by Wacht, Peter
“Correct,” smiled Thomas, unsurprised by the acuity of Kaylie’s analysis. “And that’s the worry. As you know, some of the Kingdoms, such as Fal Carrach, Benewyn, Kenmare, most likely the Desert Clans, will heed the call to the Breaker. But the others? I doubt they’ll make any effort to assist when the Shadow Lord attacks. With our current numbers, who’s to say whether we can hold the Dark Horde at the Breaker?”
Kaylie recognized the term for the Shadow Lord’s host not only from her history lessons but also the old legends and tales. Parents liked to call on the Shadow Lord and his Dark Horde, threatening an obstinate child with a visit from an Ogren or Shade if they failed to heed their demand that they go to bed.
“But isn’t there some way to defeat the Shadow Lord?”
“There is. I need to kill him.”
Kaylie stared at Thomas in silence for a moment, remembering when he had mentioned something similar prior to the start of this journey while meeting with the assembled monarchs. When her father, Sarelle and Rendael had discussed next steps with Thomas, he had said it seriously then, taking her by surprise. Now she burst out laughing. Her laugh died in her throat when she saw the earnest expression on his face.
“You’re not kidding?”
“No.” She looked around the campfire, realizing that Oso and the other Marchers not on guard duty had been listening. They wore somber expressions, confirming what Thomas had just said. “That’s why we’re here in the desert and moving to the west. In order to fight the Shadow Lord, I need to get into Blackstone. The only way to do that is with the Key. If I find the Key, I have a chance.”
“But no one has ever defeated the Shadow Lord in single combat,” blurted out Kaylie, then immediately regretted the outburst.
“True. It’s a small chance. But you have to take what you can get.”
Thomas rose from the ground, brushing off his breeches. As was his habit, he wanted to wander the surrounding landscape for a time, using the Talent to ensure that all was quiet and calm in the still of the desert night, the stars shining brightly in the clear sky.
“I don’t want to die, and I’ll certainly try my best not to, but as my grandmother Rya likes to say and as you’ve heard so often, ‘You must do what you must do.’”
Thomas walked off in silence into the growing darkness, his steps silent in the soft sand. Kaylie remained where she was, not knowing what to say. She looked at Oso in consternation.
“Some are simply required to do more than others,” said the large Marcher, a sadness in his eyes. The other Marchers remained quiet around him. “But if any can survive, he can.”
CHAPTER FIFTY SIX
Chicken
The next day the Marchers journeyed even deeper into the desert, the towering sand dunes rising around them often blocking out the sun altogether and leaving the path Thomas selected wrapped in a perpetual gloom. Kaylie was quiet that morning, thinking about what Thomas had told her the night before. His burdens seemed to be getting bigger. Her thoughts threatened to become a maelstrom in her mind. As a result, she struggled to maintain her focus. Thomas had warned them that they were entering a dangerous section of the Clanwar Desert, one known for what Thomas described as dry quicksand, which differed from the quicksand common to other climes in that the sand was so fine that large deposits of the granular material could still prove deadly to those unlucky to step into the unseen trap. If the layer of dry quicksand ran deep, the victim would be sucked down, often buried alive beneath tons of feathery crystals in a matter of seconds. Therefore, Kaylie and the others followed Thomas’ instructions, leading their horses and watching where they placed each step.
Nevertheless, despite Thomas’ warnings, the natural danger of the desert revealed itself. Not too long after starting out that morning, an asp had startled one of the horses when it got too close to the rocky outcropping under which the snake lay in wait for its next meal. Stumbling to the side, the horse’s hind legs had left the path that Thomas had proscribed and slid into dry quicksand, which appeared to be no different than the sand that could be seen for leagues around. The Marchers close to the horse had succeeded in calming it and then pulling its legs free from the wispy, grasping particles. But it proved to be a lesson that none of the Marchers forgot. Before the Highlanders even could react to the horse’s plight, half its body had slid beneath the feathery sand. From that point forward the going was slow and deliberate, but it couldn’t be avoided.
