The Claiming of the Highlands

by Wacht, Peter

  “I will have no excuses, General Chengiz.” Rodric stared at him with a gaze that hinted at an encroaching madness. “Do whatever you need to do. Just get the men ready to march by morning. We head for the Crag at first light.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY ONE

  Loose the Marchers

  The sun began to rise behind Thomas, Oso and Coban as they watched from a hidden spot on a finger of rock that jutted out from a craggy summit and overlooked the Armaghian army’s base of operations. They studied the soldiers as they formed into their ranks, the advance guard already beginning to march out on the only trail that wound its way around the snow-capped mountains toward the Crag. It was a tight path and treacherous as it snaked along the fringe of several towering peaks, thousand-foot or more drops a constant danger for any not wary of the verge. No more than four or five men abreast could travel along the trail safely, to say nothing of the problems it would create for the Armaghians’ wagons and supplies.

  “Will you look at that,” said Oso with a soft chuckle. “I’ve never seen a peacock ride a horse before.”

  Rodric had emerged from his tent and was now using a step stool to climb onto his horse. His immaculately scrubbed armor shined brightly in the sunlight, and his plumed helmet seemed to rise forever into the sky.

  “He makes quite a target,” mused Coban. “If only we were a bit closer.”

  “We’ll have our chance,” said Thomas. “Are the Marchers ready?”

  “Yes, Thomas. Squads of ten as you ordered. They know what to do.”

  “Good. Oso, you’re in command. If Rodric thought his journey to this point in the Highlands was punishing, it’s time to demonstrate just how much more difficult his trek to the Crag will be.”

  “With pleasure.”

  Thomas turned away from the scene, scrabbling back from the lip of the rock until he was out of sight before standing up. Oso and Coban mimicked his actions.

  “Let loose the Marchers. Let them show the High King the error of his ways.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY TWO

  Cat and Mouse

  General Chengiz, First Lord of Armagh, stood silently in his tent, trying to show no emotion as he received the report from the young soldier who struggled against pain and fatigue to remain on his feet before him. Tall and ramrod straight with a flowing mustache that dipped several inches below his chin, Chengiz had the bearing of a man born to be a soldier, and in fact he was. A male member of the Chengiz family had served in the Armaghian army for an unbroken period of more than three hundred years.

  Chengiz valued duty and honor above all else. Therefore, he would listen to this soldier without losing his temper, already guessing at what he was about to learn. With his uniform torn and blood still seeping from wounds to his head and arm, the young man sought to do his duty by reporting to his commanding officer before seeking medical attention. Chengiz respected that.

  “I was lucky to escape, General Chengiz,” the soldier said in a labored breath, having run through the craggy landscape of the Highlands for the last few hours.

  Chengiz had established a forward base deeper among the mountain peaks, where he could gather his soldiers and make ready for the next step now that he had no choice but to break his army into distinct wings in order to reach the Crag. The initial trail that the Armaghian army had taken east had become more and more treacherous for an army to march upon. The narrow track tightened as the incline increased, what had once been a path for five soldiers across narrowing to space for no more than two or three, until finally it had come to an end at a crossroads. From there three different tracks meandered through the mountains and eventually converged once again near the Crag, though these new routes appeared to be no more than game trails. Chengiz hoped to use this base, situated several leagues from the valley that surrounded the Crag, to prepare for the assault that would allow him to take the Highland capital as his king commanded, despite his several attempts at changing the High King’s mind.

  “You were selected to escape.”

  The soldier stopped short in his recounting, confused. “What do you mean, General?”

  “You were the only man to escape the attack, correct?”

  “Yes, General.”

  “It wasn’t luck. The Marchers did a very thorough job from what you’ve said, not only killing your compatriots but also destroying all the wagons and supplies. Obviously, if they wanted to kill you, they would have. The Marchers are the best fighters in the Kingdoms. The only way to defeat them is through the application of overwhelming force or sorcery. And with this new Highland Lord, the sorcery upon which our illustrious king has relied upon in the past apparently is useless.” Chengiz said the last as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. Clearly, he did not approve of all of the decisions his monarch had made or the tools he had employed.

  “They let me escape?”

  “Yes, they did. Because the Marchers wanted me to know what had happened, and you were their messenger. So you weren’t lucky to escape, you were lucky to live.”

  The soldier had been through a lot during the last day, and his exhaustion had fogged his mind. But understanding slowly dawned. He grinned sadly at the thought.

  “I’ll take it.”

  “As would I,” said Chengiz. “You’ve done well, soldier. Now off to the physick for your wounds.”

  “Yes, General. Thank you, General.”

  After the soldier left, Chengiz slumped in his chair, shaking his head in irritation. He had known from the start that invading the Highlands and attacking the Marchers would be a difficult challenge. Based on the results of the last few weeks, it appeared to be madness and the recipe for disaster. In fact, he had argued against it. Chengiz had seen through the flimsy excuse offered for the invasion, not believing for a second the outrageous claims made by Lord Killeran regarding the Marchers burning homesteads and villages. Of course, the Dunmoorian Lord had conveniently made himself scarce as the Armaghian host slogged its way deeper into the Highland wilderness. But Chengiz had no choice in the matter, having to do his duty once the High King issued his orders.

