by Peter Wacht
"You never said it would be so difficult," said Thomas.
Rya pulled away from him, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. She hated getting emotional, especially in front of others.
"We thought it would be best if you didn't know," said Rynlin. "The tests require more in the way of reaction than thinking. The less you think, the more you function naturally. To pass the tests you must follow your instincts. If we had warned you beforehand, you might still be thinking about what choice to make." Rynlin smiled wickedly. "We were quite concerned for a time. You seemed quite taken with the girl. Quite taken with her, indeed. What was her name? Kaylie?"
Thomas flushed with embarrassment. So the Sylvana had seen everything. His ears and face turned bright red.
"Don't let your grandfather's teasing get to you," said Rya, giving her husband a sharp elbow to the midsection. Rynlin had expected it, but couldn't avoid it because of the limited space on the Stone. Tiro had walked down as soon as he had declared Thomas a Sylvan Warrior, but even with him gone, it was crowded with Rynlin and Rya up there with him.
"It all comes down to must, doesn't it?" asked Thomas. "It always seems like we have a choice, when much of the time we really don't."
"Yes, it does," replied Rynlin, rubbing his side where Rya's elbow had connected. After hundreds of years of marriage, she knew his weak spots. "Often we don't have a choice. The difference comes, though, in that most people don't have the courage to do what they must. Sylvan Warriors, you, don't have that option. Whether or not you actually have a choice really doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is that you do what you must. You might not like what you have to do, but you will do it nonetheless."
Leave it to Rynlin to work in a lesson when they were supposed to be celebrating. Thomas’ mood suddenly darkened. "You know?"
"Yes, we know," said Rynlin, his expression almost sad. "We'll deal with that later. Come." Rynlin guided Thomas toward the steps. “It's time for you to meet the others.”
As Rynlin and Rya led him down the steps and into the throng of well wishers waiting for him, Thomas tried to remember all the names, but his heart wasn't in it. His attention was focused on something else: The time has come. Let the duel begin.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Warming Cold Stone
A beam of sunlight had again trespassed, making its way past the clouds over Blackstone and shining brightly through the darkened dome of glass situated on top of the largest building in the empty city. This time, though, the ray of light had little trouble fighting its way through the darkness as the shadows drifted back in fear.
The sunlight struck the chamber in its very center, giving life to a large stone disk surrounded by huge tiles of black and white. On the disk, two figures battled — one a boy holding a sword of blue, another a man covered in black with a sword darker than the darkest night.
The ray of sunlight settled there, warming the cold stone. As the seconds passed it grew brighter and brighter and stretched out over the floor, pushing its way into the corners of the chamber and driving away the murk. It continued to advance until the blinding light consumed the room.
It was then that the earth began to shake. A soft rumble at first that increased in intensity. The dust that had settled onto the black and white stones danced in the light for the first time in centuries. The soft rumble became a roar as the columns ringing the edge of the room and buttressing the ceiling moved to the rhythm of the earth.
The quaking became more violent, making the hundred-ton columns sway back and forth as if they were no more than stalks of wheat guided by the wind, until it finally moved outward, spreading through the broken city on the darkened cliff face and out into the mountains, and from there across the Northern Steppes and beyond.
Then just as quickly as it had started, it was over. The earth became silent once more, and the bright ray of light returned to its home above the clouds. But the dust remained, swirling around in the darkness that had returned with an energy it had not experienced in centuries.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A Leader Must Emerge
The afternoon passed in a blur of faces and conversation for Thomas as he talked with each Sylvan Warrior. Keeping track of all the names was a difficult task, but Rya stayed at his shoulder and helped him along. As the sun began to set, Catal Huyuk and Daran Sharban started a large fire to ward off the chill. Rya stepped forward then with Elisia and Aurelia Valeran and made a delicious stew in the largest pot Thomas had ever seen. Where it had come from he didn't know.
