by Wacht, Peter
“You know where you’re going?” asked Rynlin, who gazed around the library, trying to plan an appropriate line of attack for the books and scrolls in front of him, some neatly shelved and organized, others resting haphazardly in piles on the floor or the long wooden tables that ran the diameter of the circular room.
Rodric and the bulk of his guard had left the capital of Armagh for their invasion of the Highlands, so neither Rya nor Rynlin worried about being disturbed. Their quick search with the Talent confirmed that no one was about in the tower. But Rynlin and Rya still wanted to be careful. Therefore, they had given themselves until one hour before dawn to complete their respective tasks.
“Yes,” replied Rya, as she opened the door to the library quietly, thankful that the rusty hinges didn’t squeak so loudly that the sound would draw someone’s attention, and slipped into the hallway, the darkness complete as the torches lining the walls remained dark and cold in their sconces.
As Rynlin closed the door behind his wife, he conjured a small ball of white light that hovered just above his head, illuminating his way for a few feet in all directions. Satisfied that no one looking up at the tower from below would see the glow of his magical torch, he walked between two shelves stacked to the ceiling with books to begin his search.
CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN
Bounty Found
Rya slipped back into the library with the sun just about to touch the horizon and later than Rynlin had expected. But the extra time she had given him had proven fruitful.
“Any luck?” asked Rya as she closed the door behind her.
“Yes, I think I have what we need, or at least a good path to follow.”
“It’ll have to do for now. We need to leave. I sensed dark creatures in the caves below the keep, possibly a dragas or two.”
“Then it’s time for us to go. Did you find what you were looking for?”
Rynlin and Rya knew that Rodric was meticulous. Though he adhered to a treaty only so long as it benefited him, never fearful of the consequences of breaking it, they had hoped that his obsessiveness with capturing everything in writing would work to their advantage. Therefore, Rya’s decision to search Rodric’s private office behind his throne room to see if she could locate anything that might prove useful in the future.
She had worked for hours to find all his hidden caches and secret safes, and then opened each one carefully without being detected or setting off any nasty surprises, as all were protected by a Dark Magic placed there by one of Rodric’s allies. She had found more than she had hoped for. The documents laid out in stark detail several of the secret alliances and agreements that Rodric had put in place with his future goals in mind.
“I found more than I expected. Rodric has been busy. And some of our guesses are now fact.”
“We’ll deal with it later,” said Rynlin. “Time to go.”
Taking hold of the Talent, the two Sylvan Warriors changed back into hawks and launched themselves from the windowsill. They began winging their way to the east and toward the rising sun, hoping that their work during the night would prove useful to their grandson and the Highlands.
CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT
The Game Begins
Arriving at the clearing he had selected, one that was more of a ledge that reached out from the peak and gave him an excellent view of the southern Highlands and the Inland Sea that abutted the peaks, Thomas patted Acero on the neck in thanks as he dropped down from the unicorn’s back. The black unicorn compared in size to an overlarge draft horse, though he was built for both speed and stamina, his twisting black horn that extended almost eight feet in length adding to his formidable appearance.
Acero had arrived on his own several weeks before, finding Thomas near the Crag. Overjoyed to see his friend, Thomas had touched the unicorn’s horn, images flowing through Thomas’ mind and showing the massive steed what had happened since he had become the Lord of the Highlands.
Shortly thereafter, Beluil appeared, tackling Thomas in his preferred way of greeting. After rolling around in the dirt for a time, much to the amusement and shock of the watching Marchers, Thomas gave Beluil a hug, pleased to have his childhood friend with him again. After Thomas returned with Beluil to the Highlands from the Isle of Mist several weeks before, the huge wolf had continued his efforts at keeping the mountains clear of dark creatures, using the brief respite from Ogren raiding parties to bring together all his packs and sweep through the Highlands from north to south in search of any dark creatures that may have escaped their attention.
Taking one glance at the massive wolf, whose shoulder came up to his own, Oso suggested, “With a friend like that, there’s no need to worry about Rodric’s army at all. He can probably go through it all on his own.”
