by Peter Wacht
Renn succeeded in tearing a hole through one of Thomas’ shirtsleeves while Seneca sliced Thomas’ shirt across his belly, the blade coming frighteningly close to disemboweling him, but Thomas withstood the withering attack, his quarterstaff knocking away a lunge from Renn or both of his hands coming up on the staff to thwart a downward cut from Seneca.
Finally, it came to an end. Renn and Seneca stepped back, somewhat surprised that they had failed to draw blood. They expected Thomas to be as tired as they, but he simply stood there, quarterstaff held comfortably in his hands, breathing as if he had done nothing but stand there calmly for the past ten minutes.
While Thomas enjoyed the brief respite, noting that the activity had taken more out of his opponents than him, his mind worked furiously. There was absolute silence on the plateau, the gathered Highlanders captured by the spectacle unfolding before them. The only noise came from Renn and Seneca’s breathing. Thomas had to make use of that advantage. He needed to end this before he got a spear or sword lodged in his gut.
Expecting Renn and Seneca to attack again at the same time, Thomas formulated his plan of action, mirroring it to the one he had used when fighting the shock troopers under the watchful eye of his grandfather. Then, he had almost won, but the third shock trooper had succeeded in getting past his defenses. Hopefully this time his plan would work with only two opponents.
Renn and Seneca approached once more, Renn again moving to his left and Seneca to his right. Thomas waited patiently, his quarterstaff twirling slowly through the air. He decided to take Seneca first. As both Highlanders attacked simultaneously, Thomas sidestepped Renn’s lunge and knocked the spear aside. Thomas then lunged himself, but this time directly at Seneca, who at the same time was jabbing forward with his sword.
Thomas’ attack caught the grizzled Highlander off-guard. Knocking the sword from Seneca’s hand, Thomas struck the Highlander a hard blow in his gut with the butt of his quarterstaff. As Seneca buckled under the blow, Thomas reversed his staff and brought it down on the back of his head just hard enough to knock the man senseless.
Renn was shocked to see his friend fall so easily, and then he suddenly realized that the many rumors about this boy’s fighting skills just might be true. He had thought that some of the stories had to be exaggerated. But it seemed that there was more than a kernel of truth to them. Locking away his worries, Renn waited for Thomas’ attack. He was not to be disappointed. Thomas’ assault came in a whirlwind of motion, his staff moving at a blinding speed as he searched for a whole in Renn’s defenses.
The large Highlander struggled more and more, finding it harder and harder to match the speed of Thomas’ attack. Thomas waited until he had the opening he wanted. Bringing his quarterstaff in low, he feinted a jab, then quickly brought his quarterstaff up, knocking Renn’s spear from his hands. Before the Highlander could react, Thomas swung his weapon in a tight circle, taking Renn’s legs out from under him. Renn landed heavily on his back, knocking the wind from him. He tried to rise but was greeted by the tip of Thomas’ quarterstaff poised at his throat.
“Do you yield?” Thomas asked calmly, barely breathing hard despite the ferocity of his attack.
Renn croaked a yes and Thomas relented, moving the quarterstaff out of the way and allowing his opponent to roll over and recover. He then walked over to a groggy Seneca who was just regaining his senses. Thomas offered a hand to help the Highlander back to his feet.
The crowd had watched in silence, mesmerized by the duel, then suddenly realized that it was over. The Highlanders erupted with a tremendous roar. Thomas worried that Renn and Seneca would hold his victory over them against him, but he decided there was no point in worrying about something over which he had no control. They had done what was required, as had he.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Test of Knowledge
“Thomas Kestrel has passed the first Test,” confirmed Coban. He then moved quickly to the next step. “Now comes the Test of Knowledge.”
The crowd fell into a deathly quiet as an old Highlander stepped out onto what had been the field of battle. Nestor, his name meaning knowledge in the old tongue. Though his hair was completely white with a beard running down to his belt, his step was still light and his eyes held the gleam of youth. He was the oldest of the Highland warriors and could in fact be compared to the bards of old, for within him rested the history of the Highlands. Many of the books and documents that contained the Highland history had been destroyed when the Crag fell. For the past ten years, Nestor had done his best to write down what he and others remembered so that it wouldn’t be lost.
