The Sylvan Chronicles Box Set Books 1-3

by Peter Wacht

  “We’ve got to get you out of here, and we can’t use the tunnel in my room,” said Talyn as he trotted down the hallway. “At first I thought we could fight back, hold the reivers off, but now I can’t take that chance. Not with Ogren in the Crag.”

  “You are the last of us, Thomas,” continued Talyn. “You survived the assassins. Your father wasn’t as lucky. We only have a few minutes before it’s too late.”

  Finally reaching his study, Talyn slid to a halt. He knocked on the door three times. The door swung open, and they stepped through quickly before it closed on their heels.

  His father wasn’t as lucky as him? It took Thomas a few moments to realize what his grandfather had just told him. You survived the assassins. Your father didn’t. Thomas thought he should feel something, finding out that his father was dead. Anything. Sorrow. Remorse. But he didn’t. The news simply washed over him like a wave and was gone. He had spoken to his father no more than a dozen times in his entire life. But he was still his father, and he should at least feel something. Shouldn’t he? His father was dead, and he didn’t feel a thing.

  As the door closed, Thomas heard the click of a lock turning into place. Abruptly, his grandfather stopped.

  “Put those on, Thomas,” he said, motioning to the bundle of clothes Thomas carried in his arms. “And quickly, now. We don’t have much time.”

  Recognizing the urgency in his grandfather’s voice, he pulled on his breeks. As he reached down for his boots, he looked around the dim room. A single lantern turned to its lowest setting glowed a soft yellow in the corner farthest from the door. Coban was there, a small gash on his forehead, his white shirt stained red in many places. Standing with him were a half dozen Marchers, also covered in blood, much of it their own he suspected. Pulling his shirt over his head, he listened to the conversation closely.

  “Assassins,” said Talyn, spitting the word out. “Thomas earned his first kill. And Ogren as well.”

  Coban just nodded, a grim look on his face, though his eyes gleamed at the mention of Thomas’ success. He casually wiped away a trickle of blood that had run down his forehead onto his sleeve.

  “There is only one way Ogren could have gotten into the Crag,” said a Marcher.

  “A traitor,” answered Coban. The Marchers nodded. One of their own had let the Ogren into the Crag. It was unthinkable. Horrifying. And all too real.

  “Whoever did this—”

  “One of the postern gates was opened before an alarm could be given. The gate guards were the first to die,” explained Coban, his eyes burning with rage. “When I find this traitor, death will be something he will look forward to.” Talyn nodded, noting the grim expression on his friend’s face.

  Coban sighed, mostly out of frustration. As Swordmaster of the Highlands, the Marchers were his responsibility. He blamed himself for what had happened, though a part of him knew that it wasn’t his fault. There was little he could have done to prevent it. Still, the idea of a traitor among his own Marchers made his stomach turn sour. If he lived through this, he promised himself that he would find whoever was responsible, and he’d take a long time killing him.

  Talyn was having a harder time than Coban controlling his anger. Only a few weeks earlier he had sent more than half of the Marchers stationed at the Crag to the border with his son to eliminate the reivers harassing the outlying settlements. He had been blind, and it had cost him his son and his kingdom. He promised himself that it would not take his grandson as well.

  Thomas was dressed and ready, now adjusting the sheath for his dagger though he still held it in his hand. After what had happened to him, Talyn wasn’t surprised in the least. Talyn expected to see fear in his grandson’s eyes, or maybe sadness over the death of his father, but both were missing. The only thing he could decipher was purpose. Nodding with pride, he still could not believe that the fate of the Highlands had fallen on such small shoulders.

  Talyn walked to the wall behind his desk, where the single lantern struggled against the darkness. He had not done this in a long time, so it took him a few seconds to find the correct stone. Moving his left hand slowly along the carved blocks, he found the slight irregularity he was looking for. Pushing gently, a section of the wall just big enough for a man to walk through swung inward on silent hinges.

