The Legend of the Kestrel

by Peter Wacht

  “Is anyone hurt?” He had a quiet voice, but one that you listened to.

  “No. We’re all right,” she replied in a whisper. It sounded as if her heart was beating louder than she was talking.

  “Good,” he said. “I suggest that you and your friends get out of the Burren quickly. You should be safe for the moment, but where there are two Ogren, there are bound to be more.”

  “We’ll go now,” she said in a stronger voice, seeing that her friends were already coming out of the lake. Eric and Rohn were walking over to calm the terrified horses, which luckily hadn’t broken free from their tethers.

  The boy nodded. Their eyes locked for a moment. She could feel the intensity within him, and the strength. She found it exciting and frightening all at once, but then he turned away from her. Walking toward the wolf, he stroked its fur for a moment before they both walked off into the trees, disappearing from view.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, wishing she had thought to say that before, wishing that she had thought of something so she could talk to him just a little bit longer. She had never met anyone like him before.

  She shook her head in frustration. At least her legs worked normally again. Kaylie hurried around the campsite, urging her friends to mount before moving toward her horse. Lissa, Nikola and Camilla were crying, and the boys were still shaken. After what seemed like an hour, but was only a few minutes, Kaylie had her friends on the way back to Ballinasloe.

  Bringing up the rear of the party, she looked down at the two Ogren lying dead by the lake, and then into the trees where the boy had disappeared. There was a part of her that wanted to meet this green-eyed boy again, but now was not the time to think of that. Kaylie dug her heels into her horse and took the lead of the frightened column as they made their way home. She had wanted an adventure today and gotten more than she bargained for.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  A New Road

  Thomas and Beluil walked into the forest and circled around the glade until they were back atop the waterfall. As he retrieved his bow, Thomas berated himself for not asking the girl’s name. He should have, but he was nervous and he couldn’t get the words out. Well, actually very nervous. It had been years since he was around anyone his own age, much less a beautiful girl.

  “Thank you, my friend,” said Thomas to Beluil, who stood at his side. The wolf was removing the last of the Ogren’s blood from his maw. He didn’t like the taste of it. Deer was much sweeter; but this, this was like rancid water.

  Beluil growled softly. Thomas deciphered the wolf’s thoughts, “Brothers.” He understood. Brothers helped one another. Brothers protected one another. Thomas ran his fingers through the wolf’s fur affectionately.

  “I was wondering when you were going to appear,” said Thomas, still scratching behind Beluil’s ears. The wolf enjoyed the attention immensely.

  “You didn’t seem to need any help,” replied Rynlin, stepping out from between the trees.

  “Thank you.”

  Thomas understood how hard it must have been for Rynlin not to join the fray. His grandfather had a gruff exterior, and became irritated easily, but Thomas knew that Rynlin cared about him. Thomas was grateful that Rynlin gave him the opportunity to do this on his own. He was growing up, and Rya was having a hard time dealing with that fact. Rynlin, at least, understood what he was going through to a certain extent and was willing to extend the boundaries as needed.

  Rynlin simply nodded.

  “I was going to follow them to the edge of the Burren, to make sure they got out safely.”

  “An excellent idea,” said Rynlin. “I’ll go with you.”

  They trailed the frightened group as they made their way south to Ballinasloe. Judging from their rich clothes, they were either the children of merchants or lords.

  Thomas and Rynlin were quiet for a time, entertaining their own thoughts. Beluil came and went, scouting the forest around them.

  “Grandfather?”

  “Yes, Thomas.” Rynlin was slightly surprised, but very pleased. Thomas had only called him grandfather a handful of times in the past six years.

  “I had a question for you about the Highlanders. Are they really such good fighters as the history books say? I remember watching some of the Marcher training sessions when I was younger, but I never saw them fight in a battle.”

  “Well, Thomas, I guess you could say that the history books are correct, at least in that respect,” answered Rynlin. “You may already know some of it from your lessons. The Highlanders have always been known as warriors, and most of the stories about their legendary feats of endurance and fighting skills, like marching a hundred miles in a day then routing the opposing army the next, are true.”