“Stop,” Thomas said quietly, but loud enough for all to hear. Kaylie was lost in her thoughts, so he reached for her arm, gently pulling her back toward him.
Thomas held his hand up for silence, his Marchers quickly quieting their mounts, so that the only sound came from the soft breeze dusting across the top of the sand, pushing the tiny crystals to and fro. The Marchers stood there for several minutes, no one saying a word, their eyes tracking their surroundings in all directions as if they expected dark creatures to emerge from beneath the sand.
“Thomas, what are you …”
Before Kaylie could finish asking her question, Thomas whipped his sword from the scabbard across his back and slammed the point down into the sand just a few feet in front of where they stood. When he lifted up the blade, the head of a large snake came out of the sand with it, revealing a thick body at least thirty feet long. The snake’s brown and tan coloring helped it to blend in perfectly with its environment.
“A sand viper,” explained Thomas. “A distant relative of the blood snake. This one isn’t that big, maybe just a juvenile, but the full-grown ones are known to eat unwary travelers. They lie in wait for their prey, barely moving. When whatever they’re hunting gets close enough, they strike.”
Beluil stepped forward to smell the sand viper, never having seen a creature such as this before. The large wolf filed the scent away so that he could be better prepared in the future.
“The sand viper hunts by sound,” said Thomas, turning the brief dialogue into a lesson for the Marchers, many of whom marveled at the size of the snake. “If you hear a rustling across the sand that sounds like the wind and lasts for more than a few seconds, but you don’t feel the wind, stand still for a moment. If the rustling continues, but there’s no wind, it’s likely a sand viper. Once it finds prey, the snake will mimic the movement until it’s close enough to attack. If it bites you, you’ll be dead in minutes. The toxins contained in its venom will stop your heart and there’s no known cure.”
Using his foot, Thomas dislodged the head of the sand viper from the tip of his sword. Kaylie jumped back in surprise as Thomas drove his blade through the snake’s neck, removing the head, then did the same in several other places along the snake’s body until he had almost a dozen large pieces of the snake to carry.
“Of course, though the sand viper is deadly, it’s also delicious. So we’re in for a treat tonight.”
Oso stepped forward, grinning at Kaylie, then several other Marchers moved to assist so that they could strap the butchered pieces of the snake to their horses.
“What does it taste like, Thomas?” asked Oso, always interested in what he put into his stomach.
“Chicken. We can make a light gravy and you’ll love it.”
Kaylie stood there unable to speak, a green look on her face as the Marchers completed their work. She decided instantly that she would be taking the first watch that night as she had little interest in dinner.
CHAPTER FIFTY SEVEN
Twin Daggers
Anara’s long dagger slid deeply into the Ogren’s side, but it was more an annoyance than a mortal wound to the massive beast. The keen steel, honed after hours of sharpening, missed the important internal organs and cut instead through thick, ropy muscle. She ducked and rolled backward, avoiding the Ogren’s backhanded swing of its rusted battle axe, the huge blade singing through the air above her head. She was irritated with herself at having missed her primary target. Nevertheless, her strike had caused some damage, as the dark creature was bent at the wa
ist, a clawlike hand pushing at the wound in its side as a steady stream of dark blood leaked onto the tall grass.
Coming to her feet, she pulled the other long dagger that she kept hidden in the back of her belt. A blade now in each hand, she sprinted toward the Ogren before it could turn. Leaping through the air, she placed a foot on the Ogren’s rump, propelling herself up into the air so that she came down hard on its upper back with her knees at the very same time that she drove both razor-sharp blades into the base of the Ogren’s skull. With a sigh rather than a scream, the Ogren collapsed to the ground, the wound in its side forgotten as the light left its eyes.
Anara, slim and petite, sweat-soaked, red hair plastered to her pixielike face, pulled her bloody daggers free and surveyed what was left of the battlefield. All the Ogren that had attempted to break through the Marcher line were dead or soon would be, the last few that still lived attempting to escape back down the rocky slope toward the Northern Steppes that beckoned far below. The beasts wouldn’t make it far. She had ordered a troop of Marchers to swing around from the west to ensure that none of the dark creatures broke free, and if those Marchers didn’t catch the fleeing Ogren, the wolves would. She could already hear the howls in the distance, a warning of what was to come for the servants of the Shadow Lord.