  Thomas stepped forward, trying to get a better look at the hidden passageway. It was so dark, even he had a hard time making out the features of the corridor. Finally he did, though just barely. The passageway was not very large. Any man over six feet tall would have to stoop. The stone was roughly cut, and not at all like the finely carved slabs that made up the Crag.

  The clash of steel invaded the room. The fighting had reached the far end of the corridor. It would soon enter the Hall of the Highland Lord.

  “Quickly, my lord,” said Coban. The Marchers with him grasped their swords nervously. “You must hurry.”

  Talyn nodded resignedly. He beckoned to Thomas, who walked hesitantly to him. Talyn knelt down and placed a hand comfortingly on his grandson’s shoulder.

  “Thomas, you have not been treated well here,” began Talyn, obviously struggling with his words. He had never been very good at revealing his emotions, something Lora had always pointed out to him, yet now he did not have the time to learn. “It’s too late to do anything about that, but I’m sorry. I apologize for your father and myself. I could have tried to do more.”

  Thomas looked closely at his grandfather, seeing the sadness in his eyes. He didn’t think it was right for him to blame himself for the failures of others.

  “What’s done is done, grandfather,” said Thomas. The maturity of Thomas’ reply caught Talyn off-guard. “You told me stories and helped me with my lessons. I never thanked you for everything you did for me. I’m sorry.”

  Talyn stared at his little soldier in amazement. He had not shed a tear since the death of his wife those many years ago, but now he was having a hard time holding them back. His mind wandered, focusing on Lora, the woman who had stolen his heart and given him a son. She had died from a fever just a few years after Benlorin was born. She could never stay angry at him, no matter how hard she tried. Would she be angry with him now for what he was about to do? The sounds of battle drifted closer, making the Marchers even more anxious.

  “Coban, please take the men out into the Hall. That’s where we will make our stand.”

  “But, my lord!” protested Coban. “Please, use the tunnel. We can hold them long enough for you and Thomas to escape …”

  Talyn cut him off sharply. “No, Coban. I will not abandon my home or my people. I will fight for the Highlands, and when I fall, the fight will continue,” he said, nodding toward Thomas.

  Coban tried to think of some other argument, any argument, to get Talyn away from the Crag. He knew it was hopeless, though, short of knocking him out and carrying him through the passageway. All he could do was resign himself to what was about to happen and hope for the best. Dying didn’t bother him. It was something he expected as Swordmaster. Talyn was another matter. He was the Highland Lord, and the Highlands couldn’t afford to lose him. He looked from grandfather to grandson, noting the striking similarities. Thomas would never grow as tall as Talyn. Nevertheless, what mattered most was there: the intelligence, the determination, the courage.

  Coban walked slowly toward the door leading to the Hall of the Highland Lord, his men following quietly after him. As he pulled the door open, dozens of emotions played across his face at once. He turned back to his lord and his friend. Coban stiffened his back, then brought the blade of his sword to his forehead, bowing his head slightly to Talyn, and then Thomas, before slipping through the doorway. Each of the Marchers copied the example of their Swordmaster, saluting their lord, and the one who would have been their future lord. It was a sign of respect. Pride swelled in Talyn’s chest. Not for himself, but for Thomas. The Marchers had acknowledged him for who he was, and Thomas for who he would be. Maybe some day, with luck, Thomas
would reclaim what they had given him.

  “Thomas, today you are a man,” began Talyn, saying the words that he had been practicing in his mind for the last few minutes. Words he had never imagined he would have to utter. Words that could condemn a small boy if the wrong people found him. Talyn quickly clamped down on his emotions. Thomas stood straight as an arrow before him, backbone made of steel, a look of determination on his face.

  “Thomas, today you are a man,” he repeated. At the same time he pushed Thomas’ shirtsleeve on his right arm up to the elbow. He pointed to the birthmark on Thomas’ forearm, to the place where his skin was darker, almost sunburned in appearance. It was a relatively small mark, the raptor’s claw, but it signified much. Thomas had always wondered about it. The raptor’s claw always stood out. It marked him. He knew that. He just didn’t understand yet how deeply.

