The Defender of the Light: Book 9 of The Sylvan Chronicles

by Wacht, Peter

  If the Sylvan Warriors did not engage in battle now, there would be no battle in the future. It would be a slaughter, and the Shadow Lord would win even if Thomas, the Defender of the Light, succeeded in entering Blackstone with the Key. The young Sylvan Warrior needed their help. He needed a distraction. He needed time to fight the Shadow Lord without fear of being slaughtered by their enemy’s servants.

  Tiro withdrew his hand from Tenlin’s horn and sighed in resignation. He had blinded himself to reality to protect against what was to come. But that was a fool’s errand, he acknowledged, berating himself silently. The Sylvana were warriors, fighters, men and women born to act. And now was the time.

  “Thank you, Tenlin,” said Tiro, patting the unicorn’s flank. “You have reminded me of something that I had forgotten over the long centuries.”

  “We fight,” said Catal Huyuk.

  “We fight,” said Tiro, nodding. “Rynlin, I assume you have a plan?”

  “Indeed I do,” replied Rynlin, grinning wickedly. “The Shadow Lord won’t know what hit him.”

  51

  Breaking In

  The journey through the sparse forests lining the southern side of the Breaker and then north from where the Clanwar Desert met the western Highlands had gone faster than expected. Acero, Thomas’ unicorn, never flagged, galloping at a pace that no horse could attain, the landscape passing in a blur. Beluil and the wolves his friend had selected, based on their strength and stamina, had kept up. The wolves served as an honor guard for Thomas, prepared to defend against any dark creatures if the need arose because of the large number of Ogren war parties beginning to make their way across the Northern Steppes. But the goal was stealth, slipping by any threats without being noticed or having to engage.

  Thomas had been reluctant to use the Talent so close to Blackstone, fearing that the Shadow Lord would sense his presence if he did, and he wanted to stay dead for as long as possible, so they had crossed the Northern Steppes at night. But there was no need for concern. Beluil and his pack steered them safely across the plain, avoiding the many Ogren that trudged through the high grass toward the Breaker. Along the way, they also found the remains of several dark creature war parties that much to their misfortune, and to Thomas’ pleasure, had been the target of Beluil’s wolves.

  When they reached the lowlands of the Charnel Mountains, Thomas, Beluil and their escort continued up into the higher peaks, staying away from the Knife’s Edge and any other routes that the Shadow Lord’s dark creatures might use to make their way down to the Northern Steppes. Even with the many detours required in order to maintain the secrecy of their approach, they made excellent time through the dark of night. The sun was still a distant thought when Thomas and Beluil settled among the rocks lining the crest that looked down on Blackstone, the dead city just a mile away. Acero and the wolves had found a safe place to wait just a league away, wary of any dark creatures that might protect the Shadow Lord’s sanctuary. As they gazed down upon the ruins, Thomas turned his mind to the next challenge and the most pressing. He had the Key, but he had no idea how it worked. Was the bearer of the Key the only person able to break through the Shadow Lord’s deadly wards safely? Could the bearer bring along any who were with him? Would the Key disable all the magical traps or just those near the bearer? And if the Key disabled the magical traps, would the Shadow Lord become aware of that fact? So many questions, all critical, but no answers and no way to obtain them. If Rynlin and Rya were able to convince the Sylvan Warriors to attack Blackstone, there was nothing he could do but hope that his passage into the city with the Key would disable the defenses so that they could enter as well.

  He and Beluil watched the dead ruins for almost an hour, trying to become accustomed to the rhythm of the place. Despite the fact that it was early morning, they both saw a great deal of movement. Shadows slipped through the darkness, breaking up the gloom. Shades and Ogren, and perhaps some other foul dark creatures, set on some task. There were no fires. The dark creatures didn’t need the warmth or the light to see. As the minutes passed, Thomas’ mind worked furiously, trying to puzzle out how the Key worked and what could happen when he tried to set foot in the Shadow Lord’s home. But no matter which direction his mind wandered, no good solution presented itself. Having grown accustomed to the meanderings of Blackstone’s inhabitants, Thomas decided on a course that would hopefully limit any chance of discovery. He needed to act, and time was of the essence. The Dark Horde approached the Breaker, and before Thomas challenged the Shadow Lord, he hoped to free Kaylie first, if he could.