The howls of Beluil’s pack, actually several dozen packs all brought together as one, only strengthened Oso’s opinion. Thomas thanked his friend for the efforts of the wolves. He asked that Beluil and his packs scour the mountains once more as they returned to where the Highlands met the Northern Steppes in order to continue to assist Rynlin and the Sylvan Warriors in their efforts to protect against encroachment from the dark creatures that had once again begun making their way out of the Charnel Mountains. Though the flow of the Shadow Lord’s servants had slowed to a trickle for a time, the number of Ogren and Shades seeking to cross the Northern Steppes had started to increase once more. Thomas assumed that the escalation in activity in the north was designed to distract from what was about to occur in the southern Highlands. Beluil happily obliged Thomas, he and his packs moving quickly through the Highlands to connect once again with the Sylvan Warriors.
Walking to the edge of the clearing, a thousand-foot drop just a step away, Thomas used the Talent as Rynlin had shown him when he was first training as a warrior. In just seconds, two hazy forms took shape at his sides, then solidified as Thomas pulled in more of the natural magic of the world and applied it to his task. Antonin, First Spear of the Carthanians, and Fergus Steelheart, Captain of the Golden Blades, now stood next to him.
To teach Thomas how to defend himself, Rynlin had recalled the great heroes of the past from the spirit world so that he could learn from the very best no matter the fighting discipline. After mastering how to use the Talent for this purpose, Thomas had continued his training on his own, calling forth the warriors of legend to improve his skills whenever time allowed. But he also took advantage of the knowledge these legendary fighters could share with him regarding strategy and tactics, having already employed their advice in various skirmishes and battles.
“That’s quite a host,” said Fergus, looking down at the steadily increasing Armaghian army, a dozen or so troop transports rocking in the waves and waiting to dock, others having disembarked their soldiers to a makeshift camp on the northern shore of the Inland Sea and preparing for the journey back to Dunmoor in order to pick up the next wave of soldiers.
A tall man, Fergus had led the Golden Blades, a famed troop of mercenaries who never failed to complete a task given to them by whichever employer they were working for at the time. Fergus had only one rule. He would never work for someone who had sworn allegiance to the Shadow Lord. His long, golden moustache covered much of his face from his lip down, curling up at the ends to give the bushy hair the appearance of an ox’s horn.
“Agreed,” said Antonin, standing next to Thomas in a loincloth and holding a spear that reached above the tall warrior’s head.
The First Spear of the Carthanians towered over both Thomas and Fergus. He had never lost a duel, defeating more than a thousand men in single combats that could end only one way. After such long service to his king, and fearing that his heart had turned to stone because of the number of challengers he had dispatched, Antonin had left his ancient kingdom in an attempt to regain his humanity. Thomas had never had the courage to ask whether Antonin had succeeded in achieving his goal.
“What’s your strategy?” asked Fergus, watching the soldiers scurrying around the
beach.
“They’re too many to fight at once,” answered Thomas. “Even if I gathered all the Marchers in the Highlands, they would outnumber us ten to one. I don’t mind those odds, but I don’t trust Rodric and his ally, and I can’t take that risk.”
“Agreed,” said Antonin.
“Try not to talk so much,” said Fergus with a grin, enjoying the opportunity to irritate his spirit companion. Antonin looked down on Fergus as if he were no more than a bug to be stepped on, but the mercenary captain ignored him. “Then what do you do, Thomas?”
“Rodric feels safe with that many soldiers, but it’s also a weakness. He won’t be able to bring his full force through any one pass into the Highlands without creating a bottleneck that would make his host easy pickings, assuming, of course, that his goal is to reach the Crag. He’ll need to divide his army.”
“Agreed,” said Antonin.
Thomas bit his lip, holding back a smile as Fergus fought the urge to offer another smart remark, knowing Antonin’s legendary short temper, and not wanting to bear the brunt of it even if they were only spirits.