  “Remember that,” said Talyn, pointing to the birthmark. “This marks you as a Kestrel, as the Lord of the Highlands. If certain people see this, they will kill you. Others will flock to your banner because of it. The trick is knowing beforehand what each person will do. Keep it hidden until it is time.”

  “Yes, grandfather,” answered Thomas in a solemn voice, struck by the gravity of the discussion. But he was confused. “How will I know it is time?”

  “You will know, Thomas,” said Talyn. He smiled. He should have expected the question. “As a man, as a Kestrel Highlander, I give you these charges.” Thomas stared into his grandfather’s eyes. He was caught by the intensity of his gaze. It felt like his grandfather was trying to burn his words right into Thomas’ soul. Slowly, ever so slowly, something within him stirred, an energy he had never felt before. His blood began to warm and speed through his veins. Thomas tried to stand even straighter, sticking out his chest. The energy within him continued to build, though he didn’t know where it came from. He relished the warmth and the feeling of power it gave him.

  “This is the sword of the Kestrels, the Sword of the Highlands.” Thomas examined the claymore his grandfather held before him. He had seen it many times before. It was a large two-handed sword with a double-edged blade. “It has been in our family since the time of Olafon, when the first High King gave the blade to one of our ancestors in recognition of the many services the Kestrels had performed for him. I charge you to bring it to safety and to guard it with your life. When the time comes for you to become Lord of the Highlands, if it still may be so, you will have this sword in your hand.”

  Thomas reached out with both hands to take the blade that Talyn extended to him hilt first. He had a hard time holding the heavy sword in his small hands. He could barely keep the tip from striking the floor, so he clutched it to his chest in order to balance the weight.

  Smiling at Thomas’ valiant effort, Talyn reached into the front pocket of his shirt and pulled out a slim, silver chain. On its end hung a finely carved talisman. Thomas moved a step closer to get a better look at it and was surprised how it shined brightly even in this dim light. The talisman was shaped like a rounded triangle, with the center showing what appeared to be the horn of a unicorn, the thick bottom of the horn spiraling up to a razor sharp point.

  “This necklace belonged to your mother. It now belongs to you. She told me once that her mother gave it to her. She said that with this necklace, if you were ever in danger, you could follow its heat to safety. I hope it works for you as I assume it did for your mother.”

  Thomas bent his head slightly, which allowed Talyn to place the chain around his neck. A warmth enveloped him immediately, flowing through his entire body and mixing with the energy still coursing through his blood. After only a few seconds, most of the warmth disappeared, leaving in its wake a strange feeling, one that he had never experienced before. It felt as if someone was watching him.

  “My second charge is for you to remember,” said Talyn. “You are Thomas Kestrel, Lord of the Highlands upon my death, and I charge you to remember that and to make sure that others remember it as well.”

  “I will,” replied Thomas in a quiet, determined voice. Talyn gave a satisfied nod. His grandson had a great deal of inner strength. It would serve him well in the days ahead.

  “Good. Now I charge you to escape,” said Talyn as he motioned to the dark tunnel behind him. “Go through this passageway until you come to the forest, then keep going. Get as far from the Crag as fast as you can, and stay away from anyone not of the Highlands. I wish I could give you more than this, but there’s no time.”

  The sounds of battle grew louder. A dull thud echoed through the room. Whoever had attacked the Crag was breaking down the doors to the Hall of the Highland Lord.

  “Now you must go.”

  “But I want to stay with you. I want to defend the Crag.”

  “No, Thomas. I’m sorry, but you must go. The Crag won’t hold much longer. You’re our only hope. You must go.”

  Thomas looked at his grandfather for a second, his words hitting him in the gut. There were tears in his grandfather’s eyes. He stepped forward to give his grandfather a hug, but the sword he was carrying prevented it. It didn’t stop Talyn, however, as he swept up his grandson in a bear hug, the tears now flowing freely down his cheeks.

  “Goodbye, grandfather,” whispered Thomas. His words made Talyn squeeze him even harder.

