by Peter Wacht
Thomas understood. No one could challenge the mastery of the Highlanders on the battlefield when fighting with conventional weapons, such as a sword or spear. Killeran had an advantage that the Highlanders could not defend against — the warlocks. The only way to stand against the Dark Magic of the warlocks was to combat it with a power of their own, but the Highlanders had no one with such skill. The last Highland sorcerers had died during the Great War.
“Another problem,” said Oso, “is that we don’t have a leader. When the Lord of the Highlands died, there was no one to take his place. His son was murdered and the grandson disappeared. Some say the grandson still lives, but more likely he’s been dead for years. As a result, the leader of each village up in the higher passes rules as best as he or she can, but none have the ability to bring the Marchers together again and make the Highlands one. Most are simply concerned about survival. It is a very difficult situation.”
Thomas’ heart clenched when Oso mentioned his grandfather. He was glad that Oso couldn’t see his face in the dim light of the basement. A wave of guilt broke against his resolve, and the shame he had held back during the day while working in the mines flooded across the mental barrier he had constructed. His failure rose up to confront him once again.
His grandfather had left him with several tasks to accomplish right before he died. Thomas knew that the only way to remove the shame and guilt once and for all was to complete those tasks. Until then, he would continue to mentally whip himself. But could he accomplish them? Self-doubt plagued him.
“If a leader was found, would they fight?”
Oso thought for a moment before answering. “Yes, we would fight.”
That was a start at least. If Thomas could rally the Highlanders, his chances for succeeding would be that much greater. Still, when it was time to reclaim his grandfather’s title, he certainly would have his work cut out for him.
“Right now, though, I can think of only one person who could lead us,” said Oso, pacing around the small cell again. Thomas watched him in silence. “As I said, it is rumored that the grandson survived, and many still believe it, if only because it gives them hope. If we are to regain our freedom, we need the Lost Kestrel. Of course, as I said, he probably met the same fate as his father and grandfather, but who can say. At the moment, hope is our only ally. Unfortunately, as time passes, even our hope dies.”
“You never know, Oso. You never know.”
“You’re right about that, Thomas. You never know. But until I see this Lost Kestrel with my own eyes—” He leaned against the wall of his cell. “Well, hope is a good thing, I guess. Especially when you have nothing else.”
“Skepticism is a good thing, too,” said Thomas. He had learned what he wanted, so he decided to change the conversation once again. Their talking so far had been serious, and in some ways discouraging. Their cells were bleak enough. “How did you get your nickname?”
Oso settled down against the wall. A smile appeared on his face, and he finally stopped pounding his fist into his palm.
“From time to time, some of the villages gather together. It’s very much like a fair, such as the great Eastern Festival at the border of Dunmoor and Fal Carrach, though on a much smaller scale. We have vendors and hawkers, dancing and sporting events.” From Oso’s voice, Thomas gathered that his friend enjoyed the last the most. “One of the competitions is tossing the caber. You throw a pole as far as you can.”
“That sounds simple enough,” said Thomas.
“In concept, yes. Actually doing it is another matter. The pole is about thirty feet long and two hands wide. Trying to balance the thing is almost impossible. You hold it with two hands at the bottom, so it’s sticking straight up in the air, and you rest its weight on your shoulder. Then you try to run up to the line without dropping it or hurting yourself and then heave it.” Oso laughed with pleasure.
“That can’t be very hard at all,” said Thomas.
“Yes, well—” Oso looked through the bars at his friend, who sat across from him in the dim light. Thomas’ green eyes sparkled with mischief. “Thank you for the sarcasm.”
“My pleasure.”
“Anyway, when I was thirteen, I tried it for the first time and I won. I beat men who were bigger than me and two or three times my age. It was the most fun I’ve ever had.” Thomas saw that his friend was flushed with pride. For the moment, Oso had forgotten their present circumstances. “One of the men I beat was named Coban. He came over to congratulate me after the contest. He said I was as strong as a bear. Someone else overheard and gave me the nickname Oso, from the old tongue. It’s stuck with me ever since.”
