by Peter Wacht
The Legend of the Kestrel
By Peter Wacht
Book 1 of The Sylvan Chronicles
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright 2019 © by Peter Wacht
Cover design and formatting by Ebooklaunch.com
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property.
Published in the United States by Kestrel Media Group LLC.
ISBN: 978-1-950236-00-8
eBook ISBN: 978-1-950236-01-5
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019900052
ALSO BY PETER WACHT
THE SYLVAN CHRONICLES
The Legend of the Kestrel
The Call of the Sylvana (forthcoming)
The Raptor of the Highlands (forthcoming)
The Makings of a Warrior (forthcoming)
The Lord of the Highlands (forthcoming)
The Lost Kestrel Found (forthcoming)
The Claiming of the Highlands (forthcoming)
The Fight Against the Dark (forthcoming)
The Defender of the Light (forthcoming)
For Kathy.
Thank you for your support, belief and patience.
CONTENTS
Prologue
1. Escape
2. Awakening
3. Unlocked
4. Awakened
5. Hideaway
6. Memories
7. A Companion
8. Failure
9. New Beginning
10. Confirmation
11. Strategy
12. Unfinished Plans
13. Stymied
14. A Sign
15. Something New
16. A New Friend
17. New Skill
18. The Talent
19. Steel Dreams
20. Useful Encounters
21. A Stirring
22. Legacies
23. Dark and Light
24. A Prophecy
25. Tenuous Allies
26. Shadow
27. Foggy Start
28. Misled
29. Awareness
30. Sense of Dark
31. Hunting Again
32. Ego Run Amok
33. Chance Encounter
34. False Tale
35. Danger
36. A Warning
37. Frozen
38. Fighting Back
39. Surprise
40. Approach
41. Victory
42. Saved
43. A New Road
44. Assassin
45. Memories
46. Target
PROLOGUE
Death circled in the air. Silently. Patiently.
After sniffing the wind for any sign of danger, the jackrabbit emerged from its burrow and cautiously shuffled out onto the plain. The majestic mountains of the Highlands rose around it, casting a long shadow over much of the steppe. The tips of the snow-clad peaks stretched for the sky, only to fall short by the smallest of margins. A gust of wind blew across the tundra, and the jackrabbit perked its long ears. All was quiet. The jackrabbit stepped farther away from the safety of its burrow, satisfied that it would not be disturbed during its early morning foraging.
Without warning a dark shadow sped across the plain, then disappeared into the higher reaches. The jackrabbit fled in terror, leaping back into its burrow, unaware of how fate had spared its life. On most mornings, the raptor hunted, and the jackrabbit would have been its first meal. But not today. Today the raptor felt an unfamiliar urgency. Its strong wings, spanning seven feet, propelled it a thousand feet above the ground. The white feathers speckled with grey on the bird’s underside blended perfectly with the sky. When visible, the raptor was a dangerous predator. When hidden, it was deadly, shooting down through the thin air like an arrow, its sharp claws outstretched for the kill.
Today it searched for different prey, yet it did not know why. It knew only to obey the urge pulling it to the east, an urge so strong it drowned out its instinct to hunt.
The raptor caught a current of air that carried it between two snow-covered peaks. The sun radiated off the orange, black and brown feathers covering its back. As it dodged around the mountaintops, a monstrous shadow trailed along, darkening the ground as it passed. The jackrabbit would have been an easy meal, but the bird of prey ignored it and continued east on its solitary journey.
A beautiful sight, the Highlands, but also dangerous. The rugged land hid untold riches — gold and silver, precious jewels and more. But, as the old saying went: If the Highlanders don’t get you, nature will. For centuries many in search of treasure stole into the Highlands, hoping a few days’ work would lead to a lifetime of luxury. For most, these dreams of fortune shattered before their eyes, the hard steel of the Highlanders or the treacherous terrain bringing these adventurers back to a cold, stark and unforgiving reality.
The Highlands was the raptor’s domain; now its only home. Once, not too many years before, raptors lived in every kingdom from the Western Ocean to the Sea of Mist. But no more. Nobles and wealthy merchants paid dearly for the feathers of the mighty bird. Rumors of their magical powers abounded. Some believed the feathers, when ground down and mixed with a few select ingredients, served as an aphrodisiac. Others insisted that drinking the strange brew gave wisdom. Still others thought it brought riches. Though no one had ever proven the truth of these myths, the old beliefs died hard. As the years passed, so did these majestic birds, until none remained except those in the Highlands, protected by the harsh weather, the rough landscape and the Highlanders themselves, for the raptors had a special place in their hearts.
The raptor continued east, and as the hours passed, the sun drifted across the sky until the bird flew in front of it rather than behind. It traveled the winds, dodging in and out of the peaks that rose up before it, pulled on by its instinct. Finally it broke through the rocky peaks into a lush valley of green that stretched between the mountains for more than a league. A dark smudge appeared in the very center. Skimming over the treetops, the raptor’s strong wings drew it closer, until the smudge became a huge rock that rose hundreds of feet into the air and dominated the valley. From a distance, it resembled a small mountain cut off from its brothers and sisters by forest. But as the raptor approached, riding the warmer air currents with its outstretched wings and moving slowly upward, the markings of man became clear.