He was about to complete his decade-long task, but the summons of the bagpipes had drawn him away. A bit put out by that, he wanted to end this quickly so he could return to finish his work. Then he could focus on recording what was to follow in the wake of this boy. Though some Highlanders may still doubt the ability of this young Thomas Kestrel, Nestor did not. He saw the boy’s passing the Tests as a given, but that didn’t mean he would allow him to have an easy time of it during this Test. For, much like Renn and Seneca, doing so would bring dishonor to his name, and that was something no true Highlander would ever willingly allow.
“The Test of Knowledge consists of three questions,” said Nestor, as much for the crowd’s benefit as the candidate’s.
Thomas groaned inwardly at the news. Why did everything always involve threes?
“First question. How was the first Highland Lord selected?”
Thomas stood as still as a statue for more than a minute, thinking back to his lessons with Rynlin and Rya. His grandparents had certainly prepared him well for this moment, and Thomas was actually glad now for the long hours of study they had required of him.
“Through a competition,” answered Thomas. “Thousands of years ago all the Highland village chiefs gathered here at the Pinnacle. They then fought a series of duels, until finally one man emerged victorious, a chief named Yaren.”
“And this Yaren then became the first Highland Lord. Correct?” interrupted Nestor, his eyes gleaming.
“No,” answered Thomas.
A low murmur began in the crowd, again captured by the competition before them, this time testing mental acuity rather than physical. Many wondered at the wisdom of Thomas disagreeing with Nestor. They all knew that no one could challenge him in his knowledge of the Highlands.
“He did not feel worthy. He said the man he defeated in the final duel, who had also bested all the other chiefs, was a better man and leader. Yaren was just a warrior. The other chiefs acceded to Yaren’s wish and Cullen became the first Highland Lord.”
Nestor examined the boy in front of him, secretly pleased by the response, though he maintained a façade of indifference.
“Correct,” he said simply, immediately moving on. “Second question. For which ruler did a Highlander serving as a member of the honor guard give his life for the first time?”
“Queen Gueneva,” Thomas responded instantly.
Nestor was somewhat taken aback by the speed of Thomas’ response, his eyes widening a bit. Every Highlander knew the name of the first Marcher to die in service to another monarch – Sorin Strongbow – but for most the name of the monarch was a mystery. For centuries, Marchers had served as the personal bodyguards for almost all the rulers on the continent, until they had been betrayed. But Thomas did not allow himself to fall back into the story. He had one more question to worry about.
“Correct,” said Nestor. “The final question. Ollav Fola, the first High King, was once asked this question. What is the greatest resource of the Highlands?”
Now it was Thomas’ turn to smile. Nestor had asked a trick question, for the obvious answer was the wrong one. True, the Highlands held untold riches in the form of gold, silver, other precious metals and jewels, but that wasn’t the most valuable resource found in the Highlands.
“The people,” said Thomas.
The Highlands was not a populous kingdom. As
a result, every Highlander mattered in the Kingdom’s survival.
Nestor smiled. As he had expected, though he was a bit surprised by the celerity with which the boy had responded.
“Correct.”
The old man stepped back into the crowd, which again erupted into a loud cheer that echoed off the surrounding peaks. Nestor had much to do. He would have to hurry with his history or he’d miss the changes he sensed Thomas brought with him.
Two down, one to go, thought Thomas.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Test of Courage
“Thomas Kestrel has passed the second Test,” declared Coban. “Now for the Test of Courage.”
Coban pointed across the plateau where the cliffs rose up for several hundred feet. In the very middle was a small, jagged slit.
“Enter the Ravine and retrieve the crown of the Highlands.”
