by Peter Wacht
“We fought them as best we could,” said another, again earning sounds of agreement from his compatriots. “But we were outnumbered. How are you supposed to fight against so many reivers when you are so few?”
Thomas studied the crowd for a moment, framing his response. These men had fought for ten years, doing the best they could with what they had, but the losing struggle had taken its toll. The spark of hope had returned to their eyes, but they did not truly believe yet that they could defeat the reivers and their warlocks. They did not truly believe in themselves.
“When I was a boy, before I went to sleep my grandfather told me the history of the Highlands and the incredible exploits of the Marchers.”
His eyes swept across the crowd, catching as many Highlanders as possible with his gaze.
“He told stories about how one Highland Marcher was the equal of ten soldiers from any other Kingdom. How a Marcher would kneel to no man. How a Marcher would sooner die than accept defeat. Has so much changed in just ten years? Have so many forgotten what it is like to be a Marcher?”
Many of the men looked down at the ground in shame, their embarrassment clear.
“I know you did the best you could, that you fought from a position of weakness. But no longer. The time has come to reclaim what was ours,” continued Thomas, his voice low but carrying to everyone’s ears. “The time has come to show the High King the price he must pay for what he has done to us.”
His words were beginning to sink in, he could see. They were beginning to believe. Now was the time to capture their hearts and souls.
“I have no doubts that if we were to face the reivers in a fair battle, the Highlands would be free once more. But you’re right, we did not have a weapon for fighting the warlocks. We have not had one for centuries. Until now.”
In a flash of light, the Sword of the Highlands burst into blue flames, as Thomas channeled the Talent into the hardened steel. Gasps of surprise echoed throughout the crowd. Thomas raised the blade above his head so all could see, its brightness illuminating the plateau that was in the process of being covered by the encroaching evening.
“Some called my mother a witch because of her special abilities. But she was not a witch, nor am I. I hold within me the power to defeat the warlocks. Ask Oso and the men of Raven’s Peak. They know what I can do. They saw what happened to the Black Hole.”
The destruction of the Black Hole was now legendary among the Highlanders, the news of the daring escape traveling to the smallest hamlet of the Highlands. And they had all heard the stories. Yet many had not believed, thinking they were exaggerations, until now.
“Leave the warlocks to me.”
And with that Thomas increased the intensity of the flames licking the claymore until they were almost blinding to look at. He saw it in their eyes now. Their spirits and hopes were returning. Now to capture them completely. Gathering the Talent within him, he released a bolt of energy toward the cliffs on the far side of the plateau. The white-hot ball streaked through air and struck with its full force. As the flames died away, shock emanated throughout the crowd. The mark of the Kestrels burned brightly on the cliff face, the flames scoring the stone deeply.
“My friends, let the word go out that the Highland Lord has returned, and with it the strength of the Highlands. Beware the sharp blade of the Marchers, and woe to those who fail to heed us. This is our land, our home, and we will be free once more!”
The Highlanders could contain themselves no longer, captured by the vision of Thomas Kestrel standing atop the Pinnacle, the Sword of the Highlands burning brightly in his hand. And that fire soon matched the one now burning in their hearts – their desire for freedom.
From the back of the crowd a set of bagpipes began to play, and then another, and another, until the night was filled with the haunting tones that drifted to every corner of the Highlands. It was a sound most had not heard since the time of Talyn Kestrel. It was a call to arms. The Highlands prepared for war.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Confirmation
Rynlin Keldragan rose from where he had been studying several distinct tracks in the blackened ash that covered the Charnel Mountains. Ogren. A lot of them, by the look of things. But that didn’t concern him at the moment. He turned toward the west, staring in that direction for several minutes. Then a smile creased his hard visage.
Sensing his grandson through his necklace, he knew that Thomas had succeeded. His grandson was the Highland Lord. His pride almost burst from him, but his mind quickly moved on to the next step in what he saw to be a far more important process.
Thomas was one step closer to becoming the Defender of the Light. The lines of the prophecy that he knew so well ran through his mind.
When a child of life and death
Stands on high
Drawn by faith
He shall hold the key to victory in his hand.
Swords of fire echo in the burned rock
Balancing the future on their blades.
Light dances with dark
Green fire burns in the night
Hopes and dreams follow the wind
To fall in black or white.
Stands on high. A common name for when someone becomes a Highland Lord, for that person is standing on the Pinnacle. It simply confirmed when Thomas became a Sylvan Warrior, when a similar reference was made. Though the struggle to free the Highlands was important, the true battle for freedom, for the light, was coming.
He was certain of that. He just didn’t know when.
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