“Coban, you said?” asked Thomas. “Coban Serenan?”
“Yes, you know him?” Oso leaned forward in surprise, suddenly curious.
“Yes, I do,” said Thomas. “You said that this contest was when you were thirteen, so it was after the fall of the Crag.”
“Yes, it was.”
Thomas sighed with relief, a huge smile crossing his face. He had assumed that everyone in the Crag had died. If Coban fought his way free, others probably did as well.
“Yes, I know Coban, but I haven’t seen him since I was a small child. I knew him at the Crag.”
Oso sensed that his friend had lost interest in conversing. He was somewhere else, probably living in his memories. Oso desperately wanted to know why Thomas had been at the Crag. Had he been there during the attack? Who else did he know? But he didn’t ask. It just didn’t seem like the right time. Maybe later.
Coban was one of the few Marchers who had escaped from the Crag, and he and the other survivors refused to talk about it. The memories were too painful for them. Oso knew that they blamed themselves for what had happened to the Highlands since the death of Talyn Kestrel. He also knew that they had done everything they could to protect the Highland Lord, yet fate had worked against them. And now his new friend had also lived at the Crag. Thomas certainly was full of surprises. He couldn’t wait to see what he learned next.
CHAPTER NINE
Fighting Back
Thomas’ days in the mines seemed to last forever. During the day the only sounds that traveled through the tunnels were the rattling of chains, the occasional clunk of a piece of rock dropped into the bucket, and the constant hammering of the pickaxe into the stone. He saw little of the sun, moving from one darkness to the next, with little to amuse himself except thoughts of escape.
Killeran had not yet led another raiding party in search of new workers, so the warlocks remained in the camp. Until Killeran did, and took the majority of warlocks with him, Thomas would have to wait before putting his plan into action.
Of course, Thomas did have to thank the mines for one blessing. Killeran had lost interest in him since he had been put to work, which allowed his body to heal. The cuts and bruises slowly healed, along with the headaches. He had passed the pit at the mine entrance ten mornings, and each time it had been empty — until today, when the body of a small child lay atop the open grave.
The power of the Talent rushed within him for the first time in weeks as he entertained thoughts of killing every reiver in the fort, but it would serve no purpose. The surprise on the face of the child who had died the night before, of not understanding what was going on and why it was happening to him, haunted Thomas throughout the day. There was so much he could do, yet so little. As a result, his rage boiled just beneath the surface, fueled by his frustration, waiting to explode.
Thomas heard the clanking of chains off in the distance and realized his eleventh day in the mines was almost over. The reivers were forming up the chain gang for the slow trip back to the Black Hole, as the Highlanders called Killeran’s fort.
A reiver soon appeared before Thomas, walking confidently down the dark tunnel with a key in his hand. Thomas had known of his approach for some time, his bad breath having preceded him. The thought of killing the man with his pickaxe sped across Thomas’ mind, but first he’d have to brea
k the chain connecting it to the stone.
The reivers had done everything possible to eliminate any hope for escape. After Thomas put down the pickaxe and stepped away from it so it wasn’t within easy reach, the reiver unlocked the chain from Thomas’ steel collar and pushed him back up the passageway toward the other miners.
As he drew closer, something looked out of place, something that only he could see in the murky darkness. Normally, the Highlanders stood silently one behind the other once the reivers were ready to go back, exhausted by their efforts. But there was some kind of commotion at the back of the line. Freed from his neck irons, Thomas ran forward, surprising the reiver behind him. The guard shouted for him to stop.
Thomas ignored the reiver, running as fast as he could with the chains still attached to his ankle irons. Thanks to the journey after his capture, he had learned how to move quickly when impeded in such a way. The Highlander at the back of the line was lay on the hard stone floor, curled up into a ball as two reivers viciously kicked him with their steel-tipped boots. The other Highlanders, chained as they were, could do nothing to help. The Highlander was a threat to no one in his current condition, yet the reivers continued to kick him, their heavy boots thudding into his body.
