The Claiming of the Highlands

by Wacht, Peter

  “Come on my lads!” encouraged Nestor. “Come on my lasses! No one for an Ogren cookpot tonight.”

  The Marchers responded with a burst of speed. Increasing their pace, Nestor and his fighters ran across the rocky terrain, understanding the price they would pay if caught.

  A tall man stood unmoving within the shadows of the forest, looking out from his place of concealment among the evergreens and birch trees at the verge of a small plateau. The field of long grass funneled toward him, constricted by two large, stone outcroppings that loomed above the wood on both sides. This would do nicely, he thought. Nicely, indeed.

  He wore brown breeks and a dark blue shirt that covered a slim body. Though he did not look it, he had a deceptive strength. The cloak he wore not only helped to ward off the chill, but it also swirled around him, its green and brown colors allowing him to blend in perfectly with the environment. His piercing blue eyes held an intensity that would have frightened most men and were accentuated by the sharp features of his face. The short black beard flecked with grey gave him an almost dastardly appearance. If anyone had the courage to tell him so, he would have smiled and thanked them for the compliment.

  “They come,” said the diminutive woman standing next to him, who wore a similarly designed cloak so that she would remain hidden among the trees as well. She had used the Talent to scan their surroundings, having expected their quarry to arrive shortly after sunrise.

  “It’s about time,” replied the man. “I’m tired of waiting.” He glanced down at the beautiful woman who had stolen his heart so long ago. No more than five feet tall, she carried herself like a giant. As she swept her dark, chestnut hair away from her face with a quick swipe of her hand, she revealed deep blue eyes. Eyes that the tall man had often gotten lost in time and time again, much to his pleasure. In his mind, saying she was beautiful did not do her justice.

  A massive shadow approached from behind, only the bright yellow of its eyes visible in the gloom of the forest. The growl that emanated from its throat sounded like the rumble of thunder.

  “Yes, I know you had a part to play in putting this all together, Beluil,” said the tall man, turning toward the wolf as it stepped out of the murk. The wolf stood as tall as a pony. Covered in a thick, black fur, he was invisible in the night, except for the streak of white fur that crossed his eyes. “Are you and your packs ready?”

  Beluil growled once more, stretching his jaws in anticipation of what was to come and revealing his sharp teeth in the process.

  “Then off with you, you big furball. We’ll meet in the center.”

  Beluil dashed back into the trees straight away, lost from sight in less than a second.

  “I’m glad that wolf is a friend,” said Catal Huyuk, the hulking warrior stepping forward to stand next to his companions. He stood a head taller than most men, and his dark brown face disguised his age. His leathery skin showed him to be a man who had spent most of his life in the outdoors, and that he wasted little time in towns or cities. His long black hair was held back from his face by a knot of leather at the base of his neck. He was dressed in the leathers of a woodsman with a huge sword strapped to his back and a wickedly curved axe hanging at his waist instead of the expected bow and quiver of arrows. “Because I would hate to be his enemy.”

  “Yes, indeed,” replied Rya. “Our grandson has a habit of acquiring dangerous friends.”

  “That’s why I like him so much,” rumbled Catal Huyuk. “He keeps things interesting and fun. Makes you feel alive.”

  “Fun?” asked Rya Keldragan, eyebrow raised quizzically.

  “What could be more fun than killing dark creatures?” replied Catal Huyuk.

  “It’s time,” said Rynlin Keldragan, ending the banter around him, his gaze fixed on the far side of the field. “They’re only a few hundred yards from the entrance and coming fast.”

  “Good,” said Catal Huyuk, who pulled his battle axe free. Even the largest of men would struggle to use the heavy weapon effectively, yet the Sylvan Warrior flipped it from one hand to the other as if it were no more than a child’s toy. “I haven’t been in a good fight in days.”

  Nestor cursed as he ran through the forest, ignoring the branches that scraped at his face and body. He had started out leading his Marchers through the fractured and jagged terrain as they sprinted from one copse of trees to the next after their ambush of the Ogren raiding party. But that hadn’t lasted long. The younger and faster Marchers had sped ahead, and he had urged them on.