  “All Highlanders begin their weapons training upon reaching their tenth year,” he continued. “I’m sure you were about to start your training as well, if not for that cursed night. As you know, among the Highlanders is an elite group of warriors, known as the Marchers. These men are tasked with defending the borders of the Highlands. A challenge, if there ever was one, for there are not all that many Highlanders. There are, however, a lot of mountains, so they have quite a large territory to defend. Nevertheless, they have succeeded in maintaining the sanctity of their borders, at least until recently.”

  Rynlin’s last few words burned into Thomas’ heart. “They have succeeded … at least until recently.” The Crag had fallen as a result, and Thomas still didn’t know what had happened.

  “The Marchers were considered the greatest warriors in all the Kingdoms, rivaling only the Sylvana in martial skill. As a result, they often served as bodyguards for kings and queens and other notables. The Highland Lord provided the Marchers to any ruler who could afford them, as their services did not come cheaply. For centuries, they were considered the ultimate mercenaries. That all changed, though. Hundreds of years ago, before the Great War, the Marchers were serving as the bodyguards for the High King, a weak man named Midraes. The High King raped a young lady in waiting, and her family, which happened to be one of the most powerful in all the Kingdoms, demanded justice. To make a long story short, Midraes falsely accused a Marcher for the crime and had him put to death in hopes of appeasing the girl’s family. The remaining Marchers knew the truth of the matter, and they would not allow such a heinous act to go unpunished. The Marchers exposed Midraes for the criminal he was and then executed him. Because of the betrayal, the Marchers refused to serve another ruler from that day forward.

  “Since then, the Marchers have not ventured out of their mountainous home in their service to the Highland Lord, and with the building of the Breaker have become the first line of defense against the creatures of the Shadow Lord. Now, of course, I don’t know where things stand. Since the fall of the Crag, it’s been difficult to find out what’s going on in the Highlands with Lord Killeran serving as regent. I’m sure none of it’s to the good, which could explain why many of the Highlanders have moved to the higher peaks and passes. But they are still the best fighters in the Kingdoms, and I don’t think anyone would dispute that fact.”

  “Are the stories true?” asked Thomas in a quiet voice.

  “What stories?”

  “Are the Highlanders working as slaves in the mines?”

  For several months Thomas had pondered that question, as it gnawed at his soul. These were his people. Even if he was an outcast and thought to be dead, he still felt responsible for them. Yet, he wasn’t sure if he was ready, or even wanted, to assume that responsibility. As a result, he wrestled with his ever-present guilt from time to time, searching vainly for a hint as to what he should do.

  “Where did you hear that?” asked Rynlin casually, though the intensity of his eyes belied his interest.

  “From you, a few months ago, after you came back from one of your trips.”

  “Oh.” Rynlin realized he would have to be more careful when he discussed things with Rya. Thomas’ ears were just as good as his eyes. “From what I can tel
l—” Rynlin stopped for a moment. He wasn’t sure how to answer, knowing Thomas’ impatience could often get the better of him. Now was not the time for him to go running off on some quest of honor.

  But he couldn’t lie, not about this. Rynlin sighed, feeling the weight of his years. He’d just have to take his chances. “Yes. Killeran has enslaved some of the Highlanders in the mines. Unfortunately, there is nothing to be done at the moment. Killeran has a large army under his control. The Marchers could probably defeat it, but they do not have any sorcerers to battle Killeran’s warlocks. So it would be a lost cause to begin with.”

  “What about the other Kingdoms? Why don’t they do something to help?”

  “The other Kingdoms really don’t care about the Highlands right now. They’re more concerned with what’s happening in their own Kingdoms. They won’t turn their eyes toward Rodric until he forces his attention upon them.”

  “But don’t they see that if Rodric expands his power—”

  “—they in turn lose power. Yes, some do. They just don’t know what to do about it. No single kingdom has the strength to take on Rodric directly. Your grandfather, perhaps, could have prevented it. He could have rallied the Kingdoms and stood up to Rodric. Now, there is no one who can do that. Gregory of Fal Carrach might be the logical choice, but he’s got Loris of Dunmoor to worry about on his western flank. And with Loris allied to Rodric, Gregory is effectively tied down. No, there is no one who can, or would want to, help at this time.”