Thomas lunged toward the two reivers, knocking both of them down. The reivers never expected an attack. Thomas took the opportunity to inflict some punishment of his own. Though his legs were chained, his arms were free. As one of the reivers tried to sit up, Thomas hit him with a flurry of punches. The crunching sound of the man’s nose breaking filled Thomas with satisfaction. The anger that had simmered within him during the day finally had a release. The reiver fell back again in pain, clutching at his face as blood poured down onto his shirt.
The second reiver was tangled in the chains around Thomas ankles and having a hard time regaining his feet. Thomas kicked out with his feet, taking the man full in the face. Another crunching sound accompanied the blow. With his two opponents no longer in the mood to fight, he crawled over to the fallen Highlander. The man lay face down on the rocky path and hadn’t moved since Thomas intervened. Grabbing hold of the Highlander’s shirt, he pulled him over onto his back. Thomas drew back in shock. It was the Highlander in his dream. The Highlander who had spoken to him while sitting on top of the pit outside the mines. The Highlander who had died.
Thomas quickly recovered his senses and placed his ear just above the man’s mouth. He was breathing. The man wasn’t dead after all. Relief surged through him. If he could prevent one dream from becoming reality, perhaps he could do the same thing about the others as well.
However, his victory was short-lived. Thomas suddenly felt a great weight on his back that crushed him against the ground. A half dozen reivers piled onto him, holding him down. Not satisfied that he was subdued, one of the reivers drew his dagger and brought the hilt down sharply across the back of Thomas’ head. The darkness around him became more complete as he lost consciousness. The last fleeting thought that passed through his mind was one of pleasure. The Highlander would live, at least for now. The headache he would wake up with was a small price to pay for that.
CHAPTER TEN
Promise of Payment
Thomas groaned as his eyes adjusted to the bright light from the torches. He remembered working in the mine, but after that everything was a blank. The pain in the back of his head told him what he needed to know. He was getting very tired of being hit there. Very tired. When he tried to sit up, a wave of dizziness washed over him. Fighting against it, he tried to roll over onto his side, but he couldn’t. In fact, he couldn’t move at all, except for his head.
Lying back, he waited several minutes for the dizziness to pass. During that time he looked at his surroundings as best as he could. He was in some part of the barracks, he guessed. The floor was covered by a thick rug and the walls by rich tapestries, all with a Highland flair. Except for a large chair at one end of the room that resembled a throne, the room was bare. Killeran’s quarters. Only he would have stolen so many things from the Highlanders and displayed it all so brazenly.
Finally, as his vision cleared and his headache receded to a dull thumping at the back of his skull, Thomas raised his chin to his chest. He had been strapped to a board, with his arms and legs tied down. Killeran. Killeran must have something planned.
“So young Thomas plays hero once again,” said Killeran, striding confidently into the room. His nose looked even larger to Thomas as Killeran leaned over him. “You know, boy, you’re almost more trouble than you’re worth.”
Thomas stared back at him, not saying a word. He flexed his hands against the leather straps, but knew they would hold no matter how much he struggled. One day he would meet Killeran when he was not chained like a beast or strapped to a table, and then this prissy bastard would learn the true meaning of pain. Until then, Thomas would have to suffer through his ministrations. The thought of using the Talent crossed his mind, but he held back.
“Still not speaking to me?” asked Killeran in mock surprise. He walked around the table so all Thomas could see was his head and his large nose directly above his face. “You should be thanking me profusely, you know. Normally I would have had you killed for attacking my men, but I chose not to. Do you know why?”
Killeran waited expectantly for an answer. Thomas knew it was all part of the game Killeran liked to play. He simply waited, staring up at the large nose hovering above him. He knew what was coming next.
