by Wacht, Peter
“The Highlands have a lord once more. You have failed me again, Lord Chertney.”
The quiet whisper traveled through the swirling darkness, only two blood-red pinpricks visible in the darkness. The emotionless voice sent a spike of terror up Chertney’s spine.
“No, master,” started Cherney, before quickly correcting himself. “I mean yes, master. But there was a complication.”
Chertney stumbled through a quick retelling of his efforts to stop the boy, crafting the story to place as much blame on Malachias as possible and suggesting that the dark creatures had failed rather than him, ending at the acknowledgement of the new Highland Lord by the rulers of the Kingdoms. Done, he tried to keep his body from shivering uncontrollably as he gazed into those two fiery depths. The silence that followed taxed his nerves, a cold sweat drenching his back.
“You disappoint me, Chertney. I am tired of your excuses, of your talk of complications.”
The soft words felt like a dagger being thrust into his heart.
“I’m sorry, master,” Chertney stammered. “Next time I’ll …”
A bolt of fire burst in the base of Chertney’s lower back, then quickly traveled up his spine and then out into his limbs. He collapsed to the hard stone, rolling in the cold water as he sought desperately to escape the burning torment that consumed him.
“Remember, Chertney, that’s just a taste of what’s to come. The price you will pay for continued failure. For I will not kill you. No, that would be too kind, Chertney. Instead, I will bring you close to death and leave you there, allowing the pain you just experienced to stay with you for a millennium, a never-ending reminder of the cost of your incompetence.”
The pain continued to increase. Chertney felt as if every particle of his body was turning to ash. Then, just as quickly as it had started, the fiery agony disappeared. Chertney slowly uncurled himself, lying on his back in the cold water, his limbs floundering as his nerves still sparked uncontrollably in remembrance of that all-consuming fire.
“Be happy you’ll have a next time, Chertney. Next time will be your last time. But we will worry about that later. For now, we must adjust our plans and take advantage of this opportunity. You have failed to remove our problem. But perhaps another skilled in the arts of silent killing can take care of our problem once and for all.”
“But the Nightstalker will have no effect, my lord,” gasped Chertney, struggling to get the words out as his nerves continued to fire wildly. “Every creature we’ve sent after the boy has fallen short.”
“This is not a Nightstalker, Chertney. This is something else. Something worse. Something the boy will not see coming, and he will not be able to defend against it.”
Turning his head in the pool of water, Chertney saw the silhouette of the creature, a shadow in the swirling portal that slowly coalesced into its form. Chertney pushed himself out of the puddle and stumbled back, terrified, as the assassin stood in the swirling disk of black. It was a terror from the past, a terror even the dark feared to hide, a creature so savage and menacing that the world of men had hunted them to extinction, or at least they thought they had.
“The boy has been lucky against the Nightstalkers. Let’s see what this Lord of the Highlands can do when he faces a Wraith.”
CHAPTER SIX
Darker Presence
“What’s the matter, Thomas?”
Oso had approached his friend quietly before, oftentimes trying to sneak up on him in order to test his own abilities. But despite his best efforts, Thomas had always known the large Highlander was there before he could spring his surprise. This time, however, Thomas hadn’t bothered to acknowledge him, standing there in the small glade without making a move, staring at the walls of Eamhain Mhacha, which rose into the sky a league distant, as if he hoped to see through the stone.
“Dark Magic,” replied Thomas, finally coming back to himself. “In the keep. Very strong Dark Magic. I’ve never felt its like before.”
Thomas and the Highlanders had made their camp beyond the battlements of Eamhain Mhacha, preparing for that evening’s feast. Although by law they should be safe within the walls of the Armaghian citadel, accidents had been known to happen before the conclusion of the Council, and none of the Marchers trusted the High King or his servants. So better to find a place they could defend more easily. They had located a fringe of forest that extended several leagues, giving them the cover they desired and several avenues for escape. Moreover, Thomas felt more at home among the trees, preferring the liveliness of the world around him compared to the mutedness of living within a manmade stone structure.