Wiping her bloody blades on the dirty cloth that passed for Ogren clothing, she sheathed both and climbed to the top of the wooded crest from which the Marchers had initiated their ambush.
“I’m glad you were here, Anara,” said Nestor, the grizzled Marcher responsible for protecting this section of the northern Highlands from infiltrating dark creatures. “Without you, I don’t know that we could have held.”
“You would have held,” replied Anara with a grin. “You’re too stubborn not to.”
Nestor huffed, a chuckle escaping, as he nodded reluctantly in agreement, secretly pleased by her confidence in him. She was young and tough, having proven her mettle many times over upon escaping the mines. He had had his doubts about Anara taking on the responsibility that Thomas had given her, but no more. Not after seeing what she could do with her ever-present blades. And not after benefiting from her excellent work to ensure that the Marchers had what they needed to protect their homeland.
When Thomas, Oso and a small band of Marchers had left the Highlands for the west on a mission deemed more important than anything else, even such work as shoring up the Highland defenses and rebuilding the Crag, he had given Anara responsibility for making sure that Nestor, Renn and Seneca, with their separate Marcher commands, had the support and resources required to keep their territories free of dark creatures. She also needed to coordinate with the dozen or so Sylvan Warriors who, at Thomas’ request, had come to the aid of the Marchers and were helping to protect the northern Highlands. The survivor of Killeran’s Black Hole had taken to her assignment with a focus and intensity that Nestor could only describe as exceptional and somewhat terrifying. Though she was slim and barely came up to his shoulders, that belied an inner strength and determination that he had yet to find in another person. If she had to move a mountain in order to achieve her task, she would do so, whether you helped or not. But better that you helped, because her daggers were never far from her hands.
Nestor had to give the young woman the credit that she deserved. Thanks to her leadership, he, Renn and Seneca had the tools that they needed to keep the dark creatures out of the Highlands, at least for now. The frequency of Ogren war parties coming across the Northern Steppes had increased once again. Even worse, these bands of dark creatures were growing in size. The fifty Ogren and handful of Shades that the Marchers had grown accustomed to had blossomed into several hundred beasts on occasion, which stretched the Marchers to the very limit if not for the timely assistance of the Sylvan Warriors, who often made use of the Talent to even the odds.
“Maybe so,” he replied. “But from the looks of things, we didn’t take many serious injuries. That wouldn’t have been the case if you hadn’t brought reinforcements and shifted our positioning.”
“I had information that you didn’t. Besides, I needed to see this for myself.”
Anara had arrived at Nestor’s camp with fifty additional Marchers well before the sun was supposed to rise that morning with word from a Sylvan Warrior that a larger than usual Ogren war party had almost reached the passes that led up into the northern Highlands. Rather than meeting these invaders at a lower elevation, she had suggested that Nestor allow the several hundred dark creatures to climb a bit first, tiring the Ogren and giving her the few extra hours that she needed to pull more Marchers to their position from the scouting parties that scoured the Highlands for signs of incursions.
At first, Nestor had balked at her suggestion, not wanting to give up the ground. But somehow she had convinced him so thoroughly that in the end he thought the change in strategy might have been his own idea. The extra time allowed the Marchers to prepare their defenses, setting boulders and logs at the top of the crest, the men and women of the Highlands remaining hidden among the evergreens that stood at the lip. Once the dark creatures appeared, Anara and Nestor had waited until the Ogren were almost to the crown of the slope before releasing the surprise they had waiting at the top, which swept away a good portion of the beasts. The Highland archers did what they could against the Ogren that avoided the landslide and continued to claw their way to the brink. The few dark creatures that did make it to the crest were of a number that the Marchers could manage without great difficulty. But that wasn’t to say that the next time wouldn’t be different.