As the smells from the cook pot wafted out over the Circle, the desire for conversation decreased, replaced by hunger. Thomas, for one, was starved, and he was not alone. Finding a place next to Rynlin on one of the logs that some of the Sylvan Warriors had pulled close to the fire, he gratefully accepted a bowl of stew from his grandmother.
"Were the images real?" he asked Rynlin between bites. Vegetable stew. One of his grandmother's specialties.
"Do you ever run out of questions?" Rynlin was also hungry, and therefore irritable. Thomas should have sat on the other side of the fire, but then he would be near Tiro, and he'd have to listen to him ramble on about something of little interest.
"No, not usually." Thomas sensed his grandfather's reluctance to talk, but pressed forward anyway. "Were the images real?"
"You mean the dreams with the choices?"
Thomas nodded. "Yes, were they real?"
"In part," said Rynlin, digging into his bowl for the last few bites of his stew.
"That doesn't really help me very much," said Thomas, slightly annoyed. Sometimes trying to get an answer out of his grandfather was like pulling teeth.
"What I mean is yes and no."
"Rynlin—"
"Patience, Thomas. Let me explain." Rynlin set his empty bowl down next to the log. Now that he had finished his meal, he could move on to his second favorite task — teaching. "As you've probably guessed, those dreams were created with the Talent, and in part came from within you. In order to ensure that the choices you had to make meant something to you, they had to be formed from what you cared about most."
Thomas nodded his understanding. "Will they ever come true?"
Rynlin shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe. Some of us have had our dreams come true in their entirety, but I don't know how often that happens. Sometimes only parts of the dreams come true. Sometimes none of it.” Rynlin grinned wickedly. “Looking for another kiss, are you?"
Rynlin often could be relentless in his teasing, but he was also smart. As soon as the words left his mouth, he glanced around quickly to make sure his wife was still occupied at the fire. One elbow to the ribs earlier in the day had been enough for him.
Thomas blushed slightly. That had not been his main reason for asking, though it certainly was a pleasant memory. Unfortunately, he had been thinking more about the third dream. The one that knotted his stomach in fear every time he remembered the feel of the Dark Magic erupting within his body, the feel of his life draining away as he pushed his sword through the Shadow Lord's chest, and then discovering to his horror that he had wasted his life because steel couldn’t kill the Shadow Lord.
Thomas wanted to talk to Rynlin about that, but didn't get the opportunity. As soon as the meal ended, the discussion began. The Shadow Lord stirred once again, and they all knew the inevitable result of that.
"We know what the future holds," Tiro said. "The Shadow Lord will strike once more. The question is, with our reduced numbers, will we be able to stand against him as we have in the past?"
"Of course we will," replied Loki Jereil, a tall Sylvan Warrior who wore the robes of a sorcerer over his sparse frame. He was relatively young compared to the other Sylvana, having seen only three hundred summers. But he was old enough to remember fighting at the Breaker during the Great War. Thomas had enjoyed speaking with him for a few moments during the afternoon. Though his short beard was flecked with grey, his eyes retained their youth. "We have stood against him befo
re, and we will again."
"I have no doubt of that," said Tiro. "I wonder instead whether we will hold this time. The size of the Dark Horde continues to grow, while our numbers decrease."
"Tiro, we don't need any predilections of doom from you," said a massively muscled Sylvan Warrior whose sun-darkened skin matched the deep brown of his leather armor. Thomas thought his name was Jeran Caffalyn, from somewhere near the western edge of the Grasslands, but he wasn't sure. Even with Rya's assistance, he couldn’t remember everyone's name.
"I am simply throwing out the possibility," said Tiro, raising his voice to make his point. "We must be prepared for every eventuality."
Tiro chattered on for several minutes, though Thomas no longer listened. Tiro seemed to be doing most of the talking, yet he clearly wasn't a leader among the Sylvana. In fact, there didn't seem to be a leader at all. Rather, decisions were made based upon the majority. Rynlin didn’t even bother to speak up. Thomas could understand why Rynlin often returned from these meetings so frustrated. Rule by committee certainly wasn't the way to get things done during a crisis.