“That’s when we’ll attack,” said Thomas. “I’ll form the Marchers into autonomous raiding parties. I’ll have them strike each of Rodric’s columns separately. Rodric and the distinct columns of his army can go where they want. We’ll follow, track, and winnow the Armaghians down, kill as many as we can through quick attacks, then melt back into the wilderness. We’ll see if we can lead the High King where we want him to go.”
“I like it,” said Fergus, nodding his head in approval. “After the first few attacks, the soldiers’ fears will begin to multiply. They’ll jump at their own shadows. That fear will play on their minds, wear them down faster as a fighting force.”
“Agreed,” said Antonin.
Fergus shook his head in exasperation, Thomas barely able to hold back a laugh.
CHAPTER FORTY NINE
Plans Revealed
“You didn’t have to make such a dramatic entrance,” said Gregory, his daughter Kaylie sitting beside him on one of the couches in his private office.
Rynlin and Rya sat across from them on another couch, their haggard appearance testifying to the challenges of their journey.
After reviewing the documents Rya had stolen from Rodric, they knew what they had to do with the opportunity presented to them. Making use of the Talent and their shapeshifting abilities, Rynlin and Rya visited the Desert Clans, Benewyn and Kenmare, all traditional allies of the Highlands. They left their final stop for Fal Carrach.
“My apologies, Gregory. My husband has always preferred a little drama whenever possible.”
“Think of it as a training exercise, Gregory,” said Rynlin. “The guards we startled upon appearing on your battlements will be all the more vigilant now.”
“Of that I have no doubt,” agreed Gregory. “And if I may, Lady Keldragan, thank you for taking the time to teach Kaylie how to make use of her newfound skill. I never knew she had such an ability, but it certainly has proven useful.”
“It’s a pleasure,” said Rya. “She’s not as headstrong as our grandson, so teaching Kaylie is a much simpler task. Besides, she’s a quick learner, which makes working with her all the more enjoyable.”
“That I’ve discovered,” said Gregory. “She’s been taking great pleasure in offering me little surprises whenever she can, just to gauge my reaction.”
“Well, I just wanted to …” Kaylie began, but she stopped her attempted explanation when she saw Rya’s hard glare.
“I’m sure Kaylie will find better uses for her Talent, am I right, girl?”
“Yes, Rya. I certainly will.” Kaylie looked as if she had been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.
Gregory struggled not to laugh, never having seen his daughter so thoroughly disciplined with nary a harsh word and no more than an intense frown. He’d have to talk with Rya about how he might be able to do that himself, but first he needed to attend to business. He held out the documents he had just read, all bearing the well-known signature of the High King.
“You’ve shown these to Rendael and Sarelle?” The King of Fal Carrach’s expression had transformed into a dark cloud.
“We have, Gregory. And to Chuma and the other Desert Clan chiefs.”
Gregory was not surprised to see Rodric’s signed order for the assassination of Talyn Kestrel, an act that sent a scorching anger through him. But what did surprise him was with whom he had made the agreement. To say nothing of all the other agreements he had concocted with Loris of Dunmoor, Norin Dinnegan and several others. Taken together, the documents essentially set out his plans for taking control of the Kingdoms.
“I had assumed that the past was becoming the present,” said Gregory. “Your grandson, when he helped us against the Fearhounds, suggested as much. And I’ve seen it with my own eyes, as my men have come up against Ogren and other dark creatures in recent months during their patrols.”
“It’s just the beginning, Gregory,” said Rya, with some sadness in her voice. “As you can see, the Shadow Lord has a willing ally. If he gets a foothold beyond the Breaker, all will be lost.”
“The other Kingdoms?” asked Kaylie. “How have they responded?”
His daughter’s question pleased Gregory. She would rule well when the time came.
“They understand the threat they face,” said Rynlin. “The Desert Clans will create problems on Dunmoor’s northern border, forcing Loris to keep a guard and hopefully prevent his moving his army in support of Rodric’s.”
“Sarelle will have the bulk of her forces moving up through the Gullet within the week,” said Rya. “Rendael’s are already on the move.”