  Thomas began to push up from the black ash when he felt a nudge in his side. He settled back down, scratching Beluil’s large head.

  “I know, my friend. I’ll be careful.”

  Beluil stared at him intensely, Thomas reading the images going through the large wolf’s mind. His friend was afraid for him, worried of what could happen, and he wanted to go with him.

  Thomas tried to ease his concerns. “I’m afraid, too. But I have to do this on my own. I don’t know what will happen if you’re with me.”

  Beluil continued to stare at him, his eyes mournful. Thomas sighed, then hugged his best friend.

  “Don’t worry, brother. I’ll be careful. Just be prepared. I don’t know what will happen, but if I can get Kaylie free, I’ll need you to help protect her.”

  The massive wolf nuzzled Thomas a final time, letting him know that he would be ready. Beluil then nudged Thomas forward before settling beneath a rocky crag that would allow him to continue to gaze down upon Blackstone and still keep him hidden from any prying eyes when the black of night turned to the daily grey gloom so common to the Charnel Mountains.

  Thomas trotted down the slope, the blackened ash muffling his already silent steps as he easily avoided any obstacles or dangers lurking in the darkness thanks to his sharp eyesight. He stayed hidden as much as possible, knowing that Beluil tracked his movement from his perch on the ridge. When he reached the boundary of the dead city, he slowed, making his way even more carefully. Every few steps he stopped to listen, wanting to ensure that the way was clear and that nothing hid in the shadows. He didn’t want to run into any dark creatures by mistake as he contemplated the ruins of Blackstone just a few feet to his front.

  He didn’t know what would happen when he tried to enter the city proper, but there was nothing that he could do but go forward. Any who were not a slave to the Shadow Lord would likely die without the Key, unable to avoid the many traps made of Dark Magic set to defend the Shadow Lord’s city. But how did the Key work? Not knowing worried him, but there was nothing for it. Thinking about it for most of the ride from the Winter Sea had gotten him nowhere. Unbidden, the relevant lines of the prophecy ran through this mind:

  Drawn by faith,

  He shall hold the key to victory in his hand.

  Perhaps it was as simple as that. He had found the Key through his faith and belief that he could. Perhaps once again it was simply a matter of having faith.

  Knowing only what he didn’t know, Thomas didn’t have the time to consider what could happen if the Key didn’t function as he hoped. The Dark Horde would be at the Breaker by midday, the Shadow Lord’s minions preparing to invade the Kingdoms. And Kaylie was locked away somewhere in this city. He knew his likely fate when at last he faced the Shadow Lord, but he hoped that he could at last free her before having to take on his nemesis and give her a chance to make her escape. Thomas shook his head to clear it, tired of the same concerns and questions playing through his mind in an unbroken loop.

  As Thomas stepped hesitantly into the city, he began to feel it. There was a sharp, forceful push against his senses, as if the Dark Magic tested him, trying to determine if he were friend or foe. Thomas pulled the Key out from beneath his shirt. It was warm to the touch and growing hotter as he moved slowly into the city. Not knowing what else to do he continued to walk forward. With each step, the resistance increased just a bit more, as if he were pushing
against a bubble that hadn’t burst yet and was folding around him instead.

  Thomas stopped, gathering his thoughts. He was still alive, but each step forward was becoming more difficult, the Dark Magic not attacking him yet, but beginning to resist more aggressively, pushing back, reluctant to yield. An idea suddenly came to him, and with nothing else to go on, he put it into practice. He focused his mind on the Key, taking in its design, the craftsmanship. For no particular reason, he gently took hold of a tiny amount of the Talent, just a sliver of nature’s real power, barely felt by any who might be able to sense such things. He fed that minute stream of the Talent into the Key.