"I think we must focus on what we know," interrupted Maden, bringing the discussion back to the primary topic. He was almost as tall as Rynlin, and he too had a great deal of skill in the Talent. Unlike other sorcerers, though, he chose to wear leggings and a jacket, and a sword hung at his hip, though it now rested against his knee as he sat near the fire. He could have been as intimidating as Catal Huyuk, but his ready smile prevented it. "Daran has reported more activity along the edges of the Charnel Mountains, and Catal Huyuk has spoken of the dark creatures becoming bolder. Even Elisia and Aurelia have dealt with Ogren for the first time in two hundred years in the mountains of Kashel. The time for battle will be upon us soon."
Rynlin murmured his agreement. "Maden is right. The Shadow Lord will strike soon, perhaps sooner than we think." The finality of Rynlin's words filled Thomas with dread. Being named Darkbane was one thing. Actually proving it was quite another. "In the past, we have always succeeded in defeating the Shadow Lord, but I think that term — defeated — is deceptive."
"What do you mean by that?" interrupted Tiro. The portly sorcerer had a hard time remaining silent. In his own mind, he always had something of value to say.
"I mean yes, we defeated the Dark Horde and prevented it from ravaging the Kingdoms. But we have never defeated the Shadow Lord. We have only delayed him." Many Sylvana nodded their agreement. During the discussions, Thomas quickly discovered that most of the Sylvan Warriors deferred to Maden and Rynlin. They were the closest thing the Sylvana had to leaders. "Yes, we are fewer in number than ever before, but we should not allow that to restrict us when it comes time to act. Perhaps this time events will turn out differently."
Rynlin gave his grandson a meaningful look to punctuate his words, and one that was not lost on the other Sylvan Warriors. Thomas' feeling of dread increased.
"At the moment, there is little we can do but wait," said Maden, shifting slightly on his log. "I propose, though, that we send regular patrols into the Charnel Mountains. That might give us early warning when the Shadow Lord attacks. It could be in the next few months, or the next few years; regardless, I want to be ready."
Many Sylvana shouted their approval for the idea. They were warriors first and foremost. They all knew the advantages of surprise, particularly with an opponent as deadly as the Shadow Lord.
"Will the Kingdoms stand with us?" asked Tiro. "If they don't, can we hold?"
The two simple questions touched off an explosion of argument. Thomas listened to it all, surprised at the vehemence of some of the Warriors. For several minutes the verbal battle raged. Some Sylvan Warriors argued for warning the Kingdoms and enlisting their aid, while others just as strongly voiced their opinions that the Kingdoms would not listen and would not care. What had started out as a calm discussion degenerated into a shouting match. The arguments continued until one of the twins, Aurelia he thought, spoke up.
"I'm sure the Kingdoms would listen if we rode up to the gates of Eamhain Mhacha and blew them apart." Her words were met with chuckles of laughter that helped to tone down the discussion, though the arguments continued.
Thomas was surprised by what was going on. He had always thought that the Sylvana were a dignified people, and above such things as petty disagreements. Rynlin easily interpreted his expression.
"They are Sylvan Warriors," said Rynlin, leaning over to whisper in his ear. "But they are also men and women. Like other men and women, they often fall prey to their own egos, misperceptions and fears."
Thomas continued to listen to the verbal sparring for more than an hour, until it finally petered out with nothing really decided. The Sylvana would watch and wait. When the attack came they would be ready to defend at the Breaker as they had in the past.
For some reason, that strategy bothered him. Maybe it was his youth getting in the way of reason. Yet, waiting for an attack didn't seem like the surest path to victory. After the gathering broke up, the Sylvana made their way back into the forest to their separate camps. Thomas followed along behind Rynlin and Rya, who were deep in discussion. Though their voices were muffled, he picked up a few words.
"A leader must emerge," Rya said to Rynlin, her arms crossed over her chest because of the cold.
