by Wacht, Peter
Of course, Thomas wasn’t suggesting that Kaylie was like his grandmother, far from it. But there were some similarities, even if just a few. Not only a strength of purpose, but also a certainty in herself, in who she was. Since Kaylie had joined their expedition to the west she had changed in several ways. “More comfortable in her own skin” was how Oso had put it the other day. She had done everything that had been asked of her and more without objection or complaint, using the Talent and her blade whenever needed and with great effect.
If not for Kaylie, Thomas admitted that he likely would have died in Great Falls, murdered by the Wraith. Kaylie’s timely intervention and her determination to protect him against a dark creature that the Sylvan Warriors described as the Shadow Lord’s most dangerous assassin had not only saved Thomas’ life, but also elevated Kaylie in the eyes of the Marchers, her hard-won respect much deserved.
Despite the dangers presented by the Wraith and the other dark creatures that had sought to impede them from achieving their goal, he and his Marchers had reached the northwestern Kingdom buttressed by the Western Ocean and the Winter Sea. As each league had passed beneath the Waverunner’s keel, the five-masted merchant vessel slicing through the waves, the pull of the Key had grown stronger, more insistent, demanding that he seek out the artifact. That pull had become an ache in his gut, so intense that try as he might he simply couldn’t ignore it.
Their thoughts turned to other matters as Laurag, the capital of Inishmore, quickly came into view. The Marchers stood at the rails, admiring the many tall spires that rose into the sky, their white, almost translucent marble reflecting the bright morning sun to the point where these manmade spikes resembled sparkling flames. After the dangers of their voyage, they were ready to step back on to dry land. They had made good time after their harrowing escape from the Great Sharks, and Thomas had little doubt that the captain would be glad to see their backs when they walked down the gangway.
“It’ll probably be worse,” cautioned Kaylie. “Watch your back and be prepared for anything here. When the last legitimate king of Inishmore was assassinated several centuries ago, none of the other ruling families were strong enough to assume the throne on their own. Alliances became the way to power, but in this Kingdom, alliances have always been fragile at best. They are made out of expedience and the opportunity for gain, so they are always changing. As a result, you never know which family might be for or against another. You won’t necessarily know what they’re trying to achieve other than the fact that the ruling houses will do whatever is necessary to maintain or expand their power, to gain some advantage, or to ensure that another family does not gain an advantage at their expense.”
“We’re just here to find a ship,” protested Thomas. “And we have no interest in Inishmore’s politics.”
“It’s not a matter of what we’re interested in. It’s not that straightforward, unfortunately. Rather, it’s a matter of what they’re interested in.”
“Who?”
“Colasa and Eshel,” answered Kaylie. “Traditionally half a dozen houses have vied for the throne at any one time. But not anymore. Those two houses have consolidated the other houses behind them. How, I don’t know, considering that the loyalty of an Inishmorian lord is worth as much as the sweat on your brow. I expect that those two will do anything, use anyone, if they think it will help them seize the throne.”
“And you think that they know we’re coming?”
Thomas saw the spires of the city taking shape as the harbor appeared, a massive stone wall curling out into the sea to protect the moored ships and bustling port from the sometimes monstrous waves so common to this part of the world, rogue waves that could swallow their ship whole and leave no trace of their existence as Torlan had explained. Thankfully, they traveled at a time in the year when such waves were rare, though not unheard of.
“I don’t know for sure, but my guess is that as soon as we dock those two will learn of our arrival quickly. After what happened on the way here, I’m certain that some of the sailors will begin telling tales in the taverns lining the waterfront. Once that happens, those stories will be all over the city within an hour and travel quickly to the ears of Colasa and Eshel through their network of spies.”
“Then we need to be quick,” said Thomas. “Find a ship as fast as we can.”
“Agreed,” said Torlan, captain of the Waverunner, who had stomped up the deck to them, yelling commands to his crew all along the way. “I’ll keep the men busy for as long as I can, but they’ll want to be off this ship just as much as you. They’ll spread the word of what happened on our voyage just as fast as the young miss suggested, and the story will grow with each telling, finding its way quickly to the ears of those who will seek to make use of it for their own gain. That’s the way of it here in Laurag. Once the lads unload the cargo, I’ll have nothing to hold my sailors here.”
“Thank you, Torlan. We do appreciate it. And we appreciate everything that you’ve done for us.”
“It’s nothing, miss. Some of us remember the stories, the way it was in a darker time. And some of us are willing to do what’s necessary to make sure that doesn’t happen again. Lord Kestrel, I wish you luck on your business. And if you ever have need of a quick voyage back to the east, call on me. My crew and I would be happy to assist. Look for Brienne in the south docks. She’s one of the few captains willing to risk a run to the Distant Islands this time of the year. She can be trusted, take it from me. You can tell her that I recommended her to you.”
“Thank you, Torlan.”
Torlan nodded, slapping Thomas on the shoulder, then lumbered away to ensure that the sailors managed their tasks smartly as they entered the harbor and tied up to their mooring.
