The Lord of the Highlands (The Sylvan Chronicles Book 5)

by Peter Wacht

  Malachias was stronger in Dark Magic than Chertney, as shown by his recent display, so that would give him an advantage, considered the Shadow Lord. Perhaps he had nothing to worry about after all. Still, after waiting all these years for the perfect opportunity, he could ill afford to leave any loose strings that could be used by his enemies.

  The Shadow Lord turned back toward the dead city, taking pleasure in the gloom and murk that lay upon the land as far as the eye could see. There could be no loose strings. And if Malachias failed to cut off this one string, then he would have to take care of it himself.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  A Decision

  Thomas Kestrel stood atop the cliffs of the Isle of Mist, looking out upon Shark Cove. Across the mile-long channel, the towering peaks of the Highlands rose upward, reaching for the cloudy blue sky, only to fall short by a hair. At the moment, though, Thomas’ attention was directed downward. Beneath the cliffs in the frothy surf created by the incessant pounding of the waves against the rocky shore, the large fins of several Great Sharks tore through the sea.

  The smallest of the adult Great Sharks grew to forty feet in length; the largest reached seventy feet. Adding the large, triangular, serrated teeth that were four or five inches in length confirmed the dominance of these creatures in their natural habitat. Yet different from other animals that killed to eat, the Great Sharks killed because they could, a remnant from their service to the Shadow Lord. These monsters of the sea swam in the deep waters of the ocean, though they favored a few places along the coasts, one of those being the aptly named Shark Cove.

  Thomas watched as the Great Sharks swam gracefully through the sea and the frothy white waves struck the shore with their full power. Two forces of nature; one good, the other evil. It seemed as if the water tried to push the Great Sharks onto the shore, renouncing them to the land, but to no avail. It took quite a bit of effort for Thomas to draw his mind back to the reason he had come here in the first place.

  The cool wind coming off the sea buffeted Thomas, and he pulled his dark green cloak tighter around his body. Even this far above the sea the misty spray created by the pounding surf dampened his short, brown hair, which curled in response to the wind’s touch. Though his mind had wandered, his eyes shined brightly, mirroring the sharpness of his features.

  There was a hardness to him, a seriousness you would not expect in one so young. When considering everything he had been through, and not yet having reached his twentieth birthday, his demeanor was quite understandable. Though not particularly tall, this quiet young man had an aura about him: one of purpose, determination, strength.

  Thomas sighed softly, stroking his hand slowly through the scruff of Beluil’s neck. The large black wolf sat contentedly beside his friend and enjoyed the distracted attention. Since escaping from Tinnakilly several months before, Thomas had recovered quickly. A slight scar was visible above his right eye, while a much larger one stretched along his side, a reminder of the Makreen’s blade.

  Even the many wounds crisscrossing his back had healed, though the scars remained. They ached from time to time, such as when it was about to rain – and during the dreams. No matter how hard he tried, at least once a week the nightmares came, a constant reminder of what he had experienced at the hands of the High King. In a way, it was useful. It strengthened his resolve.

  He owed his grandfather and the other Sylvan Warriors his life. He had tried to tell Beluil the same thing, conversing with the wolf through his unique closeness to nature. The images Thomas created in his mind flowed into the mind of his furry friend, and from Beluil’s mind into his. Once, certain people had been able to communicate with animals quite easily. Now, most everyone thought it a skill that had died out, or was no more than a legend, but such was not the case with Thomas.

  Beluil had shrugged off Thomas’ supposed debt, explaining that they were brothers. Brothers did such things for one another. No debt was involved. Besides, Thomas had done much the same when they had first become friends. Thomas chose not to argue. It was often a losing proposition with the stubborn wolf, who usually won most of their arguments by simply closing his eyes, rolling onto his side, and falling asleep.