“Tight-lipped as always. Well, since you don’t want to guess, I’ll tell you.” Killeran walked back around the table and started pacing along one side of it. “You see, Thomas, you still intrigue me. Why did you help the Highlanders? Only a fool would have done so. Why do you seem so familiar to me, as if I should recognize you? Why do you refuse to say a word?” Killeran didn’t bother to give Thomas time to answer.
“I’d like answers to these and a host of other questions, but you refuse to take part in a civilized conversation. You refuse to say anything at all.” Thomas focused on the swishing sound of Killeran’s long white cloak as it trailed behind him across the carpet. He had long since learned that there was really no reason to listen to Killeran’s constant ramblings. “Maybe that’s why I let you live.”
Killeran stopped pacing and leaned over Thomas, his nose almost touching Thomas’ face. The stench of the onions Killeran had eaten with his dinner threatened to overpower him. “I have always been able to make someone talk. It’s just one of my many skills, but you still hold back what you know. You’re a challenge, Thomas. And I love challenges. Remain silent as long as you want. As I said before, you’ll break. It’s just a matter of time. Of course, the longer it takes, the more fun I get to have.”
Killeran snapped his fingers as he glided away from the table. Thomas heard the footsteps of someone entering the room, then leaving, but he couldn’t see what was going on.
“The cestus didn’t seem to bother you,” said Killeran from somewhere behind Thomas. He heard the clinking of metal on metal, yet could only guess at what Killeran was doing. “So I decided it was time to try a different approach.”
Killeran walked back around the table, standing in front of Thomas’ feet. The evil smile on his face sent a shiver of fear through Thomas’ body. He held a red-hot poker in front of him like a sword.
“If you answer my questions, Thomas, you won’t have to feel the sting of my friend here,” said Killeran, waving the poker lazily through the air. “Now, why did you help the Highlanders?” Killeran’s question came out as a shout.
Thomas balled his hands into fists in preparation. He told himself not to cry out, no matter what. Focusing on Killeran’s nose, Thomas’ eyes blazed with hatred.
“Ah, well, I had a feeling you’d be difficult.”
As Killeran jabbed the hot tip of the poker into Thomas’ side, his body jerked involuntarily against the searing pain. Thomas wanted to cry out, to scream at the top of his lungs. Yet his jaw remained clenched. Kille
ran jabbed again, and again, and again. Eventually, Thomas lost count and blissfully drifted off into unconsciousness, the smell of burnt flesh tickling his nose.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Nothing for Free
The cold stone of the cell floor felt like a balm, soothing his tortured skin. The reivers had dumped him there as they would the trash in the garbage pit just beyond the walls of the fort.
“Thomas, what the—”
Oso stood gripping the bars of his cell tightly in his hands, the horror obvious in his face. Even in the dim light, the dozens of small burns that dotted Thomas’ chest and back flamed angrily. Oso wanted to help his friend, but the bars prevented it.
Thomas relished the cold against his chest. It was like slipping into a cool pool of water, but only half as far as he wanted.
“Just another one of Killeran’s games.”
Oso’s face became a black cloud as his hands tightened on the bars. “That bastard is a dead man.” The heat of his voice matched his emotions. “Mark my words, Thomas. He’ll die for this. I promise you.”
Yet, even to Oso’s ears, his words sounded empty. He was in no position to do anything at all. He had never felt so useless.
“As I said before, Oso, you’ll probably have to get in line for that.”
Thomas carefully rolled over onto his back, recoiling initially from the cold of the floor before sighing with relief. This was much better. While his chest was still cool he could ease the pain scorching his back.
“What did Killeran do, Thomas?”
Thomas closed his eyes, imagining that the waves on the east coast of the Highlands splashed over him. Oh, what he would give to be there right now. The cold of the floor certainly helped. Unfortunately, his chest was beginning to tingle with pain again. It was going to be a very long night.