by Wacht, Peter
Thomas smiled at him. “No. That would leave things no better than they are now. Probably worse, in fact. As I said, the Council of the Kingdoms can decide the next ruler of Armagh.”
“That one could cause a great deal of trouble,” said Rynlin. “She seems just like her father, but more confident and smarter. Describing her as cunning doesn’t do her justice.”
“Indeed, my lord,” agreed Toreal, visibly relaxing when he realized that these Marchers, though frightening and powerful, were quite different from his former monarch. “She’s more dangerous than her father, more devious. With the former High King what he wished to take was obvious from the start. With his daughter, you won’t know what she wishes to take until she’s taken it.”
“An astute observation,” said Rynlin. “How long have you served as chamberlain, Toreal?”
“More than three decades, my lord.”
“Did you enjoy your service to Rodric as High King?”
Toreal hesitated. The natural inclination to guard his words after years of serving Rodric remained strong. But he chose to answer honestly, continuing to sense something different in these Highlanders. Besides, the tall one with the dark beard speckled with grey scared him. He felt certain that if he were to lie that one would sniff it out in an instant.
“No, my lord. I did not.”
“And the others serving here in the Keep. Did they enjoy their service to Rodric?”
“No, my lord. They did not.”
“Then why did you stay? Why not just leave?”
Toreal never hesitated in his response. “This is my home, my lord. Our home. We care about the city, about Armagh. Rodric was a difficult man to serve, but I love my city, my Kingdom, even when those ruling it are more interested in their own personal gain rather than helping and protecting the people of the Kingdom.”
“Can the people here be trusted to do what is best for Armagh?”
Toreal looked at the tall man standing behind the Highland Lord. His eyes burned with an intensity that frightened him, but the chamberlain sensed no malice from him. He did sense power, real power, much as he discerned it from the Highland Lord. Still, he didn’t fear these men. Despite having just met them, he respected them.
“Yes, my lord. If given the opportunity, they would do what was best for Armagh.”
“And you, Toreal. If given the opportunity, would you do what was best for Armagh?” The Lord Kestrel’s gaze remained fixed upon him, the question a challenge.
Toreal pushed his shoulders back, standing proudly. “Yes, my lord. I would.”
Thomas nodded in satisfaction, acknowledging the truth in the chamberlain’s words. “Toreal, in a few days I’ll be leaving Eamhain Mhacha in pursuit of Rodric. The former High King, with the assistance of Lord Chertney, has reached a small army of Shades and Ogren that have snuck down from the Armaghian Mountains. Most likely he will be coming back here to retake the fortress. I won’t let that happen. When I leave, several of the wounded Marchers will remain here to help you.”
“Me, my lord?” exclaimed Toreal in shock, not understanding.
“Yes, you. You will administer Eamhain Mhacha. Make sure that the people are fed, that they receive the services they need. Make this city what it once was.”
“But, my lord, I can’t …”
The sharpness of Thomas’ voice cut him off. “Toreal, you have been doing this for thirty years from the shadows. The only difference now is that you’ll be doing it in the light. You said Eamhain Mhacha is your home. Its people are your people. Will you accept this commission?”
Slowly a smile spread across Toreal’s face, the small chamberlain standing tall once more, feeling a weight lift from his shoulders despite knowing the many challenges that he faced.
“Yes, my lord, with all my heart. I will make you proud, my lord.”
“Make the people of Eamhain Mhacha and Armagh proud, Toreal. That’s all I ask.”
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
Wildcard
“Can we trust him?” asked Thomas, watching the chamberlain leave with a new energy in his step, shoulders back, head held high.
“Yes, I believe we can,” answered Rynlin. “He seems an honest man, and I think he wants to serve an honest ruler for a change.”
“I believe him as well,” said Oso, nodding his head in agreement. “His Kingdom comes first.”
“Then let’s turn our attention to the next task at hand,” said Thomas. He moved to a table placed at the back of the throne room, a large map held down by knives, points in each corner, displaying Armagh and the surrounding Kingdoms.