Coban walked down from the Pinnacle and steered Thomas through the crowd of Highlanders, who opened a path for them. He then escorted Thomas across the plateau in silence, with the Highlanders waiting at the Pinnacle. As they reached the base of the cliffs, with the darkened Ravine right before them, Coban asked for Thomas’ weapons.
The Test of Courage was one of inner strength. Weapons weren’t needed or allowed. Thomas pulled the Sword of the Highlands from his back then began extricating daggers from shirtsleeves, boots and his belt. Coban was rather impressed by the cache of weapons Thomas hid on his body.
“Any idea what I can expect?” Thomas asked.
Rynlin and Rya had taught him about the first two Tests, but they were unable to offer much help on this, the last one.
“I wish I could,” sighed Coban, as he gathered up all of Thomas’ weapons. “The only people who know are those who have entered the Ravine, and the last to do so was your grandfather. Those who emerge never speak of it when they retrieve the crown. The others, those who aren’t worthy, well, I’m sure you’ve heard about them.”
Thomas had heard the stories, and that’s what worried him. Those who had entered the Ravine, yet failed in retrieving the crown, usually never were seen again. Those few that did reappear, but had failed in their quest, were hopelessly insane. Whatever they had experienced in the Ravine had stolen their wits. Taking a deep breath, Thomas steeled himself, then walked through the gap in the stone.
After ten steps he was in complete darkness. He stopped for a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust. Thomas’ eyes glowed a dark green, allowing him to see quite well in the darkness. Nevertheless, he had to watch his step. The footing was treacherous and the Ravine walls gradually closed in on him, forcing him to turn sideways in many places with his back and stomach squeezing against the stone walls.
He took his time as he traversed the narrow path, waiting for something to happen. Yet the darkness held only silence and stillness. Thomas stretched out his senses, searching for what waited for him ahead. But there was nothing.
Finally, after almost a half-hour of squeezing his way down the path, it began to open up, and with the larger space rays of sunlight started to illuminate the Ravine. Eventually the Ravine opened up to the point that a cart drawn by a team of oxen could easily travel along the trail Thomas now trod upon. Still, Thomas continued to take his time, waiting for whatever was supposed to happen next. The silence and stillness remained.
And then he saw it. He had reached the end the Ravine, and on top of a stone column carved by time sat the crown of the Highland Lord, a simple circlet made of silver.
Thomas approached cautiously. What Coban had explained was true. When the Highland Lord died, through some type of magic the crown disappeared and ended up here, waiting for the next Highland Lord to claim it. The last time he had seen the crown, his grandfather had worn it – the night the Ogren had sacked the Crag.
Memories came flooding back, but he pushed them aside. Now was not the time to reminisce. He extended his senses once more, this time searching for traps. But he found nothing. Slowly, he reached out for the crown. As his fingers brushed across the silver, he felt like he had been hit in the head with a sledgehammer.
All of the hopes, dreams, fears, worries and needs of the Highlanders, living and dead, rushed into him. In a sudden moment of clarity within the maelstrom that had taken over his mind, he came to understand the full weight of what it meant to serve as the Highland Lord. Yet, at the same time, the duties, the responsibilities, the burdens threatened to overwhelm him.
He felt his identity being pulled away from him, and he knew with an absolute certainty that if he let it go, he would exit the Ravine mad – if he exited at all. He’d never be able to find himself again within the whirlwind of emotions and feelings built up over millennia that tried to consume his very being.
Thomas struggled to gain control, to separate himself from the very consciousness of the Highlands. Slowly, slowly, as if he were unknotting tiny knots in a woven tapestry, he began to pull himself away from what threatened to overwhelm him. He was regaining a better hold on himself. Just when the thought he had finally regained control, a beautiful woman appeared before him, her dark chestnut hair pulled away from her sharp green eyes. There was a flicker of recognition in Thomas. Could it really be? No, it wasn’t possible. It was almost too much for him to bear, his grasp slipping in the struggle to maintain his unique identity, the maelstrom of emotions and needs, hopes and dreams, fears and failures, churning faster, sensing victory.