  Thomas looked out across the water separating the Isle of Mist from the western edge of the Highlands. He studied the snowcapped peaks, taking in their ruggedness, their enduring nature. It was time for him to make a decision, a decision that he had put off for some time. But he knew he couldn’t wait any longer. Time was running short. Besides, he didn’t really feel as if he had a choice. As his grandmother Rya liked to say, “You must do what you must do.”

  Almost ten years before, reivers and Ogren had entered the Crag through treachery. Though the Marchers fought bravely, they were outnumbered. With his father already dead, his grandfather had sacrificed his life so that Thomas could escape and carry on the traditions of the Kestrel clan. Thomas remembered the moment vividly, as he stood before the pitch-black opening of the escape tunnel, the sounds of battle and screams of death drawing closer.

  “As a man, as a Kestrel Highlander, I give you these charges,” Talyn Kestrel had said.

  Thomas had suddenly felt something stir within him, an energy foreign to him. His blood had felt warmer as it sped through his veins.

  “This is the sword of the Kestrels, the Sword of the Highlands,” his grandfather continued. “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 at your hip.”

  Thomas now wore the blade in a scabbard across his back, the hilt visible above the neck of his cloak.

  Talyn had continued with his orders as the steel blades of the Highland Marchers met the terrible onslaught of the Ogrens’ axes. “My second charge is for you to remember. 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.” His grandfather had then charged him to escape.

  Reluctantly he had gone, entering the tunnel, knowing he would never again see his grandfather, the only person who to that point in his life had shown him any kindness, any love. Before the wall hiding the secret passageway swung back into place, Thomas had turned back toward his grandfather and with two hands hoisted the Sword of the Highlands into the air. He had yelled as loud as he could, “I am Thomas Kestrel, Lord of the Highlands! The Highlands will not be forgotten!”

  His grandfather had replied, “For the Highlands!”

  And then the stone wall had swung shut, enclosing Thomas in darkness. That memory had plagued him more and more during the last few months, visiting him far more regularly than he desired. Perhaps it was because time was slipping away.

  Upon news of the reivers’ attack on the Crag and the murders of Benlorin and Talyn Kestrel, the High King had tried to assume control of the Highlands. If not for Gregory of Fal Carrach’s interference and demand that the law be followed, he would have succeeded. As the law required, when the ruler of a Kingdom died, and no true heir came forward, yet it could not be proven that all known heirs were dead, the High King must appoint a regent for a period of ten years.

  Though the High King had tried to convince the assembled monarchs that the Kestrel line had come to an end, Gregory remained adamant. The grandson’s body had not been found. Yes, he may have died in the attack, but if there is no body, there is no evidence of death. So it must be assumed that the grandson – Thomas – still lived.

  If Thomas did not appear before the Council of the Kingdoms before the end of the decade-long period, in the eyes of the other monarchs he would lose his legal right to rule, and the High King, as prescribed by the law, would gain control of the Highlands. Rodric could then appoint a new ruler or, as Thomas suspected, take the Highlands for his own.

  The ten-year period was almost at an end. At the next Council of the Kingdoms, slated for later in the year, if Thomas didn’t declare himself Lord of the Highlands
, Rodric would finally gain what he had lusted after for so long.

  Thomas reached behind his head and pulled the Sword of the Highlands from the scabbard across his back. He examined it closely, despite having already memorized every inch of the blade. It was a plain sword, in the sense that there was very little in the way of ostentation – jewels weren’t set in the hilt, nor gold inlaid in the grip. Yet it was an unmistakable sword, for on both sides of the blade where it met the hilt the Kestrel sigil was etched into the steel – a kestrel, soaring out of the sky, its claws outstretched for the kill.

  He let the blade’s point drop to the grass, and he once again looked out across the channel separating the Isle of Mist from the Highlands. Conflicting emotions fought within his heart, his mind having trouble making sense of the maelstrom. Yes, he had promised his grandfather that he would return and take his proper place among his people. But there was very little that he remembered while growing up in the Crag that made him want to return.

  Most of the Highlanders living there had thought his mother a witch, noting the many strange things that seemed to happen around her. Thomas could never understand their fear, in part because his mother died so soon after giving birth to him.