"Yes, but it's too soon. That's not something that can be forced. It will have to be worked out in its own time."
Usually, when Rynlin and Rya whispered when he was around, it never led to anything good. This time whatever they were talking about didn't seem to apply to him. At least he hoped it didn't.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Bringing the Chains
Once the foothills were the breadbasket of the Highlands, providing more than enough food for the people who populated the rugged land. Yet, this bountiful region now bore the scars of war. The burned-out husks of farmhouses had replaced once thriving orchards and fields of wheat and barley. Known for its rich bounty only a few years before, it had become the most obvious symbol of the collapse of Highland power. Although the Highlanders were still the most feared warriors in all the Kingdoms, their numbers were dwindling at a rapid rate.
Much of the responsibility for that fact lay at the feet of Lord Johin Killeran. He was, actually, quite proud of it. Normally a practical people, these warriors vainly hoped that the true heir to the throne of the Highlands — the Lost Kestrel — would return. The Highlanders saw this boy — the Lost Whelp, as Killeran liked to call him — as their savior, who could give them back the freedom they had lost when the Crag fell. Killeran had a much keener insight than most into the question of whether the boy lord still lived. He knew the truth of the matter. The Lost Kestrel was only a myth.
Yet, that did not keep the Highlanders from hoping for a miracle. And he did admire their persistence, though it was wasted effort. But enough was enough. It was time for them to admit that they were a conquered people and to begin acting as such. He had enough to do as it was without having to worry about bands of Marchers coming down from the higher passes to harass his men.
As he saw it, he was only doing his duty. If he had a natural prejudice against the Highlanders, well, they had only themselves to blame. If they had done as he had ordered — asked, really — he would not have been forced to take such extreme measures. Didn't these Marchers understand the pressures he faced as the Regent of the Highlands?
Once the Marchers realized that they could not save the Crag from the surprise attack, they had begun a rearguard action to allow as many people as possible to escape into the mountains, where his men dared not follow. After the destruction of the Crag, Killeran had gained marginal control of the lower Highlands. Though lesser in number, the Highlanders still controlled the higher passes.
The Marchers blended into the forest as if they were a part of it, striking swiftly and then disappearing. Their anger at the loss of their Highland Lord, their homes, their families, their freedom, only served to fuel their
rage. Fighting a Marcher was deadly enough. Taking on an angry Marcher was suicidal. Then again, Killeran didn't really have to worry about that. He didn't actually have to fight the Marchers himself — one of the prizes of leadership.
In the beginning, the Marchers were no more than minor annoyances, coming down from the mountains to hound his men and hinder his mining operation. He had hoped that they would stay in their villages, satisfied that they still controlled a portion of their beloved Highlands. Killeran wiped his hand underneath his rather large nose, using his shirtsleeve as a handkerchief. He had suffered colds and chills ever since he came to this cursed land. Ah, well. There was no sense in wishing for an impossibility. He could think of no more difficult people than the Highlanders. Stubborn and strong-willed to a fault, they refused to admit defeat.
The High King had named him Regent seven years before, giving him charge of the Highlands to rule as he saw fit until Rodric assumed control as the law allowed. That day was only three years away. The rulers of the other Kingdoms had acquiesced to his selection, as most viewed him as a neutral party. Why would a Dunmoorian lord care about the Highlands? They were always more interested in acquiring lands by the border with Armagh.
That misguided perspective, and the fact that virtually none of the other rulers demonstrated much concern about the fate of Talyn Kestrel and his family, allowed him to take control. Well, that wasn't exactly true. Gregory of Fal Carrach and Sarelle of Benewyn had vigorously protested his selection. They had been in the minority, though, and a good thing too.
The High King had given him two charges: exterminate the Marchers and extract from the Highland mines as much wealth as he possibly could. Killeran had learned quickly that the former was virtually impossible because of the tenacity of these uncivilized barbarians. The latter was working out quite well, however.