“Do not let go, Thomas,” said Marya Keldragan. He was too shocked to do more than stare at the spirit who stood before him. “You must stay strong, for the hopes of all, not just the Highlanders, rest on you.”
With her words, it felt as if even more burdens had been thrown on Thomas’ already sagging shoulders, forcing him to his knees. Marya reached out to her son, but there was a momentary flicker of annoyance in her eyes as she could do no more than that.
“Remember what I said, Thomas. When you were a babe you were marked. You can’t escape it no matter how hard you try. You will give men hope, victory, if you remain true to yourself. You will be above all others. Remember that, Thomas. Remember.”
And then just as suddenly as she had appeared, Marya was gone, replaced by another apparition, one Thomas had never expected to see, one he had no desire to see.
“You ruined my life, boy,” said Benlorin Kestrel, his words seething with hate. “I would have gladly traded Marya’s life for yours, but the choice was not mine.”
The force of his father’s words struck him like a physical blow, threatening to knock away the very last vestiges of his identity, even though Thomas thought he had steeled himself to his father’s feelings years before.
“You will never live up to your forebears. The Highlands will fall, and it will be because of you,” snarled Benlorin, his normally peaceful face twisted into one of rage. “You’re not a pure Highlander, boy. You never will be. You’ll never understand what it is to be a true Highlander. End this charade now, murderer, before you destroy my people.”
Thomas dropped his hands to the ground, crawling into a ball, trying to withstand the terrible onslaught. He was losing himself. He could feel it. He was slipping away. Everything – the struggle, the pain, the loss — had been for naught.
“Enough!” The shout rocked the Ravine, sending stones flying from their perches along the sloped wall. “You have no right to speak to your son in this manner.”
The spirit of Talyn Kestrel stood before his son, hands on hips, his face red with rage.
“Pure Highlander he may not be, but he is a Highlander. He has the courage and strength to meet his responsibilities. He has shown it. He has lived it, despite every reason for him to forsake his past, to forsake the hold of a people that didn’t want him. Did you meet your responsibilities?”
Talyn’s words made Benlorin flinch.
“Thomas was not responsible for Marya’s death, it simply happened. Yet you blamed your son, you blamed a babe! And I raised him because you shirked your duty.”
Talyn drove his fist into his palm. Everything he had wanted to say to his son but never had when they were alive poured forth.
“You are the coward, Benlorin.” Talyn lowered his voice to a whisper, though the words still bit sharply, as he intended. “Thomas has already proven to be more of a man than you ever were. You, Benlorin, you are the failure.”
Unwilling to withstand the scathing attack, Benlorin’s spirit disappeared. Yet, his stricken expression showed that Talyn’s words had struck home. Through it all, Thomas lay on the ground, curled up into a ball, trying to maintain his sanity, trying to hold on to the very last bits of who he was.
“Thomas,” Talyn’s spirit called, reaching for his grandson as Marya had and also realizing that there was only so much he could do. “Thomas, fight it. You can win. You were meant to be the Highland Lord. You must be the Highland Lord. You can do this. You are stronger than us all.”
His grandfather’s encouraging words gave Thomas a renewed strength, allowing him to continue the struggle with the whirlwind of emotions playing through his mind. After several agonizing minutes, he realized he was winning, he was regaining control, until finally he locked away the consciousness of the Highlands in a separate part of his mind. He knew that from this point forward it would always be there with him, a reminder of his responsibilities, but it would never again threaten his sanity.
Slowly he rose to his feet, exhausted by his struggle. His grandfather stood on the other side of the column, looking down at the crown of the Highlands. “You have done well, Thomas. Very well. I always knew you would.”
“Thank you, grandfather.”
“Now it is time, Thomas. Take the circlet. You have met the charges I gave you. You are Thomas Kestrel, Lord of the Highlands. You must make the Kingdoms remember who we are. You must make them remember that we are strong, that we are resilient, that we do not forget those who injure us and those who help us. Take the circlet, Thomas. It is yours. You have made me proud to call you grandson.”