  Now he was the last one, and he had larger things to worry about. Much larger. A handful of Ogren had closed in on him since the chase began, the foul beasts now no more than a few hundred feet behind and coming fast. The rest of the dark creature raiding party followed just seconds behind, ravenously pursuing their prey, pushed on by hunger and rage. Roars blasted through the small forest, the Ogren calling to one another as they continued to hound the Highlanders.

  Peeking quickly over his shoulder to gauge his distance from the closest Ogren, the veteran Marcher stumbled on some loose rock, tumbling to the ground and slamming into the base of a fallen tree. Nestor hauled himself up rapidly, thankful that he hadn’t injured anything except for his pride, but also realizing that his clumsiness had cost him greatly. The five Ogren that had raced ahead of the other dark creatures approached in a line, having caught up to him. The beasts bellowed in triumph as they brandished their short swords and axes, strings of spittle hanging from their curved tusks. Nestor pulled his sword from its scabbard across his back, relieved that it was still there after his tumble. There was no point in running. He’d never make it now. The Ogren were too fast. Better to die like a Marcher.

  One Ogren charged forward, wanting the kill for itself. Nestor set himself, preparing for the attack and hoping that he could put up a good fight at least for a time. If he could delay the Ogren, even for just a couple minutes, then perhaps the time earned would aid his Marchers in their escape. The Ogren raised its battle axe above its head, thinking to bring it down on top of his smaller opponent and split him in two. Raising his sword in a two-handed grip, Nestor sought to deflect the blow, but he knew with some regret that he had little chance of success, the dark creature’s blow too powerful.

  At the last second, Nestor ducked down, hearing the distinctive thrum from behind him as three arrows in rapid succession streaked through the space he had just been occupying. The first arrow struck the beast in the chest, the second in the thigh, but those only enraged it. It was the third, driving through its cheek into its brain, that finished the job. The massive beast crashed face first to the ground, dead before it hit the rocky soil. The other Ogren watched in disbelief, then bellowed in anger and rushed forward.

  A tall Highlander stood above Nestor, offering a hand. Nestor gladly accepted it and quickly regained his feet.

  “Come on, old man,” said Aric. “We’re almost to the plateau. Once there, it’s just a straight run across. Can you do it without falling?”

  Not bothering to reply, though several pointed comments crossed his mind, Nestor ran through the forest, dodging trees, rocks and other obstacles that sought to take him down, until finally breaking out onto the wide stretch of grassland that he saw narrowed just ahead between two rocky outcroppings. Aric stuck close to his heels, apparently wanting to make certain that Nestor didn’t have any more problems during their attempted escape.

  Blasted children, Nestor thought. Stronger. Faster. Thinking they knew more than you. Much too confident. Not understanding the value of experience. The Highland chief pushed the thoughts from his mind. Yes, he was old. But he could still fight and lead. And he’d need to thank Aric once they escaped the Ogren. The young stripling had saved his life, and for that he owed him a debt.

  “There they are,” rumbled Catal Huyuk, pointing to the two Highlanders sprinting through the long grass and striving for the trees at the far side.

  “The Ogren are gaining,” said Rya. “They’re not going to m
ake it.”

  Nestor and Aric didn’t bother to look behind them. The Marchers were well aware of the danger that pursued them. Four Ogren were no more than one hundred feet behind them and gaining with every step, the beasts’ long strides allowing them to make up the ground in seconds. The remainder of the Ogren raiding party, almost five dozen in all despite their previous losses, followed after them, intent on the chase and not paying attention to their surroundings.

  “They don’t need to make it,” said Rynlin. “They just need to get a little farther. We need the last of the Ogren into the gap. Otherwise, the trap fails.”

  “Marchers to the ready,” Catal Huyuk ordered. Nestor’s Marchers, all of whom had made it safely across the grassland into the small forest at the far side, stepped to the edge of the wood. Bows in hand, an arrow already on the string, they placed a half dozen arrows each into the soft earth in front of them, ready to launch on command. Nestor and Aric were agonizingly close, but it was too late. They weren’t going to reach the safety of the trees by just a small margin. The Ogren were only a dozen feet behind them now.

  “They’re through the gap,” confirmed Rya.

