by Wacht, Peter
Taking hold of the Talent, Thomas crafted an image that appeared above the heads of the Marchers, offering a bird’s-eye view of the column of dark creatures trudging through the grasslands. The beasts were marching west, back toward the Armaghian capital, followed by Armagh’s Home Guard that had been stationed originally on the Kingdom’s eastern border. Clearly, the soldiers of Armagh appeared to be more than just unsettled by their new allies. They appeared terrified, maintaining a distance of almost a half mile from Rodric and his small horde with a long line of cavalry on the nearest flank to maintain some protection against any Ogren or Shades that wandered too close.
“Fal Carrach and several other Kingdoms that fought with us in the Highlands come from the east,” continued Thomas. “So we could stay here within the walls of Eamhain Mhacha and do what we can to defend against the onslaught to come, knowing that our allies would not arrive for at least a week once Rodric and his dark creatures lay siege to the citadel.”
Thomas didn’t need to tell the Marchers what that would mean. Other than the few hundred men and women in the courtyard, there were few others in the fortress or the surrounding city who could fight against the approaching enemy. They knew that. If they tried to defend Eamhain Mhacha, many of them likely would die, as they were too few to hold such a large fortress for long. They could run, of course. But then their efforts of the last few weeks would have been for nothing. That thought obviously didn’t appeal to them. Thomas could see it all in their eyes.
“What would you have us do, Lord Thomas?” asked Aric, his voice confident and calm, suggesting that he trusted and would be pleased to carry out any decision made by the Highland Lord. The tall Highlander had served as the Kingdom’s flagbearer during the battle at Anselm, and he had an unceasing faith and loyalty in Thomas after the Highland Lord had saved his life in the mines.
Thomas smiled. Aric’s look of quiet determination could be seen on all the men and women standing in the courtyard.
“We have been successful in our fight to free the Highlands because we have never wavered despite the circumstances we faced,” said Thomas. “We have never hesitated to do what must be done, no matter the odds. But what I ask of you now you must all consider. For if we fail, our fate is sealed.” Thomas waited a few moments for his words to sink in before continuing, his gaze capturing the eyes of as many of the men and women surrounding him as he could. “Rather than waiting here to fight an enemy that would eventually breach these walls, I propose that we do as we have been doing since our fight against the High King began. I propose we leave this fortress and take the fight to Rodric Tessaril. We attack.”
Several shouts of support burst out from the Marchers, which quickly became a steady stream of cheers before the chant began. A chant that was becoming more and more common: “For the Highlands! For the Highlands! For the Highlands!”
The men and women standing around Thomas understood the danger presented by the High King and his dark creatures. They understood what was being asked of them by their Highland Lord, the risk involved. They also understood that Rodric Tessaril was to blame for the terror the Highlands had experienced for a decade, and they all wished to see the coward receive the just desserts that he so rightly deserved.
Moreover, many of the Marchers relished the plan that the Highland Lord laid out before them. The audacity made them think of the Marchers of old. Now they had the opportunity to create their own tale that would become a part of the Highland lore.
So what if the odds were stacked against them? So what if it seemed like their deaths could be the only result?
They were Marchers, the most feared warriors in the Kingdoms. And their young, determined Highland Lord had yet to lose a battle.
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
Assured Victory
Rodric had commandeered General Brennios’ travel tent for his own. He sat there now within the small pavilion on a camp stool, staring at the map on the table before him, munching on the stew provided to him for dinner. The meal tasted awful, and certainly didn’t meet the standards that he had grown accustomed to as High King. Normally he would have thrown a fit and then at least had the cook whipped. But his mind was elsewhere. He and his army were just a few days from Eamhain Mhacha, just a few days from retaking his capital and his Kingdom.
Rodric picked his head up upon hearing a disturbance at the entrance to his tent, then General Brennios pushed back the flap and entered. The soldier stood there for a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Chertney sat behind Rodric in a shadowed corner of the tent. He appeared to be napping, but Brennios had no illusions of that. The man had powers that Brennios didn’t begin to comprehend, and he had no doubt what Chertney would do with those powers if necessary.
“My king, a force has been sighted to the west,” said General Brennios, bowing to the man who still believed that he ruled Armagh. “They fly the banner of the Highlands.”
“How large?” asked Chertney in a scratchy voice, his unnerving eyes now open.
“Just a few hundred,” answered Brennios. “And they come this way from the west. I assume that they are the ones who captured Eamhain Mhacha. They should be here by morning.”
“No other threats to worry about?” asked Chertney. “Nothing strange? Nothing unexpected?”
“No, Lord Chertney. Our scouts to the east say that the Fal Carrachians are still days from our border. And there’s been no sign of the Desert Clans to the north. Only these few hundred Marchers coming our way.”
Chertney grunted in satisfaction, then closed his eyes once more. He sought to present an image of confidence, but on the inside his gut churned. His force of Ogren and Shades was large enough to destroy the approaching Marchers. But assuming that Highland brat was with his troops, preventing the boy from using his powers to decimate the dark creatures would fall to him. After Chertney’s recent comeuppance at the hands of Rynlin Keldragan, he worried about what would happen if he were forced into a magical duel with the Highland Lord. He feared that he didn’t have the strength to survive such a combat, but what was he to do? If he failed in meeting the demands of his master, his fate would be the same.
