by Wacht, Peter
Many of the Kingdoms sought to thank the Sylvana for their help, but the members of the legendary band of warriors had little time for it. Though the Kingdoms were now free of dark creatures, the Sylvan Warriors continued their efforts to push the beasts out of the Charnel Mountains. Perhaps a hopeless task, but any success in continuing to reduce the size of what remained of the Dark Horde benefited the Kingdoms. That and the fact that a permanent force, drawn from all the armies of the Kingdoms, would be stationed at the Breaker as had been done centuries before. A new First Guard would stand on the parapet of the massive wall once again.
79
Wedding
“I understand Asmera chose Denega, and he accepted,” said Kaylie.
She stood in the rebuilt Hall of the Highland Lord, marveling at its simple beauty. The Highlanders had replaced the stained glass windows and repaired the other damage caused by disuse after the Crag had fallen that fateful night Talyn Kestrel, Lord of the Highlands and Thomas’ grandfather, had been murdered and the Highlanders betrayed. After the Battle of the Breaker, the Marchers had returned home, and Coban and Oso had led the effort to rebuild the Crag under Anara’s watchful gaze.
With the day’s events scheduled to start in just a few hours, workers were completing the final preparations for the nuptials.
“She did. I almost feel sorry for Denega. He never stood a chance.”
Thomas had approached silently, as was his way, to stand beside her. But Kaylie had sensed him as soon as he had slipped into the room.
“You look very nice,” said Kaylie, taking in his clothes. She was used to the brown breeks and green shirt with a cloak hanging about his shoulders. Now he wore the formal ceremonial dress of the Highland Lord, his pants white and his high-collared coat a deep green, though an unadorned, steel dagger remained sheathed on his belt. Thomas was willing to be flexible with his attire, but would only go so far.
“Thank you. I was told that I had no choice.”
“The life of a monarch,” laughed Kaylie. “Supposedly free to do what they want, but actually always at the command of someone else.”
“Yes, a frustrating lesson.” Thomas took in Kaylie’s flowing blue dress, which brought out the brightness in her eyes. “You look beautiful.”
Kaylie blushed and tried to change the subject. “I haven’t seen you for the last few weeks.”
Since the destruction of the Dark Horde, Thomas had made it a point to spend as much time with Kaylie as possible, despite all that he had to do in the Highlands and with the Sylvana. Yet for the last fortnight he had been absent.
“I needed to take care of some things for Oso,” explained Thomas. “He’s a little nervous.”
“On his wedding day? I can’t imagine why?”
Thomas laughed. “Oso was much like Denega. He didn’t stand a chance with Anara.”
“That’s a good thing, don’t you think?”
“For Oso? Absolutely. He needs someone like Anara with him. He’s been on his own for so long, it’s a good change for him.”
Kaylie turned to Thomas expectantly. “And you, Thomas? Do you need someone?”
A squawk echoed in the chamber. A massive kestrel that looked exceedingly familiar to the one that had appeared so many times in the past sat on the open windowsill, staring down at him. With the Marcher victory over the Armaghian army, the raptors had returned to the Crag, reclaiming the fortress as their own. This one, in particular, had made the Roost its preferred perch and was often seen shadowing Thomas.
Thomas smiled, then reached out, taking Kaylie’s hand in his own.
“I do.”
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Keep reading for the first three chapters of my latest book, The Protector, Book 1 of my NEW series The Tales of Caledonia.
The Protector
Book 1 of The Tales of Caledonia
By Peter Wacht
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 2021 © by Peter Wacht
Cover design 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: 978-1-950236-19-0
eBook ISBN: 978-1-950236-18-3
Setting the Stage
The Protector is set more than one thousand years before the events that occur in The Sylvan Chronicles and takes place in a separate land of The Realms of the Talent and the Curse.
Caledonia, though a monarchy, functions more like a loose confederation of Duchies, much to the displeasure of the crown. It is during this time that some of the more adventurous members of the Caledonian nobility have accepted King Corinthus Beleron’s territorial grants and begun to colonize the Territories far to the west on the other side of the Burnt Ocean.
These Territories will eventually become the Kingdoms. In Caledonia, as in the other realms, the ability to use the Talent sets apart the person gifted with that skill. But being able to use the Talent is only part of the dynamic. For if a Magus chooses to follow a darker path, the Talent becomes the Curse.
Chapter 1. In the Pit
Bryen jumped back just in time, the black dragon’s claw raking his arm rather than his torso. The sight of his blood, the red drops sprinkling the bright white sand, sent the crowd to a higher level of viciousness. That’s why these thousands of people were here, after all. For some, it was an opportunity to gamble on the outcome and perhaps walk away with more than they had wagered. For others, it was a distraction from the mundaneness or the misery of their everyday life. While some simply enjoyed watching the weekly spectacle of man killing man, man killing beast, beast killing man, woman killing man.
