clothes and the rip in his breeks from his roll to the ground, Rya rushed to her husband’s side. Satisfied by a quick examination that he was all right, she led her husband over to a rock by the fire before letting him speak.

  “What the boy says is true, Rya. The Crag is destroyed.”

  “But how?” she asked, surprised at hearing the news. Conquered, perhaps, but she couldn’t imagine the Crag actually being destroyed.

  “Dark Magic and Ogren,” was all Rynlin said, and the look of disapproval that Rya gave him told him that she understood. “It looks as if our newfound grandson is the Lord of the Highlands.” He motioned to the sword that Thomas was curled up next to, his small hands actually holding onto the hilt of the large blade. “I don’t think his life will be getting any easier.”

  “I know,” said Rya, “but he doesn’t have to worry about that for a while. Once we get home he’ll be safe.”

  “For a time,” replied Rynlin. “For a time.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Strategy

  The walls of Eamhain Mhacha became visible as Killeran led his weary troop along the dirt road that paralleled the Corazon River. He had thought of taking a boat. That was the easiest way to get from the east to the seat of the High King, ruler of Armagh. But it was not always the fastest depending on the time of year, nor the most
covert. After his meeting with Chertney, he had left the Highlands immediately. The discovery he had made about his fellow conspirator unsettled him. Sane men did not willingly make deals with a master such as Chertney’s, yet Killeran’s current ally had.

  Killeran pushed those thoughts from his mind as he surveyed the fortress sitting atop a massive cliff. The palace of the High King rose above the city and overlooked the Heartland Lake, while the city itself had its own wall that continued along the road leading to the fortress, protecting anyone making the journey between the two. The port jutted out into a small bay, with the city on one end and the cliff on the other. A sea wall ran the length of the bay, except for a small opening that allowed ships to pass through. An additional section of the sea wall could be swung in place to close the opening, effectively sealing the port and fortress from attack.

  The citadel towered over the bay. The cliff rose five hundred feet from base to top. The walls of the fortress added several hundred feet more. In the shape of a perfect circle, three concentric walls protected the main portion of the castle. The first outer curtain stood a hundred feet tall, with the second and third of the same height behind it. If invaders actually made it past the first wall a grass-covered space between that and the second wall awaited them, and again between the second and third. The children living in the bastion often played games there, unaware of the land’s true purpose. The soldiers of Armagh had dubbed the immaculately groomed lawns the Killing Fields. Killeran knew the name was well deserved.

  He had forced his personal guard to ride hard. The Council of the Kingdoms would begin in two days. Most of the rulers of the various lands would gather to discuss everything from trade agreements to border disputes, and Killeran had to meet with the High King before then. Otherwise they would not be able to take advantage of their success in the Highlands. Yet that success would have been even greater if not for Chertney’s failure. Killeran cursed his ill luck. No matter. At least the Kestrels were dead, and if the boy still survived, he would not be alive much longer. Killeran had no doubt regarding the Nightstalker’s deadly skills. As to Chertney’s inability to destroy the Marchers, when Killeran returned to the Highlands he would see to it himself. Once the mining operation was in place and running smoothly, he would not have much else to do. Hunting the last of the Marchers would provide him with a little sport.

  As the gates of the city wall took shape in the distance, Chertney directed his soldiers off the road toward the forest a half-mile away. He wanted to avoid any prying eyes when he entered the city. It had been a hard ride, but he smiled nonetheless. He didn’t care that the many days in the saddle had forced the aches and pains of the road into his bones. The fun was just beginning, and soon, very soon, Killeran would have all the wealth and power he could imagine. Then, perhaps, he could achieve the station in life he so richly deserved.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Unfinished Plans

  It was a room designed to intimidate. Everything in it had been built with that purpose in mind. The large, stained-glass windows depicting battles throughout the ages that ran along the length of the eastern and western walls captured the sunlight, throwing schemes of dazzling colors along the white marble floor. The walls were also made of white marble, brought all the way from the Distant Islands. On the wall above the dais hung a huge tapestry, threaded with the image of Ollav Fola, the first High King, right after he had consolidated the other Kingdoms under his own rule. Some said that Ollav Fola once sat on the very same throne, though it had never been proven. Carved from a block of black granite, the ancient chair stood out starkly against the rest of the room.

  Everything about the chamber spoke of power, except for the man sitting on the throne of Eamhain Mhacha. The Council of the Kingdoms was to begin the next day, and most of those expected to attend had already arrived. But Rodric Tessaril, High King of Armagh, did not care about the other kings and lords. He wanted to see just one then, and his impatience was getting the better of him. The delay was necessary, of course. He knew that. He just didn’t like it. And when things didn’t work out the way he liked, he became irritable, more like a petulant child rather than the ruler of the most powerful of all the Kingdoms.