  The talisman grew warmer and then brighter, the small diamonds set into the stone glowing strongly with a dazzling white light. And then it happened. The bubble that Thomas sensed he was pushing against popped silently. The magical defenses of Blackstone dissipated, pulled into the glowing diamond that pulsed blindingly for several seconds, then winked out. The Key had consumed the wards of Dark Magic and cleansed the city’s perimeter of the Shadow Lord’s evil. The city was now open not only to Thomas, but also to any who wanted to follow in his path.

  Thomas smiled. A good sign, he thought. And a bit lucky. But he knew that he would need luck if he were to survive the next few hours, if not the day. Tucking the Key beneath his shirt, Thomas continued silently into the city, bent on his task and still wary of crossing paths with the many dark creatures roaming about the dead metropolis.

  52

  Final Task

  For more than a thousand years the Shadow Lord had sought to gain mastery over the Kingdoms. But his efforts to date were all for naught, as the Sylvan Warriors had thwarted him time and time again. He had tried many different schemes in the past, but he generally favored seeking to obtain power indirectly by using puppets to accomplish his goals. He had found, however, that this rarely worked for any lengthy period of time because of the weakness of the men and women he selected to serve as his pawns.

  The primary case in point now rode across the Northern Steppes next to Malachias, trailing behind an Ogren war party several thousand strong with the Breaker just now becoming visible as the sun began to rise at their backs. Initially, the Shadow Lord had thought to turn Rodric into something more than just the ceremonial High King, but rather the actual ruler of all the Kingdoms exercising real power. Intricate plans had been laid, pledges kept, resources acquired and spent, yet it had all failed despite the years of meticulous planning, all because of a boy who was supposed to have been killed a decade ago but wasn’t.

  As a result, Rodric’s usefulness was coming to an end, and whether he knew it or not was of no consequence. The Shadow Lord had given the former High King a final assignment. Lead the Dark Horde across the Northern Steppes and issue the Shadow Lord’s ultimatum to Gregory of Fal Carrach, the new High King. Surrender the Kingdom forces and swear fealty to the Shadow Lord, or his precious daughter would be put to death, after she had been used by the Shadow Lord’s servants as a plaything. Rodric was to give Gregory a few hours to mull that possible fate before the Dark Horde attacked the Breaker.

  As Rodric considered the task set before him, he found it harder and harder to concentrate. His eyes were watery, his cheeks sunken, his skin sallow. The crown of Armagh, although he had lost that Kingdom, remained perched precariously on his head. Every so often, Malachias glanced across at the former High King in disgust, unable to decipher Rodric’s constant mumbling nor understand why his master had kept him alive. In his opinion, the man had lost his mind, driven mad by his failures, and should have been eliminated long before.

  Malachias didn’t know that the scene from the night before, when the Shadow Lord had summoned the High King for an audience to give him his final assignment, continued to play through Rodric’s mind, never stopping, never changing pace, an endless loop of terror. The fear that had taken root in Rodric remained, for it was last night that he finally realized the real consequences of the bargain that he had made with the Shadow Lord so long ago. He knew his end was near, his usefulness to his master having run its course. And now he finally realized that he was no more than a dupe, a piece to be played as needed. When his master’s need disappeared, so would he.

  Now finally having recognized the precariousness of the situation in which he had placed himself, he could find no avenue for escape. He had no choice but to do the Shadow Lord’s bidding. Assuming that the blasted Gregory Carlomin refused to stand aside for the sake of his daughter, something that Rodric expected knowing the King of Fal Carrach and his sense of honor, an attack on the Breaker was all but inevitable.

  But as the former High King allowed his horse to carry him after the Ogren war party, the Breaker growing larger with each step, he thought that perhaps there was an opportunity here. One last gasp to prove his worth. In the battle that would follow, the Dark Horde would win. The Shadow Lord’s forces were too many; the forces of the Kingdoms too few, even with the massive barrier aiding their defense. It was simply a matter of time before the servants of the Shadow Lord broke through and ran rampant into the eastern Kingdoms. If he played this right, perhaps he could arrange the circumstances of the Dark Horde’s inevitable success so that he was viewed as the victor of this battle. Perhaps he could rebuild his position with the Shadow Lord and give his master a reason to keep him alive.

