by Wacht, Peter
Thomas Kestrel, not too tall but able to capture the attention of all around him with a presence that demanded respect, stepped out of the shadows. He swung the Sword of the Highlands down in a two-handed stroke, cutting off the Shade’s head in a single swing.
“Just wanted to make sure,” Thomas said, pushing his long, sandy brown hair from his face and revealing his brightly glowing green eyes. “Maybe next time you two could focus a bit more on what’s going on around you rather than arguing like two old men with nothing better to do.”
Thomas bent down, using the Shade’s cloak to wipe the blood from his blade. Then, upon sheathing his sword in the scabbard on his back, he walked deeper among the trees, ignoring the two Marchers who had kept their gaze down, somewhat embarrassed by their failure to identify the second Shade and not knowing what to say. But they were certainly thankful that Thomas had been there to eliminate this dark creature that could have taken their lives with ease.
The Lord of the Highlands, recognized as such by the Kingdoms just the day before, continued to walk through the forest until he came to a small glade. He was on edge this morning, but not because of the dark creatures so intent on killing him and his Marchers. He was used to it by now, an all too frequent occurrence and a hazard that could not be avoided. He grasped hold of the Talent, using the natural magic of the world to search around him one more time. Confirming that there had been only two Shades trying to sneak into the Marcher camp, he released the Talent and strode to the top of a small hill.
He closed his eyes, allowing the early morning sun to warm him after a cold night. He and his fighters had accomplished a great deal since leaving the Highlands. Appearing unexpectedly at the Council of the Kingdoms, they had thwarted the High King’s plans. Just the look on Rodric’s face when King Gregory of Fal Carrach had declared him the Lord of the Highlands had made the arduous journey across Dunmoor to Armagh worth it. But though he had been recognized as the Lord of the Highlands, thereby ending the ten-year regency administered by the High King, there was still more to do. So much more. As he did every day, he wondered if he had the strength and the wherewithal to do what needed to be done. Thomas opened his eyes once more, realizing that whether he did or not, it didn’t matter. His grandmother’s favorite saying played through his thoughts: “You must do what you must do.” And so, he would.
A screech to his left drew his attention. In the tallest tree at the edge of the clearing, Thomas stared into the sharp gaze of the kestrel. Why the large bird had left the Highlands, he didn’t know. But he could suspect. The raptor peered at him intently, its orange and white feathers sparkling as the sun’s rays illuminated the bird. The raptor perched on a thick branch majestically, its sharp talons digging deeply into the wood.
For several minutes, the two surveyed one another, Thomas almost losing himself in the sharp gaze of the bird that held a special place in the hearts of the Highlanders. He knew this kestrel. Their paths had crossed before, most recently when he visited the Roost, the tallest tower in the Crag. And before that when Rynlin and Rya had taught him how to use the Talent in order to shape change so that he could take on the trials to become a Sylvan Warrior. After he had assumed the form of a kestrel himself, this kestrel had stayed by his side as he had flown among the peaks of the Highlands for the first time. There were other times as well that he remembered encountering a kestrel similar to this one, and he had no doubt that he and this kestrel were connected in some way. Staring into the raptor’s sharp eyes gave him a feeling of calm, filling him with a fortitude and sense of purpose that had proven difficult to find this morning. Until now. It was almost as if this majestic bird, knowing of the challenges to come, sought to share its strength with him. As Thomas continued to stare at the kestrel his confidence began to grow. Then with a shriek that tore through the early morning, the kestrel launched itself from the branch into the sky. But rather than fly east toward the Highlands, Thomas watched the imposing raptor instead head west toward the fortress of Eamhain Mhacha.
Thomas tracked the raptor until it was no more than a speck in the sky, then turned when Oso walked out from between the trees.
“Thank you for what you did back there,” said Oso, coming to stand next to him. “You’re right. We should have assumed there was more than one Shade.”
“A lesson for all of us, Oso. Never assume. But if you do, assume the worst.”