  Chengiz had been surprised when the Marchers had not attacked immediately upon his entering the Highlands with his first column of men to set up this forward camp. But now he understood why. The Marchers had wanted to give the Armaghians a goal, one that they could likely achieve. All they had to do was march from the camp at the Inland Sea a couple dozen leagues into the Highlands. From there they would be in a position to strike at the Crag. And Rodric had fallen for it. Chengiz felt as if he were being led around by the nose, and he hated it.

  The Marchers knew that the Armaghians had more men, but because of the limitations of the Highland trails and passes, Chengiz had to break his larger force into smaller groups. That requirement had played right into the hands of the Marchers, who excelled at striking and then fading back into the Highland wild before the Armaghians could respond. What worried him was that from what the soldier who had just left had explained, the Marchers were growing more confident, and as a result bolder. Their hit and run attacks had proven extraordinarily effective to the point where the supplies he had here at this forward camp were precipitously low and continued to dwindle by the day as barely a trickle of what his army needed to survive made it from the Armaghian depot on the shore of the Inland Sea.

  But the Marchers had changed their strategy in the last few days. They had hit the supply column and then hit again and again, until not a single Armaghian soldier survived, except for the one who had made his way here. The Armaghians had lost the horses and oxen dragging the supply wagons, and he assumed the Marchers now benefited from the supplies and transport that he and his men so desperately needed.

  Three other columns had left the camp at the Inland Sea the same day as the one that had just been destroyed. They should have been here by now. But he had not heard a word. How could he? None of the scouts he had sent out to find the supply parties had returned yet, and he did not expect them to. Chengi
z, ever the realist, had assumed the worst.

  Rodric’s quest to take the Highlands for his own, and demanding that Chengiz capture the Crag first, was making the strategic situation much easier and simpler for the Marchers, who didn’t seem to care about the Crag. The Highland Lord had split his forces smartly, allowing them to work independently in their specific areas of responsibility. The way to the Crag had been left open, and that old fortress beckoned like a death wish. The Marchers didn’t have to worry about the quality of the trails, the lack of supplies or ridiculously inappropriate orders from a king who didn’t understand the reality of their situation. No, they only had to fight, and for their homes and families no less.

  Yet when Chengiz got to the Crag, what happened next? Would he be in a position to extend his reach in the Highlands, making use of his superior numbers? Or would he be the one in a cage, tied to a capital the Marchers didn’t care about in a place where his opponent could do to his rapidly diminishing forces whatever he wanted?

  In this game of cat and mouse, Rodric had thought that the Marchers would be the mice, slinking off into their protected valleys and high peaks to hide. But Rodric didn’t understand the Marchers as Chengiz did. With his superior numbers, he could certainly play the role of the cat. But no matter the number of Marchers, in their homeland they would always play the role of the mountain lion. As a soldier he appreciated the simplicity and effectiveness of the strategy. He also detested the fact that he now bore the brunt of its success.

  Chengiz raised his head when he heard a commotion outside his tent. He pounded his fists against the arms of his chair in frustration. He had no doubt about what the messenger who likely had just survived a similar experience as the soldier who had just left had to report.

  CHAPTER FIFTY THREE

  Fair Fight

  The Shade was proving more difficult to kill than Rynlin had expected. When he and Catal Huyuk had sprung their trap at the very edge of the northern Highlands eliminating the Ogren had been a fairly simple task, but the Shade had slithered free. The creature reminded Rynlin of a poisonous snake, its movements sinuous, its touch with that corrupted black blade deadly. The Sylvan Warrior circled the dark creature, the milky white eyes tracking his movements. He could have used the Talent to destroy the dark creature, but he chose to use a blade instead. He wanted to conserve his strength and not give away his location to any practitioner of Dark Magic, knowing that there were more Ogren raiding parties heading across the Northern Steppes and that he and the other Sylvan Warriors needed to intercept them before they reached the higher passes in the Highlands.

  “Would you finish this already,” a deep voice rumbled behind him. “We need to get moving.”

  Rynlin ignored the tremor of irritation that began to grow within him, instead channeling his annoyance into a renewed focus on his bladework. The tall Sylvan Warrior lunged forward, leaving his left side open. The Shade saw the mistake, twisting down below the attempted strike and seeking to stab his sword into Rynlin’s exposed chest. But Rynlin wasn’t there, using his feint to gain the little bit of space he needed to cut down with his sword, which stabbed into the back of the Shade’s neck. The dark creature collapsed, its black blood staining the hard scrabble of the gully.

  Rynlin took a moment to wipe the Shade’s blood that was running down his sword onto the creature’s black cloak before turning his attention to his companion.

  “You could have helped.”

  “It didn’t seem necessary. Besides, it appeared that you wanted the practice. Or I should say that it appeared that clearly you needed the practice.”

  Rynlin chuckled. His partner rarely attempted a joke. “Where are Tiro and Maden?”