Oso’s eyes widened, his heart beating a little faster at Thomas’ words, remembering when he had first met Thomas. Killeran and his warlocks had captured him and many of the Highlanders from his village. Thomas had rescued all of them from their fate, captivity and an opportunity to die in the mines. All of them except Oso, who had fallen victim to the Dark Magic of the warlocks. But instead of leaving Oso to his inevitable doom, Thomas had stayed and fought, losing his freedom for a time in Killeran’s Black Hole but gaining a lifelong friend in the process. That experience had fixed a deep-seated fear of Dark Magic within Oso. The thought of not being able to defend himself against such an evil petrified him. To hear from Thomas that something more powerful could be felt emanating from Eamhain Mhacha, where they would be going later that afternoon, set his nerves on edge. Bad enough they were walking into a lion’s den. Knowing that a dragas might live there as well didn’t help.
Thomas continued to stare at Eamhain Mhacha. He had used the Talent to probe the Dark Magic, but did so delicately, just pushing at the edges, not wanting to be found out. He recalled the time he spent in Tinnakilly’s dungeon, Chertney trying to break through Thomas’ mental defenses with his Dark Magic. He guessed it was Chertney now as well, as some of the Dark Magic felt similar, but he had detected a darker, more powerful presence with him. One that was there, but not really there. One that he was not yet ready to face.
Thomas turned away from Eamhain Mhacha, facing to the northwest. Though he couldn’t see it, he could feel it pulling at him. Tugging gently but insistently. Blackstone, and before that known as Shadow’s Reach. Some day in the future he would find himself there, if he survived, facing an enemy he knew he could not defeat, having no choice but to engage in the fight he was destined to lose. Not yet though. Not yet.
“I’m assuming that even with this new discovery we’re still going.” Oso failed to keep his lack of desire to return to the Armaghian capital from his voice. They had done what was necessary the day before. He saw no practical need for attending today’s event, something he had already discussed with Thomas.
“We have no choice,” his friend replied. “We must show the High King and the other monarchs that the Highlanders are strong and unafraid. We must show them that we are no longer a Kingdom to be trifled with.”
Oso grunted his disapproval, but he knew that continuing his previous argument would do no good.
Still focused on the presence he had sensed in the citadel, Thomas tried to push his dark thoughts from his mind, but he failed to turn his attention away from this more immediate concern. Before he could return to the Highlands, he was required to attend the feast as the Lord of the Highlands, so he really had no choice in the matter. But he would be ready when he entered Eamhain Mhacha, come what may, come whatever the darkness offered him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Stories
Since the time of the first High King Ollav Fola, each Council of the Kingdoms ended with a feast, giving all the attending monarchs a final opportunity to confirm whatever agreements they had reached and maintain the amity expected of dignified kings and queens. Unfortunately, though the High King hosted the banquet with such noble purposes in mind, it often dissolved into a last chance for the rulers of the various Kingdoms to slight their enemies a final time without the threat of a knife in the back before returning to the safety of their own lan
ds and people.
As was the tradition, the leaders of the Kingdoms sat at a massive head table, Rodric in the middle as the host. Much to Gregory’s pleasure Sarelle sat next to him, but much to his chagrin she was next to the High King as well, who spent quite a bit of time trying to tempt the beautiful Queen of Benewyn. Gregory took some small bit of comfort in the exasperating looks Sarelle gave him from time to time as she easily fended off Rodric’s clumsy advances. All Gregory could do was have the servant pouring the wine continue to fill Rodric’s cup, the High King more than happy to drown himself in drink. The King of Fal Carrach hoped that eventually the boorish High King would simply pass out.
Gregory glanced beyond his daughter who sat on his other side, thinking that the Highland Lord was the lucky one, having been placed at the very end of the table. In his opinion, Thomas Kestrel had the best seat of all, away from the distractions of Rodric and the other rulers intent on gaining as much attention for themselves as possible. The young man seemed to be enjoying a quiet though lively conversation with Rendael of Kenmare, who likely regaled him with tales from the past. Some said that Rendael could weave a tale better than any storyteller in the land, yet it appeared that Thomas was holding his own in that regard with the kindly king.