  They continued along in silence for a few minutes, but Rynlin knew what was coming next. He waited patiently.

  “I’m supposed to be the Lord of the Highlands,” began Thomas. “If the Marchers are the best warriors in all the Kingdoms, their leader should be the best of the Marchers.”

  “That would only be appropriate,” said Rynlin, cringing inwardly at his own response. He didn’t want his grandson to run off on some fool’s errand.

  “Then where do you think I would stand among them now? If I went to the Highlands right now.”

  It was a very important question, Rynlin knew. Probably more important than Thomas could imagine. Not just for him, but for the Highlands as well. Rynlin had arrived at the glade when Thomas leapt down from the tree and attacked the first Ogren. Initially, he had feared for his grandson’s safety, ready to step in at any moment. However, Rynlin soon realized he had nothing to worry about. Thomas had learned his lessons well. He wanted to tell Thomas that he already was one of the elite among the Marchers, because he knew in his heart that it was true. Yet, he didn’t want him to become overconfident. There was much he would have to do in the future, and having confidence in yourself was certainly a part of it. Yet, having too much confidence could lead to the boy’s failure, or worse — his death.

  Rynlin looked down at the young man walking beside him, seeing once again the little boy who first appeared in the clearing six years before, carrying a sword that was much too big for him and a scrawny wolf pup. Now the young man had grown into the blade, and the pup was the largest wolf Rynlin had ever seen.

  Thomas repeated the question. “If I went to the Highlands now, where would I stand among the Marchers?”

  Rynlin searched desperately for any answer other than the one he knew he had to give. But he couldn’t lie. Thomas would know. He decided that again the truth was best, and that he and Rya would have to trust in the way they had raised him.

  “You would be one of the best,” said Rynlin.

  Thomas studied his grandfather for a moment, then nodded. He just needed to know, but he saw the trace of worry in Rynlin’s face.

  “Don’t worry, Rynlin. I’m not going anywhere. Not yet anyway.”

  “Good,” said Rynlin, giving his grandson a wry smile, “because if you did, Rya would have me for breakfast, and then she’d come after you.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Assassin

  Thomas, Rynlin and Beluil finally reached the edge of the Burren, where they could stop worrying about the motley group that now rode through the darkening twilight toward Ballinasloe. They would probably get home in about an hour, no worse for wear except for a few nightmares. Getting back to the boat was another matter, since they had to return through the Burren, which was now covered by the darkness of full night thanks to the overhanging trees and dense brush. Rather than trying to reach the coast, Rynlin and Thomas decided to make camp for the night about halfway through the Burren.

  They had been walking for several minutes with that intent in mind when Thomas grabbed Rynlin’s arm. Beluil stopped as well, ears perked for the slightest sound, his hackles standing straight. Rynlin searched the wood for danger, but only could make out the rough shapes of the trees and rocks. Instead, he trusted in Thomas’ vision. What Rynlin saw as a shadow was clear as day to his grandson.

  “There’s something wrong,” whispered Thomas, scanning the trees around them. Rynlin shouldn’t have been surprised. Thomas had greater skill in this area than he did. Opening himself to the Talent, Rynlin extended his senses.

  “Yes, there is,” he said. He could barely feel it, this sense of pure evil.

  “It’s close, Rynlin. Very close.”

  Beluil growled into the darkness, sensing the foulness, yet even he was unsure of its location. Thomas and Rynlin continued to examine the trees. The hair on the back of Thomas’ neck stood on end. He hated not seeing what was stalking them. It made him uneasy, and he fought to control the fear rising within him. His hand went to his sword hilt, ready to draw the blade. Rynlin stood there calmly, waiting. He didn’t seem to be affected by the tension, but it certainly was getting to Thomas.