“Aric led his Marchers through the tunnel Rodric and Chertney used to escape,” began Oso. “When they reached the base of the keep, they were both gone, along with the small army of Ogren and Shades that had hidden there.”
“How strong?” asked Rynlin.
“At least a few hundred Ogren. Aric tracked them for several leagues. They’re moving to the southeast, likely toward where Brennios has placed his Home Guard in anticipation of an attack on Armagh’s eastern border.”
“Add that to the more than a thousand Ogren I found coming down from the mountains and heading for the same location,” said Rynlin.
“And if these three groups link up?” asked Thomas, already knowing the answer.
“Then they come right back at us,” replied Oso with a cold certainty. “We’re too few to hold off that many for more than a few days, and it will take too long for Gregory and his Fal Carrachian soldiers to reach us.”
Rynlin cut in. “So we fight here in Eamhain Mhacha, put on a splendid defense, but are gradually whittled down to nothing because of our lack of numbers. We die, Rodric has Armagh once more, and he can send his Ogren and Shades against Gregory when he brings his army across the border.”
“That doesn’t really appeal to me,” said Thomas.
“Nor me,” agreed Oso.
“All the while the Shadow Lord strengthens his forces in the Charnel Mountains in preparation for his attack on the Kingdoms,” continued Rynlin. “We’re already dead, and Fal Carrach and the Highlands are weakened. Not a pleasant scenario.”
Thomas stood there for several minutes, studying the map in silence. The key was Rodric’s army of Ogren and Shades. Remove them from the board and the game would change. He would have more options to choose from and fewer risks to worry about. So why not do just that? Why not make a move that Rodric and Chertney would not expect? And in so doing perhaps add a wildcard to the mix that could give him a much-needed advantage.
“As Rynlin noted, if we allow this scenario to run its course, Rodric wins. We lose, he retakes the capital, and then he just waits for the Shadow Lord to come over the Breaker before he ventures out to mop up whatever of the eastern Kingdoms’ forces remain. That doesn’t work for me.”
“Then what do you suggest?” asked Oso, his hand massaging the hilt of his sword. Thomas knew it to be a nervous habit, his friend not liking uncertainty. The large Highlander preferred knowing what needed to be done, and then going out and doing just that.
“We change the game,” replied Thomas.
“With our couple hundred Marchers, how do you propose we do that?” asked Oso.
“All in good time, my friend. But first, Rynlin, could you do me a favor?”
CHAPTER THIRTY
True Colors
The bedraggled, bone-tired, former High King rode his horse poorly, not paying attention to the grassy plain he and his small army of dark creatures crossed in search of the Armaghian Home Guard. The events of the last few days continued to haunt him. The loss of his capital and his Kingdom. His plans in ruin. All because of that blasted boy!
But he still could salvage the situation. He could regain what he lost. His eyes glinted with a feverish light as he struggled to maintain some consistency in thought, his mind turning furiously from one topic to the next with no semblance of order. Finally, some form of sanity returned. Mumbling to himself, he reviewed what
he would do to all who had betrayed him during his ill-fated expedition into the Highlands. The pain and suffering that he would inflict on those who had failed him so badly and on those stupid enough to oppose him. Then his thoughts shifted to his new circumstances. He had revealed his alliance to the Shadow Lord prior to the battle against the Marchers and those traitorous Kingdoms that had declared their support for that upstart boy rather than him. Fools! Every one of them would pay the price for that disloyalty.
Yes, he had divulged the master he had served faithfully for more than a decade. But rather than feeling fear or worry because of that revelation, he instead felt lighter, as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. He no longer had to lie or dissemble. He was free to do as he wanted, act as he wanted. Besides, there were other advantages now that he had declared himself.