Oso nodded, agreeing with his friend, and grateful for the gentleness of the rebuke.
“You seem a bit distracted. Is there anything I can do?”
Thomas smiled, glad for his friend’s support. “No, Oso. Though I appreciate the offer.”
“Worried about today, I take it.”
“A bit, yes. I’d rather take on the Dark Horde than deal with what’s to come this afternoon.”
“It’ll go well, Thomas. The other Kingdoms have acknowledged you as the Lord of the Highlands. They can’t take that away from you.”
“Yes, I know. Nevertheless, although I may have been acknowledged as Lord of the Highlands, I assume there are several rulers who have yet to accept that fact. Therefore, I expect that today’s visit to Eamhain Mhacha will be more dangerous than killing a couple of Shades.”
CHAPTER THREE
Decisions
Kaylie sat on the windowsill of her chamber, looking out over the shimmering Heartland Lake. Her sharp, smoky blue eyes tracked a heron as it glided over the gentle waves, searching for the best place to seek its morning meal in the shallow water by the shore. Pushing away the strands of her long, black hair that the gentle breeze spun before her face, she enjoyed the solitude and quiet with which her day had begun, knowing that would all change in just a few hours.
She did not particularly like staying in the Keep of Eamhain Mhacha, finding the ancient, stone citadel oppressive and disheartening. The palace of the High King rose above the city and overlooked the Heartland Lake, while the city itself had its own wall that continued along the road leading to the fortress, protecting anyone making the short journey between the two. The port jutted out into a small bay, with the city on one end and the cliff on the other. A sea wall ran the length of the bay, except for a small opening that allowed ships to pass through. An additional section of the sea wall could be swung into place to close the gap, effectively sealing the port and fortress from attack.
The citadel towered over the bay. The cliff rose five hundred feet from base to top. The walls of the fortress added several hundred feet more. In the shape of a perfect circle, three concentric walls protected the main portion of the castle. The first outer curtain stood a hundred feet tall, with the second and third of the same height behind it. If invaders actually made it past the first wall a grass-covered space between that and the second wall awaited them, and again between the second and third. The children living in the bastion often played there, unaware of the land’s true purpose. The soldiers of Armagh had dubbed the immaculately groomed lawns between the walls the Killing Fields. There was no beauty associated with the fortress, only a strict, deadly functionality.
No, she definitely did not like visiting the capital of Armagh. Nevertheless, she did enjoy the view. Kaylie’s thoughts drifted to yesterday’s fateful afternoon. Her eyes had barely left Thomas as he went through the process of being declared the Highland Lord. Physically he appeared much the same. Unassuming, yet with an obvious strength and determination, a purpose rare in someone so young. Even with the Marchers arrayed behind him, many frighteningly imposing, everyone’s gaze had remained fixed on the charismatic, intense Highland Lord.
She could only imagine what scars had been added to his body and his psyche since she had last seen him balanced on the edge of the Tinnakilly parapet. Kaylie still blamed herself for his capture and subsequent torture, despite Rya’s claims to the contrary. She remembered leaving Thomas after he won the archery contest at the Eastern Festival, walking back to her chamber with a smile on her face, pleased that she was to meet with him again the
next day.
But after that the only memory she had was kneeling in the mud in the Tinnakilly courtyard watching Dunmoorian soldiers, followed by Lord Chertney, taking a beaten Thomas to the dungeon. Ragin Tessaril had stood above her, crowing about his success and thanking her for her help in his capture. She didn’t know how they got there, or what had happened, yet she immediately felt responsible. Rya had explained that someone strong in Dark Magic, likely Lord Chertney, had manipulated her mind and her perceptions, compelling her to do as he wished. But the guilt had entrenched itself within her, becoming a part of her that she couldn’t seem to let go.
Relief had flooded through her upon seeing Thomas stand in front of the High King, making his claim for the Highland throne. Observing him, she saw the toughness in Thomas, how what he had gone through had helped prepare him for this moment. Yet she felt shame as well for what had occurred, and she still did not know how to make it up to him. In fact, she doubted that she ever could. Moreover, she feared that he wouldn’t want to speak to her, blaming her for what had occurred during the Eastern Festival.