4
Recovered
Ragin Tessaril, son of the former High King, a young man born into power and privilege, used to obtaining whatever he wanted whenever he wanted, lay rolled up in a ball, his threadbare cloak pulled tight around him in a desperate attempt for warmth. He was starving and cold, always cold, shivering uncontrollably as the brisk wind blew across the top of the hill, infusing the never-ending chill deep into his emaciated bones.
How long had he been here? Weeks? Months? He didn’t know. He had lost track. Nothing had changed except for the sky, shifting from the murky gray of the day to the pitch black of night, and then back again. A continuous, dreary cycle. Ragin surveyed his surroundings for the thousandth time, not bothering to lift his head. In the beginning he had hoped for some change in this cursed land, yet as the days and then weeks passed, he knew that it was a useless wish. He lay on a small hillock with a single, leafless, dead tree at its top, the branches twisted and broken. Sunlight didn’t exist in this soul-crushing place. Instead, a dismal haze covered the landscape, the greyish fog billowing and churning at the touch of the breeze. Despite the length of time that he had been here, the smell still made him want to retch, but there was nothing in his stomach to expel. For as far as he could see, a turbid, black water surrounded the knoll and extended all the way to the horizon. In some places the muck roiled, bubbles letting off a noxious, sulfurous odor that spread in the air. In others, wide ripples would appear for just a moment and then disappear just as quickly. Ragin had yet to see the creatures that disturbed the stagnant water, and he wasn’t sure that he wanted to, as he had glimpsed on occasion the wide, scaled backs that glided through the mire and suggested the massive size of the beasts that patrolled the swamp.
When first he had been stranded here, his anger had threatened to consume him, the rage roiling in his chest providing him with the little bit of warmth that could be obtained in this disheartening land. Everything that he had worked for had been taken from him in a matter of minutes, all because of an old man. An old man! He had prepared meticulously, accepting the demands of the Shadow Lord so that he could learn the ways of Dark Magic. Giving up his very soul to obtain the power needed to kill his torturer, the boy who played at Lord of the Highlands.
But all for naught, as the old man had prevented him from achieving his objective, banishing him from the halls of Eamhain Mhacha before he could strike. And now here he lay in the midst of desolation, no food, no shelter, nothing but a wind that never ceased, a cold that seeped into his very core, and a stench that made him gag if he breathed too deeply.
Ragin had thought that as soon as the old man closed the portal that he had pushed him through, he could create one of his own, mimicking what the Sylvan Warrior had done to return to Eamhain Mhacha and kill first the fool who had dared to oppose him and then the scoundrel who had disfigured him, the boy who had given him a ragged scar on his face that stretched from brow to neck and had altered more than just his appearance. But he had thought wrong. Because wherever the old man had sent him, Ragin couldn’t touch the Dark Magic that the Shadow Lord had imbued within him. The power that had once surged through his body, that had given him hope and confirmation that he would gain his revenge, had simply disappeared. Gone. And with it, his hope.
“You have wasted what I gave you,” a deep, raspy voice said from behind him. “So much power, yet so little intelligence.”
Ragin slowly rolled his body over, his hunger and weakness allowing him to move only so fast. He used the last vestiges of his strength to sit up, and even then, it was more of a slouch, leaning his upper body to the side on his elbow, as he feared that if he tried to elevate himself any further, he’d tumble down the hill and into the slime. He should have felt terror, yet he didn’t have the energy for it. A portal of swirling black fog had opened behind him, as tall as a man. Through that portal he picked out a circular chamber mostly hidden by a dark gloom, only a few large black and white tiles on the floor visible. Tilting his head up and seeing what had disturbed him, his fear reignited with a vengeance, making his body shiver even worse than from the cold. Two blood-red eyes studied him, weighed him, and apparently found him wanting.
“I tried,” rebutted Ragin, his voice soft and scratchy from the lack of use. He wasn’t even sure that it sounded like him any longer. “I tried to …”
“Trying doesn’t matter,” hissed the Shadow Lord. “Only success matters. I gave you the power to destroy the boy. Utterly! Completely! Yet here you are while he continues to be a splinter in my palm.”
“I’m sorry, master. I’m sorry.”
The Shadow Lord stared down at the quivering Ragin in disgust. He had considered leaving the fool here to die. Now in his rage he wanted to lash out, to destroy the arrogant pup who had failed like so many others to complete the simple task given to him of killing a boy. Not only did the boy still live, but he had grown more powerful, more dangerous. The Lord of the Shadow knew that the Wraith had failed, feeling the final throes of its death somewhere in the western Kingdoms. There were few resources left to impede the boy from challenging him in Blackstone as the prophecy suggested. Would it come down to that? Would the duel between the Lord of the Shadow and the Defender of the Light take place? His servants had failed to put an end to the boy multiple times. It seemed as if the prophecy would have its way no matter how he tried to stop it from coming to fruition. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t continue in his efforts to kill his nemesis. There was no reason to hold out any hope of success, but there was nothing to lose either. Of course, if the boy did fulfill the requirements of the prophecy and somehow found a way into Blackstone, there also was every reason to have another option in place to aid him in the fight. Just in case. A surprise, perhaps, to throw the boy off at a critical moment. The boy had proven to be stronger and more resilient than expected. So yes, perhaps the sickening wretch in front of him could be put to use after all. Another tool to be applied at the right time, even if it was only to serve as a distraction.