  Talyn set him down as the pounding on the doors became deafening. Thomas turned toward the pitch-black passageway. The realization that he was never going to see his grandfather again filled him with a sadness that had escaped him when he had learned that his father had died. But his grandfather had said that he was a man, and he was going to act like one no matter how much it hurt.

  Peering into the darkness, he took a few small steps forward until he stood at the very edge of the passageway, his eyes adjusting almost immediately, picking out the faint edges of the uncut rock that formed the tunnel. He breathed deeply and walked through quickly, his stride carrying him deeper into the darkness, and farther away from the only place he had ever called home, from the only person who had ever really cared about him. That thought made him afraid. He turned around and saw his grandfather standing in the opening, watching him, a sad expression on his face. His grandfather had given him several important tasks, and he refused to let him down.

  Thomas raised the sword above his head with two hands, a newfound strength aiding him, and yelled as loud as he could, “I am Thomas Kestrel, Lord of the Highlands! The Highlands will not be forgotten!”

  A smile touched his grandfather’s lips as he gazed upon his little warrior. Pride for his grandson filled his heart, and he regretted not being able to see the man that he would become.

  “For the Highlands!” he replied, answering his grandson’s salute.

  Thomas smiled as well as he brought the sword down and again held it against his chest so he could cradle it in his arms. He walked down the passageway, stepping with a new confidence deeper into the darkness; a little boy with the seriousness of a man, carrying a sword much too big for him.

  As his grandson disappeared into the darkness, Talyn stepped away from the opening and released the hidden latch, allowing the wall to close. Now it was his turn to make his grandson proud. The Crag was his, and he would make his stand in the Hall of the Highland Lord. Talyn knew that his death approached, but he was safe in the knowledge that the Highlands would not die with him.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Awakening

  A tall man walked silently through the forest as if he was a part of it. The heart trees did their best to trip him, their gnarled roots twisting across the forest floor. Climbing hundreds of feet into the air, the heart trees’ trunks blocked a person’s view for a hundred feet to either side. Thousands of years old, it was said that if you lay your ear against the trunk, you could hear the beating of the earth within it. There weren’t many heart trees left, and the same story said that once they were gone, the earth would die as well.

  The tall man didn’t seem to notice the roots, steppin
g nimbly around them or over them as he focused his attention on a small plant he cupped in his hands, careful not to disturb it. He had been waiting for this particular plant to grow for a long time. It bloomed once every twenty years, and then for only a few days, which testified to its scarcity. Known as shadowsbreath, it blossomed in just a handful of places. Though a tiny plant, it held many peculiar qualities. The primary one being that if you took a single taste of it, you would die a painful death, the poison slowly rotting you from the inside out. Yet it held other characteristics as well that would assist him in his experiments. Dodging around the large trees that reared up to block his way or ducking under huge roots that sometimes rose as high as his head, he increased his pace. It was getting dark and he was anxious to be home. Autumn was almost upon the land and the nights were getting chilly.

  He wore brown breeks and a dark blue shirt that covered a slim body. Though he did not look it, he had a deceptive strength. The cloak he wore helped to ward off the chill and swirled around him as he strode quickly toward his destination, its green and brown colors blending perfectly with the landscape. His piercing green eyes held an intensity that would have frightened most men and were accentuated by the sharp features of his face. The short black beard flecked with grey gave him an almost dastardly appearance. If anyone had the courage to tell him so, he would have smiled and thanked them for the compliment.

  He soon entered a part of the forest where the trees did not grow so thickly, and he strode straight for a heart tree larger than the rest. It looked like any other, but he had no trouble picking out the door that stood almost in the tree’s very center. He hated that door. When he had built it, he had made a mistake in its dimensions, and he didn’t like making mistakes. Every time he went through the door he had to duck his head because the entry failed to accommodate his height. He could have replaced it, but chose not to. If nothing else, it reminded him of his fallibility. Next to it was a small window, now closed. If you looked up into its branches, a small chimney was visible halfway up the trunk. But again, you had to know what you were looking for in order to pick it out.