It really didn’t matter to those drawn to the gladiatorial games in the Colosseum, because no matter why they chose to attend the contests, they were bound by one single, simple principle: someone or something would die, and it wouldn’t be them. Because of that, all who attended had cause to celebrate.
Judging by the jubilant screams that echoed down into the Pit when his blood splattered the sand, Bryen guessed that most of those watching expected the black dragon to kill him. He didn’t blame them. No one had ever faced a black dragon in the Pit and survived.
Black dragons were uncommon creatures, rarely seen in Caledonia, and they were deadly beasts. They lived in the Trench, and for one to have been captured and brought more than a hundred leagues to the south suggested not only a huge investment, but also that the King felt the need to raise the level of entertainment that he was providing to the people of Tintagel. For that’s what the gladiatorial games had become, a tool for the monarchy to distract the people from the challenges, irritations, and burdens placed on them, often by the crown itself. The fact that the King had gone to the trouble and expense to acquire such a unique creature suggested that the rumblings of unrest that Declan had reported during his wanderings through the city had grown more worrisome to the good King Marden Beleron, who seemed more interested in maintaining a reality crafted of smoke and mirrors than addressing the needs of his people.
Bryen pulled his mind away from his political ponderings and back to the very large and hungry adversary that stood before him, the dragon having pushed itself up onto its hind legs and stretched out its leathery black wings. The creature was as tall as a two-story tower, its wings blotting out the sun and putting Bryen into a shadowy twilight. He struggled to keep his feet in the blood-soaked sand, barely escaping another swipe of the beast’s sharp, curled tal
ons when he rolled to the side, feeling the hardened claws slide past him by no more than a whisker. Sensing victory, the dragon raised its head to the sky and shrieked in triumph, the ear-splitting noise rising above the din of the fifty thousand spectators crammed onto the wooden benches circling the Pit and extending all the way up into the farthest reaches of the Colosseum.
The tall gladiator, his long, prematurely white hair still flecked in a few places with light brown, retreated from the beast, taking a moment to study his opponent. He ignored the wound on his arm as best as he could, locking away the waves of fiery pain in the back of his mind. He had never fought a black dragon before. In fact, he had never even seen one before, and that ignorance had almost cost him his life. Though the dragon wasn’t as large as some of its cousins, growing only to about twenty to twenty-five feet in length, it was just as dangerous. Black scales as hard as rock covered most of the animal, and sharp spikes ran down the length of its spine, functioning as a natural armor which had proven impervious to Bryen’s sword and short spear. Initially, Bryen had concluded that his only chance for success was to go for an eye, but much to his dismay he had found that to be next to impossible. The creature was too fast. Unlike many of the bulky, brawny gladiators who fought in the Pit, Bryen had a surprising strength with his wiry frame, which often gave him an advantage during his combats. But not today. Today, he had met his match when it came to speed and agility. Several times Bryen had attempted to attack the beast from behind, yet with each assault it had proven to be a losing strategy. The black dragon tracked him with a frightening intensity as it moved with an almost unnatural celerity, keeping Bryen in front of him at all times.
Even worse, the dragon’s sharp claws weren’t the only danger he faced. If he got too close to the beast, the dragon also had the option of spitting out a venom that ate through steel and burned through flesh to the bone. Bryen had learned of that unnerving ability the hard way, losing his shield in a futile effort to put out one of the dragon’s eyes. If he hadn’t gotten the shield up in time, he’d either have been blinded or killed.
So what was he to do? Declan and the other gladiators had taught him a great deal about how to fight in the Pit, but this combat was like none of the hundreds of others that he had survived.
The dragon lunged forward, teeth the size of Bryen’s forearm streaking toward his head. Bryen spun out of the way and slashed down with his sword. He struck a hard blow across the dragon’s snout, but the steel had no effect, simply clattering off the beast’s scales and leaving his sword arm numb. The dragon’s head whipped around, the beast clearly irritated that it had missed its prey once again, and that’s when Bryen saw his chance. He lunged forward with his spear having aligned the tip of the steel with the dragon’s right eye. But, once again, he was too slow. The dragon turned its head just enough so that the point of the spear skittered across its scales. Bryen recognized the danger immediately with the dragon’s head now lined up with his chest and no more than a few feet from him. He dove to the side just as a stream of acidic venom shot from the dragon’s mouth. Though most of the blast missed him, a few tiny droplets splattered his left arm and leg. Pinpricks of agony shot through his body, and he feared that he would seize up from the pain.
Bryen could have given up. He had given more of himself to the spectators crowding the stands in blood, sweat, and tears during the last decade than they deserved. There was no known way to kill a black dragon. So what was the point? He had nothing left to prove and no way to escape the Pit other than to be dragged through the sand. But one of Declan’s many sayings ran through his mind as he continued his roll through the sand, putting several more feet between him and the beast that stalked him. He heard the words in his head in the Master of the Gladiators’ gruff voice: “Everyone dies. Not everyone dies with honor.” That brought a smile to his lips and the spark of an idea to his mind.