“They’re growing bolder,” said Nestor. “Taking more risks and sending more Ogren at us. It’s almost as if they’re on a schedule and we’re keeping them from it.”
“You might be right, Nestor. Thomas insinuated as much the last time I spoke with him. He thought the attacks along our northern border would increase, the dark creatures seeking to avoid the Breaker and instead cut through our land to make their way into the Kingdoms.”
“Our young lord could be right,” agreed Nestor. “The Ogren war parties are twice, if not three times, as large as they used to be. And our scouts or the Sylvan Warriors are finding at least two bands of dark creatures a week now coming across the Northern Steppes. If this continues, or the size of the Ogren packs increase, a fight like this one might be our last.”
“I know,” said Anara, her sharp gaze studying the Highlands for miles around from her perch at the crest of the slope. “I’ve been thinking about that.”
“I assume you have something in mind?”
Anara nodded. “As I said, I had wanted to see this for myself, just to make sure. Now that I have, I don’t think that we have a choice. I’ll speak with Renn and Seneca and move them and their Marchers farther north. Renn on your left flank, Seneca on the right. You’ll lead the center. I’ll have a Marcher reserve of several hundred a league behind you. With a consolidated defense and the Sylvan Warriors and wolves continuing to aid us, hopefully we can keep the dark creatures out of the Highlands for a while longer.”
Nestor nodded. With the Sylvan Warriors and wolves, the Ogren and other beasts had no way to sneak into the Highlands. They were always discovered well before they even set foot in the lower passes, giving the Marchers the chance to adapt their strategy as needed. Consolidating the Marcher forces made sense and would allow them to fight more effectively against the more frequent and stronger attacks.
“I like it,” he said. “I’ll let my Marchers know and start pulling in the scouting parties. That alone will give me a third more fighters. With that and the new approach, we’ll have a better chance of holding.”
“We have to hold,” said Anara. “We have no choice. We have to give Lord Thomas the time to do what he needs to do.”
CHAPTER FIFTY EIGHT
Cause for Concern
“Thomas,” Kaylie whispered into Thomas’ ear. He had been enjoying a dream focused on spending time with Kaylie at a watering hole that wou
ld have left him red in the face if she had not woken him. Though he had dozed for only an hour, he was wide awake as soon as Kaylie touched his shoulder.
The Marchers had reached a rocky region of the desert, the relentless sands dissipating for a time although the towering dunes remained visible all around them. Even with the rougher terrain, Thomas saw signs of movement. Much of it looked like that of Desert Clan warriors, none recent, so it didn’t worry him. But with his sharp vision he picked out other markings and cues, pointing out a few to Kaylie and Oso, which did give him cause for concern.
Oso had spread the word so that all the Marchers would keep a sharp eye as they traveled farther north. Thomas continued to use the Talent at regular intervals, asking Kaylie to do so as well. They were coming to a part of the desert that contained a network of hidden crags and caves that stretched for leagues underground, thus the need to be even more vigilant. Something the Marchers had already become, as they sensed the potential danger of the new environment as well as the unease of the Highland Lord.
The Marchers were subdued as they set up camp for the night. Thomas found a large, open space with a single, flat rock in the middle that rose to a height that was just a bit higher than Oso’s shoulders. Although neither he nor Kaylie detected any dangers around them at the moment, both felt uncomfortable, as if something were lurking at the very limits of where they had searched. The cloud of evil that had played continuously at the boundary of their senses had disappeared unexpectedly, replaced by a persistent but ephemeral warning that something was amiss and that a threat was near. Preferring to be cautious, Thomas doubled the guard. He then climbed the rock in the center of their encampment, which let him look out over the desert in all directions for miles around. His worry only increased. The landscape was pocked with crevices, rock slides, and narrowing gorges that resembled a maze for as far as he could see. Such a landscape could hide unseen threats and hinder the Marchers’ attempts to defend themselves. As his worry increased, Kaylie joined him, laying her bedroll next to his, as they settled in for the night. It wasn’t long before his fears were confirmed.