  He was not a tall man, nor was his frame very imposing. That’s why ceremony and protocol were so important to him. He did not look like a king, and he knew it. Therefore, he made sure that everyone remembered exactly who he was at all times. The dark purple cape he wore over his blue breeches and snow-white shirt concealed his gaunt frame, but it could not hide the feverish gleam of his eyes. With his coarse black hair and ruddy complexion, his features could only be described as plain, and some thought even that was too generous. No one would ever voice their opinions out loud, of course. If overheard, the consequences would be severe, probably deadly.

  Rodric glanced out the windows for the hundredth time, noting the position of the sun and growing even more impatient. His visitor should have arrived by now. Getting someone covertly into the Palace, as he liked to call his fortress, was not a difficult task, it just took time. Finally, after what seemed an unbearably long wait, the large oak doors opened to admit a tall man in a gleaming silver breastplate and snowy white cloak. Rodric smirked. Killeran’s overlarge nose preceded him into the room, yet the Dunmoorian lord didn’t seem to care.

  Killeran strode through the chamber as if he ruled it, stopping at the first step leading up to the throne and bowing perfunctorily. Rodric watched him carefully. The bow had been correct, though perhaps a bit too brief. A sign of disrespect, or something else? Rodric always latched on to the details — the little actions that gave away a person’s thoughts. From them he could often guess the person’s intentions, a skill that had proven useful upon assuming the Armaghian throne.

  “All went well I trust?” asked Rodric, shifting uneasily on his throne. The chair certainly added to his sense of authority, but the hard stone did not make for a very comfortable seat. A cushion would have been a sign of weakness, however.

  “Well, indeed, my lord,” replied Killeran, unable to keep the nervousness from his voice. Killeran viewed Rodric as a weak man, but Rodric still held all the strings. Until Killeran could cut them, he would have to watch his step. It was well known how the High King liked to dispense his peculiar, and often indiscriminate, form of justice.

  “Then the Highlands are mine,” said Rodric, clapping his hands in pleasure. His excitement prevented him from catching the uncertainty evident in Killeran’s voice. His thoughts had already moved to the future. Rodric abruptly stood and began to pace along the edge of the dais, his robe dragging along behind him. “Then the first step is complete. With the Highlands conquered, I have removed a thorn from my side. And once I have the riches hidden in that uninhabitable land, I can take control of the Eastern Kingdoms. After that, putting the Western Kingdoms in my pocket will be an easy task. You have done well, Killeran. I will not forget this. With the Marchers out of the way, no one will be able to stop me.”

  Rodric would have continued, but a quick glance at Killeran’s jittery movements told him that the Dunmoorian had held something back. Rodric stopped in his tracks. “What aren’t you telling me, Killeran?”

  “Nothing to dampen your plans, my lord. Only that Chertney wasn’t as successful as he promised to be.” Killeran hoped that if he phrased it right, the blame would fall squarely at his competitor’s feet.

  “What do you mean?” Killeran saw the vein bulging in Rodric’s forehead. He reminded himself to tread carefully. No one was immune to the High King’s displeasure, not even his children.

  “Well, my king,” he began, taking his time to ensure the words came out properly. “The Crag has fallen, that much is true. Nevertheless, not all of the Marchers were there at the time of the attack. As a result, some escaped to the higher passes.”

  “How many escaped?”

  “It’s hard to say exactly, my lord.” Killeran saw that his answer was not satisfactory. “More than half, mi
lord.”

  “More than half,” repeated Rodric angrily. “You allowed more than five thousand Marchers to escape?”

  “No, my lord,” said Rodric. “Chertney did.”

  “Chertney. Yes, Chertney.” Rodric smiled as he began pacing once more. He was not as easily fooled as some believed. “And you, Killeran? Where were you when this happened? Chertney may have led the attack, but you had the final say in things. Why did you allow this?”

  “Well, my lord,” said Killeran. “I did the best I could. But the Ogren follow Chertney. There was not much I could do.” Rodric stared at Killeran, the vein in his forehead close to bursting. The feverish light in his eyes had turned ice cold.

  “Perhaps,” allowed Rodric. “Perhaps that was the case. With more than half the Marchers still free in the Highlands, taking control of that wretched land will be that much more difficult. But it will be accomplished nonetheless. You will not fail me in this. Will you, Killeran?” The question held an edge of menace. Killeran nodded quickly.

  “No, milord. Have no fear of that.”

  “Good,” said Rodric. “The Marchers may remain, but they will have a hard time putting up any organized resistance with the Kestrels eliminated. That was accomplished, was it not?”

  “Yes, milord,” said Killeran. A thin layer of sweat had formed on his forehead. Many of those who had brought bad news to the High King had never emerged from this chamber alive. Killeran had the feeling that he was very close to joining them. He had weighed withholding this last bit of news, and finally decided that it would do him more harm to hold it back. “For the most part.”