Rather than patiently wait for the dragon’s next attack, he decided to change his tactics. Bryen sprinted forward, faking a lunge for the dragon’s eye, then jumping into the air and flipping over the beast’s head. Before landing in the sand, he jabbed with his short spear toward the animal’s other eye. Based on his experience of the last hour, he knew before he even attempted the attack that it wouldn’t work, but that was fine with him. Having seen the dragon already tilt its head to defend against the strike, he pulled back his spear and instead swung down into the beast’s maw with his sword. Yet even this proved futile. Though his sword struck hard and true against the dragon’s front fangs, it was like striking one of its scales. His steel blade bounced backward off the hardened tooth.
Despite his failure, he kept pushing himself forward, cutting, stabbing, and swinging with blade and spear, seeking any of the weak spots that he had used so many times before when fighting other animals. Still, nothing that he tried worked. His anger getting the better of him, he feinted once more to the left, the dragon’s eyes tracking him, before he leapt into the air again and tried to drive the point of his sword through the dragon’s snout. A gasp went up from the crowd when they saw the blade shatter into hundreds of pieces, the steel no match for the dragon’s scales. For a moment, all Bryen could do was stare at the broken blade in shock. Then, sensing the dragon turning toward him, he threw the remnant of his sword at the beast and dodged out of the way, the dragon’s claws slicing through the air where his chest had been just a moment before.
Bryen stepped back for a moment, breathing deeply to calm his nerves. His shield and sword now gone, he was left with only his short spear. There had to be a way to get by the dragon’s defenses, Bryen told himself. There had to be! Otherwise his time in the Pit would be coming to a hard end.
He resumed circling the dragon, keeping a good distance away as he struggled for a solution. Any solution. Because time was running short. He had been fighting for almost an hour, and he was down to a single spear point. Even worse, he knew his several wounds would begin to slow him down. And when they did, it would all be over. The dragon finally would have its meal.
The cheers and screams from the crowd washed over him, shaking the Colosseum to its very foundation, but it had little effect on Bryen. He was tired of it, tired of everything -- the cheering, the fighting, the killing, the pain, the blood. The crowd wanted to see blood. That’s all they ever wanted to see. Every time he stepped onto the white sand of the Pit. Whether it was his blood or the dragon’s, it really didn’t matter to them. No matter how appealing the thought of escaping from the Pit might be, he decided that it wouldn’t be his blood that colored the white sand red on this day. If Death wanted to take him, he would fight for every last breath.
* * *
Declan stood at the gate leading into the Pit, his hands clasped tightly to the steel bars as if he were going to pull them free from the bolts connecting them to the stone wall and rush into the Pit to join the fight. The Master of the Gladiators was a hard man, which only made sense since he had lived a hard life. He had broken free from the poverty he had grown up with as an orphan by joining the army. Once in the military, he had risen quickly, his tenacity and lack of fear serving him well, but even more so his ability to gain the trust of the soldiers he led. He treated the men and women he was responsible for as his family, because he didn’t have a family of his own. They respected him for that, and when he asked them to risk their lives, they did so, because they knew that he would be risking his life right along with them. He never asked his soldiers to do anything that he wouldn’t do himself.
The life that he had built for himself had all fallen apart because of an arrogant halfwit. When a young lord seeking to make a name for himself had ordered Declan and his troop to capture a village, they had done so with an efficiency that had earned him a great deal of praise. But when that same arrogant halfwit then had ordered Declan and his soldiers to slaughter all the village’s inhabitants, he had balked. The lord argued that the villagers supported the bandits that they had been charged with removing from the Dar
k Forest. Eliminating the people who aided the brigands would make their task that much easier. Declan had told the lord that they had no evidence that these villagers were assisting the bandits; in fact, it seemed more likely that they were victims of the raiders, who took their livestock and stole their crops on a regular basis. Moreover, even if the people living at the edge of the wood had some sympathy for the bandits, and Declan had been quite clear that he didn’t think that was the case, that was not cause to murder them.
Upon hearing Declan’s refusal to execute his order, the lord had made the mistake of drawing his dagger and placing it at Declan’s throat, telling him that if he refused to obey, he’d kill him then and there. Declan didn’t take too kindly to the threat. Before the lord knew what had happened, Declan had taken the fool’s hand and used it to drive his very own dagger into his throat. The inquiry that followed found Declan guilty with cause to be removed from the army, but the lord’s father wanted him dead. So the commander of the Royal Guard, demonstrating some mercy for a soldier who he had respected, had instead sentenced Declan to the Pit. He had become a slave, a gladiator forced to fight in the Colosseum, but he was alive. And after ten years of surviving both man and beast, he had been named Master of the Gladiators, relieving himself of the need to fight on the white sand. Still a slave, but more likely to remain alive. Since then he had done as he had when he was a soldier in the army, looking out for the men and women compelled to share his fate. He was hard on them, because that was the only way he knew how to lead, but even more so he wanted them to live. For that, they respected him.