  “Now!” shouted Rynlin.

  He and Rya stepped forward, seizing hold of the Talent and allowing the natural energy of the world to flow through them. Several other Sylvan Warriors followed them out from the trees. Maden, almost as tall as Rynlin, wore a sword at his hip. Though it appeared as if his features were carved from granite, he always had a ready smile, and he wore it now as balls of white energy danced across his hands. Gavin of Ferranagh, a short man with a long, white beard that he looped in his belt to keep out of the way, emerged next. Followed by Brinn Kavolin, an extremely tall, slender man. He had a sharp, angular face and dark brown hair that continually threatened to fall into his eyes. Right behind him came the twins, Elisia and Aurelia Valeran from Kashel, the only difference between the two being the color of their hair, Elisia’s a midnight black and Aurelia’s a shocking white.

  Just as the lead Ogren was about to stab his sword into Nestor’s back, a bolt of white light shot over the Marcher’s head and blasted through the chest of the pursuing Ogren. Nestor had ducked the blow he felt coming, sliding through the grass and then tumbling past the men and women who stepped from between the trees and faced the onrushing Ogren. Once again Aric helped him to his feet, and they watched in astonishment and delight as more bolts and balls of white energy slammed into the charging dark creatures, blasting through their wide chests and leaving a sickly smell of burning meat to drift on the wind.

  “Release at will!”

  Catal Huyuk’s craggy voice cut through the commotion. The Marchers lined up behind the Sylvan Warriors released their first flight of arrows, and then another, followed by another. The men and women of the Highlands each sent a half-dozen shafts into the sky in less than a minute. The arrows flew through the air in an almost continuous stream, the flow thick and heavy, forcing the Ogren to halt their attack. Most of the arrows found their target, slamming into the Ogrens’ heavily muscled bodies, although few found their killing mark. But that was not the intention. The Marchers simply wanted to cause confusion among the Ogren, and they swiftly did, as the huge beasts, many with two or three shafts protruding from their chests or legs, looked around uncertainly, not sure whether to continue their attack or seek to escape.

  The decision was made for the slow-witted Ogren when a howl echoed off the two rocky outcroppings. A massive black wolf, a stripe of white across his eyes, sprinted at the head of more than a hundred wolves that streamed through the gap leading onto the plateau, their shining eyes intent on their prey. Launching himself into the air, Beluil slammed into the back of an Ogren, forcing it to the ground. Before the dark creature could bring its short sword to bear, the rusty blade stuck beneath its chest, the black wolf tore into the beast’s throat with his sharp teeth. The growls and howls of the wolves added to the almost overwhelming din as they broke off into groups of three or four and tried to separate the Ogren, nipping at the back of its legs and seeking to bite into a calf or hamstring. Once disabled and on the ground, the wolves could easily finish the task or leave it to their allies, as the Marchers, having dropped their bows and pulled their swords, charged into the melee, Catal Huyuk leading the way as he cleaved an Ogren’s head from its shoulders with the first swing of his giant battle axe.

  In just a few minutes, it was over, the bodies of the Ogren scattered across the trampled long grass of the plateau. Marchers and Sylvan Warriors walked among the dark creatures, ensuring that none survived.

  Rynlin watched the entire exercise with a grim smile, knowing that the lack of mercy was necessary. He was pleased. The trap had sprung exactly as planned with none of the Marchers, Sylvan Warriors, or wolves seriously injured. Smiling in satisfaction, a shriek above him pulled him from his thoughts and his gaze to the sky. A large raptor circled above. Dipping its wing, the large kestrel glided across the battlefield screeching in triumph, then tilted its wings to catch the wind coming through the gap between the two rocky promontories, which had served the purpose of the Marchers and Sylvan Warriors so well by guiding the Ogren toward the defenders of the Highlands. Rynlin watched the raptor sweep past. Its strong wings, spanning seven feet, propelled it higher into the air. The white feathers speckled with grey on the bird’s underside blended perfectly with the sky. When visible, the raptor was a dangerous predator. When hidden, it was deadly, shooting down through the thin air like an arrow, its sharp claws outstretched for the kill. Much like he and his allies had just done, Rynlin thought.