Rodric laughed with real pleasure for the first time in weeks. “The boy will make it easier than we thought with this mistake, coming out from behind the walls to challenge us. Our victory is all but assured. It shall be a battle that will be talked about for centuries in Armagh.”
General Brennios stood there silently, allowing the High King his good humor. He didn’t share his ruler’s enthusiasm. He had heard too much about this Highland Lord to assume that any engagement with him would be an easy or straightforward one. And considering Rodric’s allies, for the first time in his long career, he wondered if an Armaghian defeat now was more important to the survival of his Kingdom than a victory.
CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE
Calculated Risk
Deep in thought, Thomas walked the pickets that Coban had established when the Marchers first made camp for the evening. He understood the potential consequences of his decisions, the risks involved. But he also believed that those risks were necessary if his Marchers were to have any chance of success at defeating a force of dark creatures five times the size of his own, to say nothing of the potential involvement of the Armaghian Home Guard. As he whispered greetings and words of encouragement to the men and women on duty, drifting through the darkness of the night lit only by the quarter moon, he sensed a larger shadow standing behind him.
The hulking Highlander stepped forward. His steps appeared forced, his expression sheepish.
“Thomas, I need to ask you something,” said Oso, concern clear in his voice. “What are you planning for tomorrow? We only have a few hundred Marchers and the Home Guard has several thousand soldiers, not to mention the Ogren and Shades. The Marchers are with you, they’ll always be with you, but they’re worried.”
“I know, Oso. But we will not be fighting Chertney’s dark creatures alone.”
At first Oso thought that it was a trick of the moonlight, but then he saw something that brightened his heart and made him smile. The riders sat upon unicorns, the animals’ tall, sharp horns unmistakable. Though few in number, Oso knew that the Sylvan Warriors joining them would even the steep odds that they would face on the morrow.
CHAPTER THIRTY SIX
Strengthening Confidence
The sun had yet to touch the eastern horizon when the Marchers began to prepare for the battle to come. Some rolled from their blankets, wiping sleep from their eyes. Others had stayed up through the night, keeping their thoughts to themselves as they sharpened their swords, spears, daggers and axes or checked the fletching on their arrows. A few stoked the embers from the previous night’s fires, seeking to restart the flames so that they could prepare a warm breakfast for what promised to be a trying, potentially momentous day.
Many still wondered what the battle to come would bring, knowing the odds that they faced with the Armaghian Home Guard having joined, however uneasily, with Rodric’s host of dark creatures. Yet when the sun finally kissed the sky, brightening the muted shadows of the early morning, the Marchers stopped what they were doing, awed and pleased by what they saw occurring before them.
Twenty Sylvan Warriors made their own preparations for the fight expected against Chertney and his dark creatures, sharpening blades, fixing armor and caring for their steeds. The Marchers were used to Acero, Thomas’ mount, and Militus, Rynlin Keldragan’s, but none of the Marchers had ever seen so many unicorns together before and were astounded by their size, the animals easily several hands taller than the draft horses that they used to plow their fields in the lower passes of the Highlands. Some found the unicorns’ horns, thick at the base on the beast’s head, then twisting and tapering to a sharp point, unsettling, as they imagined what that lance could do to someone unlucky enough to get in the way of a charge by the fearsome equine.
That was to say nothing of the Sylvan Warriors themselves. Thomas walked among them now, saying hello and thanking them for the aid that they offered. All gave off an air of competence and power, some menace and danger as well.
Oso recognized Thomas’ grandmother, Rya, speaking with another woman of about the same size. The small woman sharpened a blade thinner than his own but just as long, then gracefully ran through a series of exercises to test its balance. Rynlin, Thomas’ grandfather, laughed with a red-haired man who juggled small balls of fire in his hand, what the large Highlander assumed was a nervous habit before combat. And then his eyes took in a man larger than himself, which was saying something. Covered in leather armor, a massive battle ax on his knees as he ran a sharpening stone across the heavy blade, the warrior resembled a small mountain. Catal Huyuk. Oso remembered the formidable Sylvan Warrior and grinned when the mountain of a man nodded to him.
Oso saw that many of the Marchers watching the preparations of the Sylvan Warriors were just as enthralled by their new allies as he was, and with their smiles the Marchers’ confidence grew. They knew the Highland Lord always had a few tricks up his sleeves, preferring to have options when addressing challenges so that he couldn’t be forced to a single path. They also knew of his other obligation as a Sylvan Warrior, so it wasn’t entirely unexpected that these Sylvan Warriors would appear in their time of need. But they had never expected to see this many legends come to life at once. For the first time since the Great War against the Shadow Lord, the Sylvana once more would ride into battle.