  While growing up the other children had teased him mercilessly, focusing on his bright, green eyes. They called him a goblin, a ghoul. That’s why he wandered alone through the forests beneath the Crag so much, enjoying the solitude of his private excursions. The animals never accused him of anything, and because of his special skill, they accepted him for what he was.

  The only one who had shown any love for him at the Crag was his grandfather. Talyn would come to his room to read him stories and teach him the history of the Highlands. That was the only time he felt like he belonged in the Crag, when he was in the company of his grandfather. A sadness he had thought long gone welled up within him. He had come to grips with his grandfather’s death many years before, but the pain remained.

  And what of his responsibilities as a Sylvan Warrior? Nothing in life had felt as good as the moment he passed the challenges to become a Sylvan Warrior. Even with the forbidding future that lay before him, he would have done it all over again in a second.

  Serving as a Sylvan Warrior made him feel complete, as if he were doing what he was born to do. The closeness he felt to nature was the greatest sensation he had ever experienced. That and the pleasure that surged through him upon dispatching another of the Shadow Lord’s minions. Would returning to the Highlands keep him from his duties as a Sylvan Warrior?

  Still, he could not ignore the need of his people. Rynlin and Rya had said many times before that he would know when it was time to return to the Highlands and take his proper place, but doubts still plagued him, even with his vivid memories of his time as a prisoner in the Black Hole. His capture by Killeran had opened his eyes to the suffering of his people.

  Killeran had done his best to enslave as many Highlanders as possible, all in his quest to extract as much gold and other minerals from the Highland mines. Though the Highlands was a rugged and dangerous land, beneath its surface lay more wealth than could be found in all the other Kingdoms combined.

  Thomas remembered the faces of the gaunt, weak men, women and children herded into their cages to spend another night weighed down by their misery and sorrow. His guilt at doing nothing to protect his people had almost overcome him, yet reason won out. He could not have done anything to prevent what had happened, but he could help his people now.

  And he had, by freeing his people, burning down the Black Hole, and decimating Killeran’s troops. His actions gave hope once again to the Highlanders. Should he not finish the job? Yes, his people were stronger now, but if Rodric gained control of the Highlands, eventually they would be wiped out, and most of the other Kingdoms wouldn’t care. He simply could not allow that to happen.

  And what of the visit by Talyn’s spirit? Thomas had lain close to death in the glade at the western edge of Oakwood Forest upon his escape from Tinnakilly when the spirit of his long-dead grandfather had suddenly appeared. Every night since then his grandfather’s words had played through his mind: “It is time, Thomas. It is time to stand on high.”

  Thomas had looked upon the spirit in surprise.

  “But why now?” he had asked. “Why has it taken so long?”

  “You had to see your true enemy, Thomas, before you could return to the Highlands,” his grandfather had replied. “You know what you’re up against now. You have that knowledge. And, more importantly, you know yourself – your strengths and weaknesses. It is time.”

  Talyn had then looked down at him with pride in his ghostly eyes.

  “Use that knowledge. The Highlands is yours now. Take back what is yours. Free the Highlands and let loose the Marchers.”

  It is time. Thomas raised the Sword of the Highlands once more. In addition to the twin kestrels, an inscription ran along the steel of the blade: “Strength and courage lead to freedom.”

  Perhaps the inscription applied directly to him. Did he have the strength and courage to be free? Ever since his escape from the Crag one responsibility after another had bombarded him, to the point where he felt like he had no control over his life. Perhaps that’s why his grandmother’s favorite saying – “You must do what you must do” – grated on him.