Rodric smiled grimly, looking at the monstrous Ogren as they trotted easily next to his and Chertney’s horses, the Shades gliding in front of them. No one in their right mind would take on such a force. With his small host of dark creatures paired with the Home Guard, he could recapture Eamhain Mhacha with little effort. Then all he would have to do is wait. His enemies would come to him.
So what if that traitor Gregory crossed the border and threatened from the east? So what if the Desert Clans descended from the north? That insolent Highland pest and his Marchers had gained access to Eamhain Mhacha through stealth. That would not work again. Rodric would be prepared for any new trickery. Once he recaptured his city, he and his men would just have to wait for his master to get past the Breaker. Once the Shadow Lord did, the Kingdoms would be doomed. Rodric could ride to him in victory, earning the reward that he so richly deserved. The strategy couldn’t be any more perfect. And if he could kill the Highland Lord somewhere along the way, then all the better. But if not, then not. The wretched meddler would die eventually. In the end, no one could stand against the Shadow Lord.
The only fly in his ointment rode next to him. Chertney had shown his true colors during their escape, and his lack of respect burned in the High King’s gullet. That one would have to go if Rodric were to claim the prize that belonged to him. But that could wait until after he gained control of all the Kingdoms. He just needed the right circumstances to make it happen. First, though, he needed to find Brennios and the Home Guard. Then he could reclaim his capital and his Kingdom. Everything else would come together after that.
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
Deep Cold
Ragin Tessaril shivered, the brisk wind blowing across the top of the hill injecting a cold deep into his bones. He surveyed his surroundings for the thousandth time, hoping for some change, yet knowing that it was a useless wish.
He sat on a small hillock with a single, leafless, dead tree at its top, the branches twisted and broken. Sunlight was rare. In its place, a dismal haze covered the landscape, the greyish fog billowing and churning at the touch of the breeze. The smell almost overwhelmed him. For as far as he could see, a murky, black water surrounded the knoll and stretched off to the horizon. In some places the muck roiled, bubbles letting off a noxious, sulfurous odor that poisoned the air. In others, wide ripples would appear in an instant and then disappear just as quickly. Ragin had yet to see the creatures that disturbed the stagnant water, and he wasn’t sure that he wanted to.
As the days passed, his anger ate at him, threatening to consume him, the rage roiling in his chest providing him with the little bit of warmth that could be obtained in this cursed place. Everything that he had worked for had been taken from him in a matter of minutes all because of an old man. He had prepared meticulously, accepting the demands of the Shadow Lord so that he could learn the ways of Dark Magic. Relinquishing his very soul in order to obtain the power to kill his torturer, the boy who played at the Lord of the Highlands. But all for naught, as the old man had prevented him from achieving his objective, from standing across from the Highland Lord and looking into his eyes before he killed him. And, as a result, here he sat in the midst of desolation. No food, no shelter, nothing but a frigid wind that never ceased, a cold that seeped into his very core, and a stench that made him gag if he breathed too deeply.
Ragin had thought that as soon as the old man closed the portal, he could create one of his own, mimicking what the Sylvan Warrior had done so that he could return to Eamhain Mhacha and destroy the scoundrel who had disfigured him, the boy who had given him a ragged scar on his face that had altered more than just his appearance.
But he had thought wrong. Because wherever he was, wherever the old man had sent him, Ragin couldn’t touch the Dark Magic that the Shadow Lord had imbued within him. The power that had once surged through his body, that had given him hope and confirmation that he would gain his revenge, had been snuffed out like a candle’s flame.
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
New Threat
Summoned by the pickets stationed on the western side of his encampment, General Brennios stood rooted in place by shock, momentarily speechless. His men had told it true, but he didn’t want to believe it. High King Rodric Tessaril approached, a smile brightening the Armaghian monarch’s face, and that snake Chertney rode at his side. That was not uncommon. What unnerved him was the army that followed at his back.