  Rodric sat a little straighter in his saddle, his crown almost sliding from his head because of the unexpected movement. Yes, there was a chance, slim though it might be. For the first time in weeks he smiled, his mind, or rather what was left of it, turning to the task of survival and what he would need to do to make what could be his last scheme work.

  53

  An Open Path

  “Has he passed through?” asked Tiro. His hesitation at the course suggested by Rynlin at the Circle had been replaced by determination once the Sylvana had made their decision.

  Rya held onto her amulet tightly, her thoughts focused on her grandson. The warmth that she felt when looking down upon Blackstone from the ridge above it gave her a brief flicker of joy.

  “He has,” she replied. “He’s almost to the center of the city.”

  “And the defenses?”

  “There are no defenses,” answered Rynlin. While his wife had searched for their grandson, he had used a tiny stream of the Talent to push into Blackstone. He had done much the same thing more than a thousand years before, and then he had felt a deadly resistance, the Shadow Lord’s Dark Magic waiting, ready to strike at any fool who dared to enter his domain but had not sworn allegiance to him. This time, unlike the last, nothing pushed back. The Dark Magic was gone. “When Thomas entered Blackstone, the Key must have disabled the traps.”

  Smiles broke out on the faces of the Sylvan Warriors upon hearing that. They had ridden their unicorns down from the Circle, through the Highlands, across the Northern Steppes, then into the Charnel Mountains from where those burnt peaks met the Sea of Mist, sticking to the eastern coast to avoid the Ogren war parties before turning to the west and heading for the Shadow Lord’s seat of power. They had hoped that taking such a circuitous route would get them where they were now without being detected. So far, their strategy had worked, arriving just outside the city with what passed for morning light in the Charnel Mountains just an hour above the horizon. Rynlin nudged Militus forward, his massive unicorn barely winded from the long gallop through the night.

  “My friends,” he intoned, his voice quiet but heard by all. “The Defender of the Light has entered Shadow’s Reach. He seeks to challenge the Lord of the Shadow.”

  More than a hundred Sylvan Warriors brought their unicorns to the lip of the ridge. The anticipation of the men and women who had sworn to defend the Kingdoms against the Shadow Lord flowed down into their mounts. And as those Sylvan Warriors with the innate ability to make use of the Talent reached for the natural magic of the world, their unicorns’ horns glowed a bright white.

  “We ride to the Defender of th
e Light!”

  The unicorns responded to the urging of their riders, leaping down from the crest, their hooves digging deeply into the ash-covered ground as they charged toward the outskirts of the Shadow Lord’s lair. A few Ogren burst out from the ruins once the Sylvana broke the city’s boundary, but the dark creatures realized their mistake too late. The unicorns facing the Shadow Lord’s beasts simply dipped their heads and drove their spearlike horns through the creatures’ chests. Those few sentinels eliminated, the Sylvan Warriors split into several groups, taking different paths through the ruins as they rode for the center of the city, intent on eliminating as many dark creatures as possible along the way.

  54

  Crossed Blades

  Thomas moved swiftly but quietly deeper into Blackstone, Beluil tracking his movements as he watched his friend dodge carefully through the ruins, often appearing as no more than a shadow himself as he skipped away from the Ogren, Shades and other dark creatures that periodically appeared in the ash-covered streets. Never having been in Shadow’s Reach, Thomas trusted to fate, allowing the Key to pull him toward the Shadow Lord, believing that if he found his nemesis, he would locate Kaylie as well. The Key appeared to function much like his Sylvan Warrior amulet, as the magical artifact seemed intent on guiding him safely and secretly through the warren of streets and alleys cluttered with debris that made up this husk of a city.