  But maybe this was a way to break free of his responsibilities. If he succeeded in what he needed to do, he could regain some control over his life. The question remained, though. Did he have the strength and courage to be free? Thomas returned the blade to its scabbard. It was time to find out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  For Duty

  As Thomas walked down the narrow path leading away from the cliffs, Beluil trotted before him. The wind had picked up, bringing with it an added bite announcing that autumn was settling across the north. Yet it felt different than previous seasons, with a sharper cold settling over the land. Though Beluil had proven himself time and again against Ogren and other menacing creatures – a testament to his toughness — he enjoyed certain luxuries, such as curling up in front of the fire on a cold, windy night. Thomas let him go ahead, still caught up in his thoughts.

  “How long have you been waiting?” Thomas asked, not bothering to look up.

  He had left the beach and entered the forest of heart trees that dominated the Isle of the Mist. Heart trees were the largest in all the Kingdoms, some rising several hundred feet into the sky with their trunks fully a hundred feet around. The roots of these legendary trees snaked across the forest floor, with many large enough for Thomas to walk under.

  Once, millennia before, heart trees had stood from one end of the Kingdoms to the other, when the men and women who lived on the continent still had some understanding of nature and its role in the world. But no more. Those that remained survived within the Highlands and on the Isle of Mist. It was said that if you placed your ear against the bark of a heart tree, you could hear the beating of the earth’s heart. Thomas knew it to be true, but he had an advantage most everyone else did not.

  His grandfather rose from his seat on the gnarled root of a heart tree.

  “Not long,” replied Rynlin Keldragan, stretching his long frame.

  Rynlin was one of the tallest men Thomas had ever met, and with his sharp features, short black beard flecked with grey, piercing green eyes, and intense gaze, he had a dastardly, menacing appearance. It was a persona that Rynlin rather enjoyed.

  “I was just finishing my circuit of the island, making sure all my surprises were still intact.”

  He fell in beside his grandson as they navigated the heart tree roots on their way home.

  “When was the last time one of your surprises was actually needed?”

  Rynlin was silent for a time, as he could not recall immediately.

  “Before you came here,” he replied. “Maybe fifteen years? I can’t remember exactly.”

  Rynlin shook his head as if he were frustrated.

  “It’
s a bit disappointing, really. Though your grandmother and I have never liked being disturbed, when we did have uninvited guests, it was a great deal of fun watching them go,” said Rynlin, revealing his mean streak.

  Rynlin was not the type of person you wanted to irritate or anger. He never forgot, and sometimes waited hundreds of years to exact retribution.

  Thomas smiled to himself as his grandfather fell silent. He remembered the first time Rynlin had explained the many surprises that awaited those trespassing on their island. For centuries, legend had it that hidden upon the Isle of Mist were untold riches from the many treasure chests buried there by the pirates who used to roam the Sea of Mist.

  No one had ever confirmed if the legends were anything more than that, but there were always men willing to take risks for what they perceived to be the easy acquisition of gold and jewels. So bands of treasure hunters journeyed to the Isle of Mist from time to time in search of an easy fortune. When Rynlin and Rya made the Isle of Mist their home, they decided to dissuade these ne’er-do-wells.

  In the taverns of the eastern coast, Rynlin began planting rumors about the horrors of the Shadowwood – the name that he had come up with for the forest on the Isle of Mist. Then, if the fortune seekers were too stupid to ignore the legends that Rynlin created, they often met with a nasty surprise soon after landing on the island, courtesy of Rynlin and Rya’s skill in the Talent.

  Rynlin took a special pleasure in watching the bravest of men run in terror from the Shadowwood, more often than not diving into the surf and swimming for their ships, not wanting to wait for the landing boats to pick them up. Sometimes that was a mistake. If they swam in the wrong direction, they became bait for the Great Sharks, but that was the price you often paid for greed.

  Thomas wore an evil grin as he and Rynlin approached their home. He and his grandfather were more alike than either cared to admit. As they made their way through the heart trees, a door opened in the trunk of one only a few feet before them. To anyone who did not know what to look for, this particular heart tree resembled all the others. But for Rynlin, Rya and Thomas, it was home. Beside the door, several windows were carved into the tree, and halfway up its massive trunk, a chimney allowed the smoke of the fire to escape.