“I did not train you to be a fool, boy,” the Shadow Lord said, staring down at Ragin, his blood-red eyes flashing dangerously.
A black mist surged from the Shadow Lord’s upraised hand, his fingers thin, clawlike, and spotted with age. The mist surrounded Ragin, spinning faster and faster into a whirl that resembled a tornado. The former Prince of Armagh tried to escape, the haze pricking him in thousands of places at once, sending jolts of pain through his body until he spasmed and flopped around on the hilltop like a fish out of water. He opened his mouth to scream, but he failed to emit a sound, the mist surging down his throat, his insides now threatening to explode as he felt his body being pierced, inside and out. Then, after what seemed like a lifetime but was only a few minutes, the fog dissolved.
Ragin lay on his back, breathing raggedly, sweat soaking his clothes, the cold wind freezing his shirt to his chest. But he ignored the discomfort, the frigid cold, forgetting the pain, the pricks that still sizzled across his skin, and smiled instead. Finally, after how many days he couldn’t recall, Dark Magic swirled within him once again. He sensed the power that the Shadow Lord had made a part of him flow through his blood, then laughed weakly as he realized that his master had returned to him the tool that would allow him to achieve his vengeance.
“Against my better judgment, I have given your Dark Magic back to you, boy,” said the Shadow Lord. “This is your final chance. Do not fail me again.”
5
Black or Red
The Marchers had barely set foot on the docks of Laurag before it seemed as if everyone’s eyes were upon them, watching, judging, trying to determine their purpose for coming to the port city and how that knowledge could be turned into some coin if whispered into the right person’s ear. It was an unsettling environment, one that sent a prickle of worry down the back of Thomas’ neck and made him feel more uncomfortable than when he was being hunted by a Nightstalker.
As they walked up the pier toward the gate to the city, they began to notice the armbands. The sailors didn’t wear them, but anyone who appeared to reside in Laurag did. Some people wore black armbands, others red. Any time a person or group of people wearing one color armband came into contact with a person or group of people wearing a different color armband, there were either harsh glares or suspicious gazes. People only conducted business with those merchants and tradespeople wearing bands the same color as theirs. The tension was thick, almost palpable, the threat of violence hanging in the air.
The closer the Marchers came to the gate, the more crowded it became, the men and women of the Highlands pressed together by the many travelers, merchants and townsfolk seeking to enter the city proper. A small table blocked the center of the gate, and to each side an equal number of soldiers stood grasping their weapons tightly, poised on the edge of violence. On one side the soldiers wore black armbands, on the other red.
About to reach the miserly looking man sitting at the table, Thomas turned to Kaylie and asked what was happening.
Kaylie smiled, grasping his forearm warmly. “Not to worry. I’ll handle this.”
Not fully understanding, Thomas looked at Oso, who towered behind him, and they both shrugged. He and his Marchers apparently had entered a foreign territory.
The Marchers, finally having made their way to the front of the line after several minutes of waiting, sensed more and more eyes upon them. The man at the small table didn’t deign to look up, though the soldiers on both sides stared with interest at the newcomers, some gripping the hilts of their swords, others the shafts of their spears, in a stronger grip, a few even shuffling their feet nervously. The reputation of the Marchers had preceded them.
“Black or red?” asked the man in a tired voice, too busy scribbling in the ledger set on the table to acknowledge the people standing before him.
“Neither,” said Kaylie. “We take no side.”
That comment caught the man’s attention. His pencil stopped scratching across the page as he looked up finally, his skepticism plain. Though he wore spectacles perched on the very edge of his long nose, he squinted to take in the young woman and her large companions who crowded around him.
“And you are?”
“Simply travelers from the east, my good sir,
seeking a few days of rest before we continue on our way.”
The administrator leaned back in his chair, now tapping his pencil against his ledger. He saw that the line behind this fascinating, possibly profitable, group was beginning to back up, but he didn’t care, ignoring the complaints that were coming from the now milling crowd.
“Highlanders?”
“Yes, my good sir.”
“And why are you out of your Highlands? In my experience, Highlanders rarely leave their Kingdom.”
Kaylie could have continued the conversation, but she realized that it was futile. She had taken her measure of this man in seconds. Nothing to his name but the small bit of power that he wielded because of his job. He was an official looking to profit from any useful information that he could obtain while conducting his duties. There was only one way to deal with a man such as this. To take charge.
“You have wasted enough of my time, good sir,” stated Kaylie in a strong voice that carried to all around her. She assumed the posture demanded of her when conducting functions in the throne room of Fal Carrach. “As well as the time of all those behind us. Your purpose here is quite simple, is it not? You are to determine the allegiance of any entering the city, and then once identified allow entry so the commerce of this city can continue?”
The man leaned his chair back down, the color in his face rising. “Well, I need …”
“It is a simple question, is it not? When travelers arrive who have no connection to Inishmore, no allegiance to any lord, it is to be noted and they are to be allowed to pass. Is that not correct, my good sir?” Kaylie bit off the words. Though presented as a question, it clearly wasn’t.