  He nudged Rynlin and pointed to what looked like a shadow attached to the trunk of a tree no more than ten feet in front of them. The shadow had moved, and it was coming toward them ever so slowly. Thomas’ sense of evil grew stronger as the shadow glided closer. Yet, even with his sharp eyes, he could barely see what approached. Cold sweat trickled down Thomas’ back. He didn’t know what the shadow was, but it terrified him.

  Rynlin drew on the Talent, shooting a bolt of pure white light shot from his palm, striking the shadow squarely. A horrible scream tore through the night, followed by a deathly silence. The smell of charred flesh drifted to their nostrils.

  Rynlin drew on the Talent again, bringing forth a ball of light that illuminated the surrounding forest.

  “A Nightstalker,” said Rynlin with a grimace, pointing out the pitch-black body, the sightless red eyes and the claws shaped like scythes. The bolt of energy had torn a hole straight through the creature’s chest.

  Beluil approached the smoldering corpse, sniffing it to make sure it was truly dead. He returned to Thomas’ side quickly, revolted by the smell and shaking his head to clear it from his sensitive nose.

  “What is it, Rynlin?”

  “A Nightstalker is the Shadow Lord’s assassin,” replied Rynlin. “You normally don’t see it until you’re about to die, and even then catching a glimpse would be unlikely. The Shadow Lord sends them out after certain prey, and they don’t stop searching until they’ve succeeded.” Rynlin’s words chilled Thomas to his very core. The Shadow Lord’s assassin. “Come on. Let’s get some distance from this thing before we stop for the night. I want to make sure there isn’t anything else in the Burren looking for us.”

  The Shadow Lord sends Nightstalkers out after certain prey, and they don’t stop searching until they’ve succeeded.

  “Thomas.”

  Rynlin’s voice drew him back from his thoughts, none of them good. The dead creature transfixed him. “Yes.”

  “Remember that feeling you had. That will be the only warning you’ll get. With a Nightstalker, if you’re not paying attention, you don’t stand a chance.”

  Thomas nodded and followed his grandfather to the east, Beluil bringing up the rear. Rynlin said that the Nightstalker hunted for specific prey. Who was the target of this particular creature? Goosebumps rose on his flesh as a chill swept
through his body. He had the nasty suspicion that it was him.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Memories

  It was well after dark when Kaylie and her friends finally saw the lights of Ballinasloe in the distance. As soon as the sun had set, they had urged their horses to a gallop, the encroaching darkness playing off the fear that remained from their horrifying encounter in the Burren. Every shadow was an Ogren, every sound. The howl of the wind playing through the tree branches sent shudders of fear through them. Because of the fear they sensed in their riders, the horses didn’t mind the extra effort, though they were lathered in sweat from the long gallop. They, too, wanted to get behind the walls of the Rock.

  The group finally slowed when they entered the town, taking comfort from the lights and the people still about at the late hour. A troop of soldiers formed around them, escorting them to the Rock. News of their arrival preceded them. Kaylie’s father had sent out patrols, they learned, and their families were worried.

  As they made their way across the bridge and into the Rock’s courtyard, soldiers took the bridles of their horses and helped the girls from their mounts. Gregory rushed out of the stronghold, dressed in full armor, sword swinging at his side. He had planned to lead the next patrol himself. The inaction of waiting worsened his temper. It was one of the few weaknesses he had as a general. Patience, or rather the lack of it. Now, after seeing his daughter safe and whole, all he felt was relief.

  “Where in the blazes have you—” Gregory stopped himself. He saw their frightened faces, their exhaustion. Kaylie rushed to him and threw her arms around him, her hands clinging tightly to the cloth of his shirt that stuck out from his breastplate. He hugged her back, trying to keep the tears from his eyes.

  “What happened?” he asked softly.

  Kaylie clung to him for a few moments longer before pulling back and wiping her eyes with her sleeve. She was trying to regain her composure, the composure expected of a future queen. He wanted to keep hugging his little girl, to give her the protection he had provided since she was born, but was now no longer necessary. He corrected himself — not always necessary. He was pleased to see that Kaylie still needed him, no matter how much she protested to the contrary.