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
Change in Direction
Behind the front lines of the Home Guard, Rodric sat uncomfortably on his horse, his heavy armor weighing him down, essentially holding him in his saddle. He feared that if he leaned too far in a particular direction, he actually might slide off his mount into a heap of metal and be unable to rise from the ground without assistance because of the weight. Chertney had suggested keeping his host of dark creatures away from the Home Guard to prevent any mistakes or misunderstandings, such as an Ogren or Shade grabbing a soldier for a quick meal. Rodric had heeded that advice. So he had placed his dark creatures on the left flank and the Home Guard on the right.
He and General Brennios, along with Chertney, several aides and a small honor guard, remained between the two forces so that they could direct the battle and serve as a buffer. The nervousness of the Armaghian soldiers was obvious, most believing that they were still too close to the dark creatures for comfort. Most of the soldiers were of the same mind as their commander, wanting to have nothing to do with the dark creatures and the former High King. But they had little choice, having been informed that any who failed to perform their duty or openly disobeyed the High King’s commands would be given to the Shades. That threat had immediately quelled the growing unrest.
“Brennios, stay with the Home Guard and keep them focused on their task,” ordered Rodric. “They need to show some backbone and understand what can be accomplished with the aid of our new allies. Make sure the right flank holds and is prepared to sweep in as we discussed once Chertney’s dark creatures have had their fun.”
“Yes, my lord,” replied the Armaghian general, his words clipped, his tone neutral. He struggled to keep the disgust that rose up within him from his voice. He had spoken with his officers and sergeants during the night. All had agreed that any attempt to resist the High King would lead to unnecessary bloodshed, the Home Guard too few in number to defend effectively against such a large number of dark creatures. Resigned to what was about to happen, he pulled on his horse’s reins so that he could join his men. He was more than happy to distance himself from their new, unwelcome allies.
Satisfied that all was ready, as he watched the Marchers emerge from the forest a quarter mile to their front, Rodric frowned. He doubted that with so few to oppose him it would be much of a battle. Feared though they were, a few hundred Marchers stood little chance against the army arrayed against them. He chortled quietly to himself. The Highland brat, so confident, so certain, so successful, had bit off more than he could chew this time, and he was about to pay the price for his arrogance.
Rodric’s confidence soared, but a tremor of uncertainty still flitted through him nonetheless. He was surprised that the Marchers had circled his host and now came at his forces from the east. With the sun rising behind the Marchers, Rodric raised a hand in front of his eyes to protect against the glare. He was having some difficulty making out what the Marchers were doing. Finally, he saw that the Marchers had formed into two lines, the second no more than a few horse lengths behind the first. Brennios had predicted that with such a small force, the Marchers would come forward in a wedge, making it harder for the Armaghians to bring their larger numbers to bear. But it appeared as if the Armaghian general’s prediction had been incorrect. Rodric snorted in disgust. The man was a fool and would be removed from command once his opponents had been eradicated.
The Marchers started their mounts at a walk, then moved to a canter, then a trot as the ground in front of them evened out. The lines remained perfectly in sync as they approached the two separate, but supposedly allied, forces aligned against them. Surprisingly, the men and women of the Highlands came forward in silence, no shouts or words carrying across the open field, only the sounds of steel clattering and leather creaking carrying on the light breeze as the Marchers urged their steeds into a gallop.
“Brennios!” shouted Rodric over the rising thunder of the hooves striking the hard ground. “Release the arrows!”
Brennios was about to give the order as Rodric commanded, his archers standing ready just behind the front ranks of his pikemen and swordsmen. But he hesitated for a moment, not really knowing why. Perhaps his insubordination came from the roiling k
not in his gut that had formed when Rodric had ordered him to march and fight with dark creatures. He was a man of honor. A soldier. How could he blindly follow a man seemingly intent on destroying the very honor of his homeland? As the seconds passed, Brennios breathed a sigh of relief, thankful that he had withheld the command to engage. The Marchers had turned sharply to their right, directing their charge away from the Home Guard and focusing solely on the mass of dark creatures. The Ogren noticed the change in direction as well. It excited the monstrous beasts, their prey coming within their reach that much faster. The dark creatures screamed and roared their battle cries, thinking that they would have a chance to earn some easy, tasty meat.
The shift in approach made Brennios smile in appreciation at the maneuver, understanding the value of the tactical change. As a military man he had to admire the discipline of the Marchers. What happened next made his eyes grow big first with shock and then with recognition.
Unable to see clearly beyond the first rank of charging Marchers because of the glare of the rising sun, he had failed to notice the size of the mounts in the second line of attack. But as the Marchers drew closer to the dark creatures, urging their horses to a gallop, the first line of Marchers tightened their ranks at the flanks and created more space between their mounts in the middle, allowing what looked to be twenty odd steeds from the second line to burst through to the front.
Brennios stared in awe and fear at the sight before him. The steeds were massive, dwarfing the horses of his men. And their horns! He couldn’t believe his own eyes. Unicorns! He had never imagined he would ever see such a thing. But if these beasts were unicorns, then the warriors riding upon them were not Marchers. No, they could only be something else. Something both exciting and terrifying. They could only be legends come to life.