Kaylie Carlomin repeatedly peeked around her father to the far end of the table, trying to catch Thomas’ eye, just to get a sense of where she stood with him. But despite her frequent attempts, he was either fully engaged with Rendael or doing a very good job of ignoring her.
Despite the conclusion she had reached that morning while taking strength from the kestrel that had visited Eamhain Mhacha at first light, she still wavered, not sure whether she should demonstrate some backbone and simply apologize or take the way of the coward and avoid Thomas at all costs. The latter option didn’t appeal to her as she glanced quickly to her left, eyeing Corelia, sitting on her father’s left, who stared boldly down the table toward Thomas. There was no way to misinterpret her intentions. Clearly, the Princess of Armagh wouldn’t hesitate to take Thomas aside. In fact, she’d likely take great pleasure in doing so.
Knowing her father had been good friends with Talyn Kestrel, she turned to him as she sought to delay her decision just a little bit longer.
“What do you know of Thomas, father?”
His daughter’s question didn’t surprise Gregory, knowing that she remained inordinately curious about him. He chose not to think about what that could mean for his daughter, and for him.
“I don’t know much. Only what I can recall before Talyn and his family were murdered.” Gesturing to the new Highland Lord, “Young Thomas over there escaped from the attack on the Crag somehow, which knowing Talyn doesn’t surprise me. He always had a trick or two up his sleeve and a knack for getting out of tight situations.”
Gregory took a sip of his wine, grimacing as Rodric moved his chair even closer to the Queen of Benewyn. He’d gladly stick a blade in the High King, but the rules of the Council still governed. Sarelle winked, pleased by Gregory’s obvious frustration. Gregory continued his story, knowing that Sarelle could hold her own with the visibly inebriated Rodric.
“Thomas’ father was Benlorin Kestrel, an excellent warrior and strategist, a handsome young man who was very much like Thomas, not just in terms of his looks, but also his single-mindedness, his stubbornness. I should have recognized it when the Fearhounds attacked us at the edge of the Burren.”
“You were focused on other things at the time, father,” Kaylie said, trying to offer some consolation.
“True,” he replied. “But it still bothers me. If I had put this puzzle together earlier, perhaps we could have prevented what happened in Tinnakilly. Ahh, too late now. The focus needs to be on the future.”
Sighing in frustration, Gregory returned to his story.
“Benlorin fell in love with a girl named Marya. He met her in the Highlands though she wasn’t of the Highlands. She wasn’t of royal blood either, at least that I know of, but nevertheless he loved her and made her his wife.”
Gregory signaled to a servant, motioning for the attendant to refill Rodric’s cup. Sarelle mouthed her thanks as she moved her chair closer to Gregory, seeking to escape Rodric’s hands, which had an uncomfortable habit of finding hers even though she thought that she’d been clear that she expected the High King to demonstrate the appropriate decorum.
“At first Talyn wasn’t thrilled with the match.”
“He didn’t like Marya?”
“No, he did like her, and he grew to love her like the daughter he never had.”
“Then what was the issue?”
“He didn’t tell me much, but from what I gathered he was worried about Marya, thinking that his son wasn’t the best fit for her. Benlorin was extraordinarily intense, driven, seemingly striving to achieve some unachievable standard he had set for himself. Whether this was simply a result of who he was, or the challenge of having to compete with his father’s success, or a combination of both, I don’t know.”
“What happened?” asked Kaylie, clearly enthralled by the story.
“Nothing. Talyn spoke with Marya, just to let her know of his concerns about his son. She told him not to worry. That she could calm him and help him see life from a different perspective.”
“Talyn accepted that?”
“He did. He loved that girl. He would have done anything for her.”
Kaylie looked at her father. She knew him too well. “What are you not telling me?”
Gregory hesitated, but then realized that with all the time that had passed, there was no cause to hold anything back.
“I also heard stories that Marya was different.”
“How so?”