Jealousy had also taken hold when she saw Corelia Tessaril, daughter of the High King, openly appraise Thomas, as if she were examining an item at auction, as something to acquire. She didn’t know if she were more afraid of what would happen to Thomas if Corelia got her claws into him, or if Thomas actually demonstrated an attraction to the Armaghian princess. Just thinking about it made her blood boil.
Her confrontation with Corelia yesterday afternoon during the ruckus following the declaration of the Highland Lord only increased the intensity of her anger. Corelia’s knowing smile and then her predatory expression appeared before her every time she closed her eyes. But worst of all, she remembered word for word what the Princess of Armagh had said when Kaylie had asked Corelia if Thomas would be interested in her: “I’m absolutely certain. I have much to offer him, Kaylie. Much indeed. More, in fact, than you.”
Those words had stung deeply and much to her annoyance had burrowed under her skin. She was stronger than that. But what was she to do? Stay to the side, afraid of how Thomas might view her? Or take a risk that might prove more painful than she could bear?
An ear-splitting screech ripped through the early morning silence, breaking her train of thought. Kaylie followed the sound to its source, watching in awe as a massive kestrel settled on the ledge of the tallest tower of the Eamhain Mhacha fortress. Its orange and grey feathers sparkled in the early morning sunlight, its razor-sharp claws digging into the stone as if the majestic raptor could never be dislodged. Kaylie was entranced. The bird’s proud gaze suggested that the raptor had made the palace of Eamhain Mhacha its own, much like Thomas had done the day before. Confident. Never backing down from a challenge. Direct. Kaylie decided that she would adopt the same approach. She didn’t know if she could take the pain of possible rejection, but she decided that it was worth the risk.
CHAPTER FOUR
Nagging Doubt
Rodric shoved the doors to his private chambers open with all his strength, the large oak slabs slamming into the stone walls and startling the guards standing on the other side.
“Out!” he screamed.
The High King and ruler of Armagh was not a tall man, nor was his frame very imposing. That's why ceremony and protocol were so important to him. He did not look like a king, and he knew it. Therefore, he made sure that everyone remembered exactly who he was at all times. The dark purple cape he wore over his blue breeches and snow-white shirt concealed his gaunt physique, but it could not hide the feverish, unsettling gleam in his eyes. With his coarse black hair and ruddy complexion, his features could only be described as plain, and some thought even that was too generous. No one would ever voice their opinions out loud, of course. If overheard, the consequences would be severe, probably deadly.
The guards rushed to obey, relieved to leave the High King as he stopped in the center of his suite clenching his fists in frustration. Malachias followed him into the large room, closing the doors quietly behind him. His long black robes revealed skeletonlike fingers spotted with age, and with his cowl pushed back his bald pate reflected the sun’s rays now finally breaking into the chamber, the brightness of the glare only surpassed by the glower of his hypnotic, black eyes.
Chertney had arrived at first light. He stood before them now, disheveled and weary. His black cloak and silk clothes were torn in a dozen places, the many darker stains suggesting the spilling of blood. Having escaped from the trap he had set for the now Lord of the Highlands, which had instead closed on him and the dark creatures under his command, Chertney had taken a roundabout way back to Eamhain Mhacha, not really in a rush to catch up to the boy who had beaten him so easily. Not only had the boy defeated him, humiliated him in fact, but learning of the Highland Lord’s strength in the Talent had cowed him. Chertney reluctantly acknowledged that even with his own exceptional strength in Dark Magic, he could never vanquish the boy in a fair fight. The boy was simply too strong. That fact gnawed at him, tunneling into his heart and leaving a sliver of fear that seemed to spread the more he thought about his weakness. Seeing the small smile that crept onto Malachias’ thin lips put him into an even fouler mood, forcing him to struggle that much more to maintain his already erratic self-control.