Gregory nodded his approval. “That’s good to hear. Your grandson saved my daughter’s life, my life, the lives of my men. Fal Carrach remains an ally of the Highlands. We will stand with the Highland Lord.”
CHAPTER FIFTY
No Excuses
High King Rodric Tessaril arrived at General Chengiz’s base of operations in the southern Highlands in a venomous mood, which only became more toxic when he saw the Armaghian soldiers drawn up before him, their armor shining brightly in the midday sun and putting to shame the soldiers in Rodric’s escort. The High King’s personal guard, their armor dented and scratched and showing the signs of rust and hard use, cloaks torn or missing altogether, several wearing blood-stained bandages, and with half as many men as started out from the northern shore of the Inland Sea, only served to stoke the Armaghian King’s anger.
Before Chengiz, a reserved man with the habits and formalities of his long service to Armagh deeply ingrained, could direct Rodric to his tent, the anger boiling just beneath the surface of the High King’s volatile temper burst forth.
“They fight like cowards!” shouted Rodric. “As soon as we entered the Highlands, arrows rained down on us. Then one surprise attack after another. We’d wake up in the morning and find a squad murdered during the night. Yet not once would those Highland cowards stand against us. Not once would they fight a fair combat! Cowardly dogs!”
Chengiz listened to the tirade with no expression betraying his true feelings. He could have replied that from a military perspective, knowing that his forces overmatched the Highlanders in terms of numbers but not in fighting ability, he would have adopted the same strategy as that of his opponent. But wisely he chose not to speak, knowing the potential result. Instead he stood there calmly, allowing the High King to tire himself out, much as he did when his children threw tantrums as toddlers.
“I’ve lost half my men, and we barely made it here at all!” Rodric screamed as he stormed into Chengiz’s command tent. The High King began pacing, a nervous energy infusing him, his mind spinning furiously. “But something is not right. Those cowards are trying to play with us. It’s almost as if the Marchers let us through, like they want us to be here. Why haven’t you defeated them yet, Chengiz? They are so few compared to our much larger host.”
; “That is part of the problem, my king,” said Chengiz, having absorbed the verbal onslaught and hoping that Rodric’s thoughts and emotions had settled so that he could explain his own strategy. “Compared to our forces, the Marchers are fewer in number. They can’t take us on directly and hope to win, so they’re trying to pick when and where they fight. If they can slice off a piece here, a piece there, without getting drawn into a pitched battle, it’s to their advantage. Because of the rugged terrain and limited options for traveling through the countryside, we have few other good choices, and it plays to the Marchers’ strengths. We simply need to absorb the losses as we can and continue with our agreed-upon strategy.”
“It’s a waste of time,” grumbled Rodric. “We need to drive toward the Crag and take that damn fortress. Then we can finish the Marchers once and for all.”
Chengiz chose not to correct his king. He understood Rodric’s fixation with the symbol of Highland power, but in his opinion the Crag, still being rebuilt, was of little consequence as a military target. Conquering the Highlands had little to do with capturing a citadel or broad swathes of the Kingdom’s territory, as had been made plain during Killeran’s regency and the occupation by the Army of the Black Sword. Rather, it had everything to do with defeating the Marchers themselves. For the Marchers were the Highlands. If the Marchers were no longer a viable fighting force, the Kingdom would fall. Yet as Chengiz thought on it, the whisper in the back of his mind suggested that try as he might, he would not defeat the Marchers with the army he led, or the king he served.
“I don’t care how many men are killed!” shouted the High King. “We can replace them. We will take the Crag, no matter the cost.”
“Marching a large army through the Highlands, in this particular terrain surrounded by gullies, peaks and trenches, does nothing more than put a huge target on our back,” argued Chengiz, locking away his mounting frustration. He then tried to explain in a reasonable tone the challenges faced by the Armaghian host. “With such a sizeable force our movement is limited. And if we break the army into smaller pieces, as we did to get the men and supplies here because of the few passable trails, the Marchers can decide who to attack first, destroy them, then move on to the next target. That’s the dilemma we face now. Time and the terrain work against us and favor the Marchers.”