“Strange things happened around her. Some said she could talk to animals, even control the wind. Things like that. Some even claimed that she was a witch, but Benlorin ignored the whispers and Talyn accepted her into his family without hesitation. From what I remember, the new couple was happy and content. Unfortunately, Marya died giving birth to Thomas. Benlorin was very gentle to his wife and an excellent husband, but he loved her so much that he couldn’t deal with her death, and that’s when Talyn’s fears became reality.”
“What do you mean?”
“Benlorin blamed Thomas, his son, for Marya’s death and wouldn’t have anything to do with him. Benlorin was a very strong man, a great warrior, but as a father he was extraordinarily weak. It fell to Talyn to raise Thomas.”
“How very sad!” exclaimed Kaylie.
“Aye, but Talyn loved the boy, would do anything for him. When some in the castle claimed that the boy could do the same strange things his mother could, Talyn put a stop to such rumors quickly. Thomas likely had a very lonely childhood while he lived in the Crag, but he did have a loving and protecting grandfather.”
Gregory grimaced again as he watched the High King continue to bother Sarelle, his eyes turning a darker shade as his anger began to grow. Kaylie smiled as her father’s discomfort and concern became more apparent.
“Sarelle seems to be in the need of assistance,” she said, giving her father a nudge. “Perhaps a walk?”
Gregory nodded at the suggestion, turning his attention to the Queen of Benewyn and the struggle she endured with the High King.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A Challenge
The feast dragged on for hours, many of the attending lords and ladies already well in their cups, others stuffed to the breaking point by the platters of exotic dishes that emerged from the kitchen in what seemed like a continual stream.
Through it all, Coban, Oso and the other Marchers sat at their own table at the back of the hall, turning away the delicacies. Although the Council was supposed to be a time of peace, Coban and his Marchers remained vigilant, their eyes tracking anyone who approached, their expressions less than welcoming. They’d eaten their fill, barely touched the wine, and spent the remainder of their time watching Thomas and those circling around him for any threat.
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Their young lord handled himself well in the company of the Kingdoms’ various monarchs, yet Coban felt a prickle of concern along the back of his neck. He had caught Rodric’s daughter, Corelia, measuring Thomas quite a bit since the feast had begun. Knowing her reputation and knack for creating and taking advantage of intrigue, he worried that much like an octopus, if she got her tentacles around Thomas, he would be lost. Yes, Thomas had proven himself in battle many times over, but he had never faced an opponent quite like the Princess of Armagh.
Oso, on the other hand, focused his attention on Kaylie Carlomin, who also spent a great deal of time glancing toward Thomas and trying to catch his eye. He knew the cause, and the large Highlander certainly sympathized with the Princess of Fal Carrach, much preferring her demonstrating an interest in Thomas rather than Corelia, but he didn’t know what Kaylie could do to rectify what had happened. Sometimes you simply couldn’t escape or move beyond the past.
The raucous celebration quieted when Rodric stood at his place at the head table.
“My friends,” declared the High King, his words heavily slurred by drink. “I welcome you to the final night of the Council of the Kingdoms, the traditional feast and ball.”
A smattering of polite applause broke out, though many attendees remained focused on their food and wine. Rodric peered around the assembly, nodding to his allies or those he wished to bring to his side, ignoring those who opposed him or had failed to accede to his demands. Then his gaze settled on the new Highland Lord, dressed in what the High King assumed was considered finery in the Highlands, just a cleaner pair of brown breeks, brown boots, and a dark blue shirt, compared to the elaborate, colorful robes, extravagant dresses and jewels, and immaculate uniforms that saturated the gathering.
Rodric smiled to himself as he turned his gaze toward the Marchers sitting in the back of the room, dressed very similarly to Thomas, so much so that to his eye these Highlanders came across as no more than country bumpkins, better left to their wilds rather than being set free in cultured society. Perhaps he could play this to his advantage. Yes. Yes, indeed. An excellent opportunity that he could not ignore to embarrass Thomas Kestrel and these Marchers, thereby allowing the other assembled rulers to reach the conclusion on their own that the Highlanders had no place in the world he sought to create. The world he sought to rule. These uncultured, unsophisticated ruffians simply didn’t belong here and, much like a pest, should be exterminated.