  “They’ve already moved to the south,” replied Catal Huyuk, a mountain of a man dressed in leathers. He knelt in the grass, using a cloth pulled from one of the dead Ogren to wipe the blood from the blade of his axe before it pitted the steel.

  Rynlin walked over to the large Sylvan Warrior, surveying the carnage around them. A column of Ogren led by the Shade had tried to sneak through a narrow defile. The two Sylvan Warriors hid among the rocks above as the dark creatures made their way along the constricting path. With the Talent, Rynlin had nudged several large boulders out of place, causing a rockslide and forcing tons of stone and shale onto the narrow trail and its unsuspecting occupants.

  Only a few of the Ogren had survived. Much to their misfortune, Catal Huyuk waited for them as they pulled themselves out of the rubble, the massive Sylvan Warrior quickly dispatching them.

  Definitely not a fair fight, thought Rynlin. Of course, those were the best kind.

  “Let’s see if we can catch up to them. I’d hate to miss another opportunity to tweak the nose of the Shadow Lord.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR

  Inspired Idea

  “I liked what you did with the logs. Truly an inspired idea.”

  “Dammit, Thomas, you have to stop doing that,” Oso spluttered, having almost dropped his bowl of stew on the ground as he slipped off the back of the fallen tree trunk that served as his seat.

  The Marchers sitting in the small clearing and enjoying their evening meal watched in amusement as their Highland Lord stepped out of the shadows behind their leader and made his way to the pot bubbling over the fire. They had come to expect these visits, no longer bothering to wonder how Thomas had escaped the notice of the sentries.

  Thomas helped himself to a small bowl of stew, speaking a few words to each of the Marchers and congratulating the men and women on their success before sitting down next to Oso, who had regained his place on the timber after a bit of a struggle.

  Oso harrumphed his displeasure at being surprised, but his anger quickly dissipated.

  “I’m just glad it worked. They could dodge the rocks, but the logs were another matter.”

  As the column of Armaghian soldiers had almost reached the top of the trail that would have taken them to a plateau between two cloud-hidden peaks, Oso and his Marchers had loosed a small avalanche of rock and scrabble, which had eliminated a good number of Rodric’s men. But the rocks were too few to take them all. The logs that followed had completed the job.

  The Marchers then had cut down with their arrows the few Armaghian soldiers who had survived the initial ambush, only stepping out of the cover provided by their hiding places among the trees to finish off the soldiers who had been mortally wounded. Invader or no, they had no desire to see someone suffer needlessly.

  “It was a smart thing to do,” said Thomas. “Well done.”

  Oso smiled at the compliment. “And the others?”

  “All successful,” said Thomas. “Renn, Seneca and Coban all completed their assignments with not a single Marcher injured.”

  “All the better.”

  “Indeed. But this won’t last. Chengiz is a real soldier, not one playacting like Rodric. He will change his strategy if Rodric allows it.”

  “Then what do we do?” asked Oso.

  “We change our strategy before he does,” said Thomas with a grin.

  CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE

  Changing the Game

  The hidden Highland glade had become the Marcher command post. Thomas had gathered his chiefs, and with them had come their tired but pleased fighters. For the last several weeks, the Armaghians had marched inexorably toward the Crag. They started as one force, but as the trail tapered and became more difficult to traverse, General Chengiz had broken his army into a handful of smaller groups and given them different routes to follow.

  The Marchers didn’t care what tactics Chengiz employed. Following Thomas’ instructions, Oso, Renn, Seneca, Coban and Nestor had responded in kind, dividing their forces into independent squads and charging them with attacking the Armaghians as frequently and ferociously as possible. The Marchers had done so, releasing the pent-up fury that had bubbled within them for the last decade. Often each assault lasted no more than a few minutes, but in that brief time the Marchers caused devastati
ng damage, eliminating soldiers and destroying supplies in various parts of the long, often disjointed and disconnected columns, and then slipping back into the forest with nary a loss.

  With their men and women resting, the chiefs sat with Thomas under a large tree, its exposed roots providing excellent seats, and partook of the evening meal. Though they welcomed the quiet and calm of night falling in the Highlands, their thoughts were on the tasks still to be done.

  “We can’t stop them,” said Renn, between mouthfuls of the stew that had been hastily prepared. “We’ve hurt them badly and can continue to do so, but there are too many. Eventually they will reach the Crag.”

  “True,” said Seneca. “But it’s been a fun and enjoyable last few weeks.”

  “That it has,” agreed Renn, the gangly Marcher’s eyes shining brightly as a result of the Marchers’ many successes against the encroaching Armaghians. “But we still must deal with the cards we’ve been dealt.”

  “Our efforts haven’t been in vain,” said Oso. “Every Armaghian soldier killed or wounded now reduces the number we’ll face in the future.”

  “Yes, we have been effective, even more so than I expected. But the concern is legitimate,” said Coban. “We can continue to whittle away at Rodric’s army, but that won’t drive them from the Highlands. Our homes and families will still be in danger.”

  “We need a new strategy,” said Nestor. “Once Rodric and his army reach the Crag, what we’re doing now won’t work.”