To the untrained eye, the monolith appeared to be no more than a huge rock thrusting out of the earth. In truth, it was the Crag, the stronghold of the Highlanders. The Crag had never fallen to an enemy. Many an army had learned that lesson the hard way, leaving behind crushed bodies and broken spirits. Carved from the mountain, it was a formidable sight. The Highlanders had built their fortress on top of a long-dead volcano, taking great slabs of black stone from the plateau to form its walls. During the night, the citadel receded into the darkness, undecipherable from the gloom.
Eight towers formed the Crag’s perimeter, joined together by the outer curtain. The wall was a hundred feet high and forty feet thick. In the center of the outer ward stood the central stronghold. Built in the shape of a square, its inner curtain stood fifty feet higher than the outside wall, its corners again supported by towers. One tower, though, standing on the eastern side closest to the sea, rose higher than the rest. Known as the Roost, on a clear day it was said that from its gre
at height the Highlanders could peer halfway across the continent and gaze upon the shores of the Heartland Lake.
The raptor circled the tower, watching closely as horsemen galloped down the road twisting away from the citadel. The Marchers lit the huge torches placed alongside the causeway to help the unwary traveling in the dark find their way. When the Crag was under attack, this was the first obstacle invaders faced. The snakelike road created dozens of places ready-made for ambushes and rockslides, a common occurrence in this mountainous terrain. Turning its gaze from the soldiers, the raptor tightened its circles around the Roost until it found what it wanted — the ledge of the highest window — and settled silently on the stone outcropping. Night rapidly approached, but the raptor’s eyes sparkled in the failing light. The intensity of the urge that had driven it across the Highlands increased. Looking down from its perch, the Raptor gazed into one of the rooms of the keep, its eyes fixing on a small boy. It had finally found the reason for its long flight.
CHAPTER ONE
Escape
Thomas swept his eyes across the room. The pitch black failed to impede his vision, his green, strangely glowing eyes easily picking out the details of his apartment. Large bookcases built into the wall flanked the door straight across from his bed. Books he had borrowed from his grandfather’s library were strewn about the floor. He’d have to do something about that tomorrow. His grandfather didn’t like it when he made such a mess. To the left of his bed against the wall stood a tall wardrobe that held most of his clothes. He still couldn’t understand why he had to use it. He didn’t really have that many clothes anyway, and when the servants put them on the top shelves, he actually had to climb up the door of the wardrobe to reach them. Also to the left was a large window hidden by dark drapes. On the other side of the bed sat a small writing table for his studies and a few personal items. The previous day’s clothes were in a pile on the floor by his wardrobe, where he had thrown them before going to bed.
Thomas judged it was some time in the early morning, with dawn still several hours away. He had lain in bed for most of the night, unable to sleep. A feeling of unease plagued him, but he couldn’t determine its source.
Restless, Thomas walked to the window, making a small slit in the drapes so he could see the moon and stars. It was a clear, cool night. Autumn was just a few days off. Thomas’ thoughts drifted as he tried to remember all the constellations Rasoul had taught him the day before. He could locate the Archer and the Scorpion, but he couldn’t find the Waterbearer or the Bear or the Ram. He was about to try again when the door to his room slowly swung open, the dim light from the lamp in the hall illuminating the entryway. Thomas’ sense of foreboding almost overwhelmed his senses. A mixture of fear and curiosity surged through him. Moving silently to the pile of clothes by the side of his bed, Thomas pulled free the dagger his grandfather had given him on his last name day. It was made for a man, so to Thomas it felt like a sword in his hand. The one conceit the dagger contained was the carving on both sides of the blade — a raptor, marking it as the property of the Kestrels. Otherwise, it was a simple, well-made steel dagger set in a hilt of carved bone so it wouldn’t slip from a sweaty hand. He was thankful for that. His palms were already wet, and cold sweat ran down his back. As the feeling of wickedness crept closer, Thomas stepped quietly back toward the window and slipped behind the drapes, dagger held at the ready.
It seemed like an eternity to Thomas, yet it was only a few seconds before two large shadows silently glided into his room. They wore black clothes with no markings. Black masks covered their faces. As they moved away from the door, Thomas saw two quick flashes of light. Blades.
A bolt of fear shot through Thomas. He considered staying where he was, hidden by the drapes. But that wouldn’t do any good. They’d find him eventually.
Terror began to take hold, freezing his muscles, as he tried to figure out what to do. Then a new emotion fought its way to the surface, one that surprised him. Anger. Two men wanted to kill him while he slept. His anger flared within him, burning white hot and incinerating his fear. They might succeed, but he refused to make it easy for them. Remembering some of the lessons that he had coaxed out of Coban, he molded his anger into cool resolve. The two assassins were taking their time because of the dark. Maybe he could survive, if he took advantage of their weakness.
The lead attacker slunk toward the bed, one step at a time, careful not to make a sound. The second remained by the door, closing it. A guard, thought Thomas. To ensure that if the first failed, he still wouldn’t make it out of the room alive. He could use that to his advantage as well. But he’d have to be quick. Very quick. Either man could kill him easily if he lost the element of surprise.