His friend and mentor General Chengiz had warned him that something strange was going on with the High King. Something that he feared put Armagh at risk. Killeran’s influence had been bad enough, though Brennios had viewed the scheming Dunmoorian Lord as an opportunist and no more, something not uncommon in a royal court. Yet Chertney and that other counselor, Malachias, had proven much worse. There was a darkness about the two that seemed to ooze from their very pores. It had unsettled Brennios from the start, a sense of corruption and decay seeping into him every time he came into contact with the two interlopers. He had connected those two to the hidden power that appeared to be playing a role in the affairs of the Kingdom. That unseen hand had now been made crystal clear and more than justified his concerns.
Brennios watched in numbing silence as the Ogren came to a stop several hundred yards from his picket line, the Shades ordering the dark creatures to set up their own camp. For Ogren, that meant finding a place to lie down and rest, as there seemed to be little need in setting a guard. Who but a fool or a madman would attack more than a thousand Ogren? The Shades then drifted to a small grove of trees that offered some respite from the hot sun.
He had never come across dark creatures before, but he had always believed in their existence. There were too many stories from respected soldiers that he simply couldn’t ignore. Ogren ate people, often indiscriminately. Shades fed on the souls of men. And all served the Shadow Lord. Much like Chengiz, Brennios was loyal to the Kingdom. He knew that Rodric was ambitious and that his morals were suspect if not nonexistent, but he had hoped that calmer, more experienced minds, such as he, Chengiz, and several others, could guide the High King and ensure a prosperous Armagh. Clearly, he had been mistaken, allowing his confidence in his own abilities to shield reality from him. He didn’t understand until just then the lengths to which the High King would go to achieve his goals. Aligning with the Shadow Lord revolted him. It was a treasonous act. But what was he to do? If the Home Guard rebelled, the small army of dark creatures would make quick work of them. He needed at least five times his current strength to fight the thousand or more Ogren and Shades that had appeared before him. Yet maintaining his allegiance to Rodric tore at his very soul. His Kingdom had to come first.
Brennios shook his head in disgust. He could do nothing now. But perhaps there would be an opportunity in the future.
“Sergeant,” called Brennios.
A large man with a sword on his back and a spear in his hand hustled forward. He led the men responsible for guarding the western side of the Armaghian encampment, the soldiers now staring in disbelief at the mass of Ogren and Shades. Though the dark creatures didn’t show any malicious intent toward Brennios’ men, he knew what would happen if their hung
er got the better of them.
“Yes, General.”
Brennios looked the veteran in the eye. The Armaghian general saw that he, too, was unnerved by what he saw just a few hundred yards away. But just like Brennios, he had the wherewithal to maintain his composure as he performed the same mental calculations that his general already had completed.
“Triple the guard among the pickets. Our main concern may no longer come just from the east. We must think of ourselves first.”
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
New Story
Thomas stood in the Eamhain Mhacha citadel’s main courtyard, the pitted stone walls rising above him, Coban and Oso at his side. The few hundred Marchers who had taken control of the fortress were arrayed around him. Toreal, Eamhain Mhacha’s chamberlain, had suggested that the Highland Lord use the throne room for this gathering, but he had refused. Rodric’s former throne, a gaudy stone monstrosity, disgusted him. And he had pledged to himself that he would not enter that room again until a new High King had been selected.
Besides, he preferred being out in the sun even with the chilly temperature that left the breaths of his Marchers frosty in the early morning light. When he raised his hands, silence descended as the Marchers’ murmured conversations came to an end.
“My friends,” began Thomas, his strong voice carrying throughout the enclosed space. “You have much to be proud of. You conquered this citadel in a matter of hours. You have freed this capital from a servant of the Shadow Lord. And, perhaps most important, you have taken us one step closer to ensuring that the Highlands remain free from those who have sought to enslave us.”
Cheers rang out from the assembled Marchers, many raising their fists into the air. But just as quickly the roar turned to quiet when Thomas raised his hands once again.
“But we still have more to do. Though Eamhain Mhacha is now free of the traitorous High King, as you know Rodric has escaped with a small army of Ogren and Shades, a thousand or more.”