  “What should we do with the bodies?” asked Nestor, coming to stand next to Rynlin. The grizzled Marcher looked none the worse for wear despite his struggles of the morning, though he did appear a little winded.

  “We’ll burn the bodies,” said Rynlin. “If your Marchers could help us move them into a pile, it won’t take long.”

  “Give me a moment to take some of the heads,” said Catal Huyuk, as he strode past them toward a dead Ogren lying in the grass just a dozen feet to their front.

  “Why does he want the heads?” asked Nestor.

  “As a warning,” replied Maden, the tall Sylvan Warrior wiping black Ogren blood from his sword onto the grass. “Catal Huyuk is a quiet man, letting his axe do most of the talking for him. But he still knows how to make a statement.”

  “A man after my own heart,” replied Nestor. “We need to have him visit the Highlands more often.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Unexpected Shade

  The young Marcher stood in the shadows of the early morning, concealing himself behind a tree, his senses attuned to the sounds and movements of the forest waking around him. He could tell that something was not right. He could feel it in his bones. Danger lurked in these woods, and it was stealthily approaching the Marcher camp. But what it was, the Marcher didn’t know for sure. Kylin Stonebreaker, better known as Oso, stepped silently from behind his tree and glided to another, not making a sound. A bear of a man, still he could pad through the Highland thickets and forests like a mountain lion with no one the wiser.

  Oso nodded to his right, catching Coban Serenan’s gaze. The veteran Marcher, burly and stout with grey hair and a mustache that hung below his chin, hid behind a tree as well. The craggy-faced warrior flicked his eyes to the gap between the two birch trees. They could both sense it. Darkness approached. Something evil. Slowly. Quietly. The two Marchers waited patiently, muscles tense, ready to spring, though not feeling the need to rush. Time seemed to drag on, every passing minute feeling like an hour, and still the stench of wrongness came closer.

  After several more minutes passed, and concluding that the evil was almost even with their position, Coban leapt out from behind the tree, swinging his sword in a deadly arc. The clash of steel on steel broke the quiet of the early morning. Coban immediately jumped back as his opponent twisted his grip, allowing the Highlander’s blade to slide off his own so that he could lun
ge forward with the speed of a snake’s strike. Coban barely escaped, the tip of his adversary’s sword sliding past his side with just a fingerbreadth to spare.

  The veteran Marcher slowly stepped back from his opponent, his gaze never leaving the black sword that tracked him, knowing that a single scratch from that blade would mean an excruciating death. The Shade followed after as if there was nothing to fear, its sinuous, graceful movement almost mesmerizing. Stories of the dark creature that crept toward him played through Coban’s mind. Supposedly a Shade had once been a man who, in accepting the gifts and dominion of the Shadow Lord, had been corrupted by Dark Magic in service to his master. The Shade’s white, faintly translucent skin gave it a ghoulish cast, its long, greasy, dark hair hung down his forehead, almost covering its milky white eyes. For a moment Coban thought it might be better to die from a touch of the Shade’s corrupted blade, preferring not to be a casualty of the dark creature’s more sinister habits. Shades no longer ate like a normal man. Instead, for sustenance they drank the spirits of their victims, leaving only desiccated corpses in their wake.

  The Shade lunged forward once more, Coban parrying the strike and returning the attack with a backhanded blow. The Shade recovered unnaturally fast, catching Coban’s blade with its own. But the Shade failed to stop the second blade that sliced through its neck. The dark creature stood there for a moment longer, not realizing it was dead until its head slid from its shoulders and its body crumpled to the ground.

  “Took you long enough,” muttered Coban, breathing heavily, though more from the tension of the situation than from the exertion expended.

  “I was just waiting for the right moment,” protested Oso.

  “If you had waited any longer, I’d be the one lying dead in the dirt.”

  A disturbance in the air behind them made both Coban and Oso turn quickly. A second Shade stood in back of them, sword raised above its head prepared to strike. But the creature never completed its swing. Rather it was held in place by the sword protruding through its chest. The two Marchers jumped back quickly as the Shade fell toward them, sliding off the blade and falling to the ground next to its partner.