The assassin was almost to the bed. Thomas saw the man stretch out one hand, searching for the edge of the mattress. To the assassin, the piece of furniture was a dim shadow at best. The first attacker thought his prey was asleep in his bed. Once the assassin realized his target was not where he was supposed to be, Thomas knew he wouldn’t stand much of a chance. He had to move fast. He squeezed the hilt of his dagger tightly in his hand, making sure he had a good grip. Remarkably, he was no longer sweating. The fear that had paralyzed him before was gone. There was only anger, a scorching anger that energized him.
The assassin was almost where Thomas should have been lying. Now. Now was the time to move. Thomas rushed out from behind the drapes on silent feet, running directly toward the second assassin standing in front of the door. Thomas stabbed with his dagger, taking the man in the side just above the hip. Remembering Coban’s lesson, he gave the blade a sharp twist before tearing it out and grabbing the door handle with his free hand. As the blade bit deeply into the assassin’s flesh, the man screamed in pain and surprise, never seeing the small blur surging toward him. He toppled to the floor in agony, clutching futilely at the wound, desperate to stop the blood pumping out of him.
Startled by the scream, the lead assassin jumped around, realizing his mistake. Seeing a small figure pulling the door open, he lunged for Thomas, grasping for his shirt. Thomas frantically unlatched the door and pulled it open. He could sense the assassin reaching for him, his hand only inches away. If the killer took hold, Thomas knew he would die. Before he could grab his escaping target, the assassin’s foot slipped on a pile of books sitting in the middle of the floor, and he tumbled to the carpet. The man regained his feet in an instant and launched himself at the door, cursing under his breath. With a burst of speed Thomas ran out the door, pulling it closed.
The hallway lanterns had been turned off, leaving much of the corridor in darkness. Thomas turned quickly, running down the hallway toward his grandfather’s rooms. He looked back, thankful the door to his room was still closed, but knowing it wouldn’t remain so. The next thing he knew he was sitting on the floor, dazed. He felt as if he had run right into a stone wall.
The dagger still in his hand, Thomas looked up at his obstacle, shaking his head to regain his senses. To make it this far and fail wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t right! He brought his dagger up to strike, then sighed with relief. His grandfather stood before him, holding a large, bloody sword in one hand. With the other, he scooped Thomas up easily, holding him like a sack of flour under his left arm.
Just as Talyn had gotten Thomas settled against his hip, the door to his grandson’s room slammed against the wall. The second assassin rushed out after his small prey. Talyn barely had to lift his arm as the assassin ran right onto his blade. Thomas glimpsed the look of surprise in his attacker’s eyes. A boy had beaten him. Just a boy, he seemed to be saying. The man became a dead weight, so Talyn let him slide off the blade. Looking at the gaping wound in the man’s chest, Thomas felt the bile rising in his throat and thought he was going to be sick. He had never seen anything like it before. To escape the growing feeling of nausea, Thomas remembered something that Coban had once explained to him: “When you don’t know your enemy, caution leads to victory and recklessness to death.�
�� He promised himself that he would pay more attention to Coban’s lessons in the future.
Sticking his head into the room, his grandfather noticed the other assassin lying dead inside the doorway. “You did well, Thomas,” said Talyn. “Most Marchers don’t get their first kill at such a young age.” Thomas heard the pride in his grandfather’s voice, and the sadness.
Talyn moved quickly toward the bed, picking up the clothes Thomas had worn the day before as well as his boots. He handed them to his grandson.
When the two attackers first entered his room, Thomas didn’t have time to think about his actions or their consequences. He simply acted as he had been taught. As he replayed the events that took place only a few minutes before, his nausea worsened. He remembered the dagger entering the assassin’s body, the sound of tearing flesh, the initial resistance and then how the blade slid in easily. That was quickly replaced by the look in the other assassin’s eyes as his life slipped away; the look of surprise and fear, and perhaps even loss. As the events repeated themselves over and over in his mind, a thought kept running through his head: He had killed a man. He had taken someone’s life.
Thomas was jolted from his thoughts as Talyn guided him down the hallway toward his own apartments. Talyn looked down at his grandson and saw the green cast of his face. He knew the cause. He had gone through much the same thing after his first kill. But then he had been fighting on the border; not in his own bedroom.
“Let it go, Thomas. You had no choice in the matter. If you hadn’t killed him, he would have killed you.”
“But—”
“No buts, Thomas. Killing a man is not an easy thing, but sometimes you have no choice. You’re alive. That’s all that matters now. You did the right thing. Feeling sorry for killing a man is the normal reaction. When you don’t feel sorry, that’s when you have to worry.”
Talyn came to another intersection and stopped, motioning for Thomas to remain silent. Talyn’s words made him feel a little better, but he couldn’t get the images of the two dead men out of his mind. His grandfather was right, though. If he hadn’t killed the assassin, he would be dead now. And the assassins would have been pleased with their success. That last realization hardened Thomas’ determination.