“I will leave you two to your own devices,” said Malachias in a raspy voice that sounded like steel sliding across stone. “I have my own tasks to accomplish.”
In a swirl of black mist, Malachias disappeared. Chertney cursed under his breath, realizing that because of the events of the last few days, because he had failed to stop the boy from making his way to Eamhain Mhacha, Malachias likely had gained the advantage over him in their competition to serve as the right hand of their master. For a split second, a shiver of fear ran through Chertney, an unfamiliar feeling for him. The power that Malachias had just demonstrated was beyond him. Did the Shadow Lord already know what had occurred along the Corazon River? Had his master already gifted Malachias this new ability in Dark Magic as a result? And, if so, what was the penalty his master would require him to pay for his negligence? Try as he might to forestall it, the cold uncertainty of doubt settled within him. His master was not known for his mercy. He was known for pain and death.
“How could you have let that boy live?” demanded Rodric, taking a moment to compose himself before turning his full ire on Chertney. The High King was so consumed by anger that he didn’t even realize that Malachias had gone. “He was supposed to die in the attack on the Crag. A boy. Just a boy. And you failed to kill him then as you did now. Every time you’ve faced him, you’ve failed …”
Before Rodric could finish his thought, he felt himself lifted off the ground, dangling in front of Chertney, who held him easily with one hand by the throat. Their noses almost touched as Chertney’s black eyes bore into Rodric’s.
“The boy was not my responsibility,” hissed Chertney, his rage, at the boy, at Rodric, at himself, finally getting the better of him. “I took the Crag as commanded. Killeran was to kill the boy. He didn’t. Make sure you affix the blame in the right place.”
“Of course, Lord Chertney,” squeaked Rodric obsequiously, both terrified by the power that burned behind Chertney’s eyes and jealous of it as well, desperate to make it his own. “You’re right. My temper simply ran away from me. My apologies. My deepest apologies.”
Chertney dropped Rodric, stepping back as the High King fell into his carpet. He rubbed at his throat where Chertney’s tight grasp had constricted his breathing.
“But that boy, Lord Chertney. Everything we have planned, everything our master has planned, hinges on that boy.”
“Don’t worry, Rodric, leave the boy to me. I’m sure our master will provide whatever help we need.”
However, not for the first time Chertney began to experience a nagging uncertainty, the seeds of doubt having been planted. He had received assistance from his master before, in fact he had commanded several hundred Ogr
en and Shades just a few days past. But the boy and his allies had destroyed his dark creatures to the very last beast. Once again, he had failed to stop the new Highland Lord. He had failed to carry out his master’s wishes. Boy he might be, nevertheless he was also a formidable opponent. As a result, Chertney’s nagging doubt was becoming a gnawing dread. If Chertney could not defeat the boy, what was he to do? More important, if his failures continued, how much longer would his notoriously impatient master allow him to live?
CHAPTER FIVE
Dangerous Option
Lord Chertney drifted down the barely seen steps, ignoring the skittering of the rats that scurried in front of him in the blackness. He hadn’t bothered to get cleaned up or find new clothes after the harrowing events of the past week. His mind was on what was to come, and his thoughts of how it could all play out terrified him. Muttering to himself, his fears bubbling to the surface, he continued reluctantly but inevitably down the musty staircase. He felt at home in the inky dark, brightened only by the torches intermittently dispersed along the path that led into the depths of the keep. After several minutes he finally reached his destination, a lone storage room at the very bottom of Eamhain Mhacha’s fortress, trickles of water from the Heartland Lake, which lay just on the other side of the rough stone, seeping through tiny cracks in the wall and forming a large puddle in the center of the floor.
Summoning his Dark Magic, Chertney wove his hands in a circular motion. In moments, a swirling black disk as large as he was taking shape in front of him. He spun the black disk faster and faster until the billowing coal-black mist achieved a remarkable clarity, revealing an enormous, dimly lit circular chamber mostly hidden from view by an ever-present gloom.