by Wacht, Peter
The oldest and most experienced of the chiefs, Nestor said little, but when he did all who heard listened. All eyes turned to Thomas, who sat there comfortably finishing his stew. He was as tired as his chiefs, having participated in as many of the attacks as he could. The resulting whispers of his skill with the weapons of war as well as what he could accomplish when applying the Talent, though he tended to reserve his unique skill in the natural magic of the world as much as possible for dark creatures, had taken on a life of their own.
“Nestor’s right,” agreed Thomas, setting down his bowl and standing to stretch his tired legs. He stood there for a moment, taking in the expanse of the Highlands revealed at one end of the glade, the many snow-covered peaks just barely visible in the dying light dominating his view. “We leave just after midnight. Only Oso stays with his Marchers to harass Rodric and Chengiz, to make them think that nothing has changed. The rest of us will gather once more at the Crag. It’s time to end the Armaghian threat once and for all.”
CHAPTER FIFTY SIX
Fearsome Allies
The diminutive woman, thick chestnut hair whipping behind her in response to the gusts of wind cascading between the mountain peaks, surveyed the harsh terrain that sloped away beneath her. The loose rock and uneven ground would serve her purpose quite well. Quite well indeed.
A large black wolf, a streak of white fur across his eyes, peered at Rya, who stood next to him. Her head only came to his shoulders as he sat on his haunches. Beluil gave her a nudge, careful not to knock her over, and she absently began scratching the fur behind his right ear.
“Are you ready, Beluil?”
The large wolf growled softly in response.
“Then time to get started,” she said.
For a time all had been quiet, the bands of dark creatures seeking to enter the Highlands having been reduced to no more than one or two raiding parties a week. But no longer. The number of incursions had increased substantially, coinciding with the Armaghian invasion from the south.
Grasping hold of the Talent, Rya Keldragan focused her attention on the two Shades leading a large troop of Ogren through one of the many narrow passes that ran from the Northern Steppes into the lower Highlands. Two bolts of white hot energy shot from her palms, blasting through the chests of the two servants of the Shadow Lord. The dark creatures remained standing for just a second, not comprehending their fate, before collapsing to the rough ground, smoking holes visible in their chests and backs.
The Ogren had no time to register what had happened to the Shades as the hundreds of shapes hidden among the surrounding trees sprinted toward them, responding to Beluil’s howl, which bounced off the rocky walls of the pass.
The Ogrens’ once orderly march immediately descended into chaos as the Highland wolves attacked, their powerful jaws snapping at heels and hamstrings as they sought to take down the giant beasts and then use their larger numbers to their advantage. The Ogrens’ initial roars of anger quickly turned to screams of terror as the wolves made fast work of their prey. After just a few minutes had passed, silence descended once more in the lower Highlands. Then a large black wolf raised his snout to the sky and released a howl that was soon imitated by all the wolves that had just destroyed the Ogren raiding party, the haunting sound traveling the wind as it twisted and turned among the Highland peaks.
CHAPTER FIFTY SEVEN
Schemes
Oso stood at the very edge of the tree line, looking down the steep slope through which a small trail, barely wide enough for one wagon, switchbacked up the steep incline from the shore of the Inland Sea into the southern Highlands. The camp at the base of the slope was a hive of activity as more soldiers poured off the cargo vessels and barges that docked at the pier jutting out over the water, followed by all their necessary supplies. Where the camp met the first, gentle hills of the lower Highlands, soldiers formed into companies to make the trek in and among the peaks, their goal the Crag, citadel of the Highland Lord.
It was quite an undertaking, thought Oso, and one that he would take great joy in disrupting. He had led his troop of Marchers around the Armaghian army that had already marched into the Highlands, given the task by Thomas of destroying Rodric’s supply base and as many troop carriers as possible. If successful, Oso and his Marchers would cut off the High King from Armagh, leaving him with little in the way of supplies and few reinforcements.
“Are they coming?” asked Oso, his eyes never leaving what was going on by the shore.
Aric had walked up on silent feet, having positioned the Marchers under Oso’s command as ordered.
“They are.”
Oso confirmed that the Armaghian troops were beginning to make their way up the roughly cut trail, wagons full of supplies interspersed between each company of soldiers. The trail twisted and turned toward where Oso and his fighters waited. The rough terrain, garnished with loose rocks, some taller than a man, complicated the climb for the Armaghians. The soldiers at the front of the long column that curled its way up the trail already were struggling as the gentle slope abruptly became a precipitous ascent. As a result, many of the soldiers were forced to aid the wagons, bending their backs to push them up the tortuous path, and in the process taking their attention away from the surrounding countryside.
“Is everything ready?”
“Yes,” said Aric, stepping up to get a better look at the happenings below them. “We just completed the task you gave us.”
“Good. I hope it works.”
Oso wasn’t concerned about fighting the soldiers of Armagh. He knew his Marchers were more than a match. But it always came down to numbers. The Armaghians outnumbered his Marchers by what he estimated to be a ten to one advantage. If what he had planned didn’t work, they’d face a challenge they might not be able to escape.
CHAPTER FIFTY EIGHT
Unexpected Help
With night falling, Thomas stood in front of the hole in the outer wall that he’d been working on at the Crag just a few weeks before. The huge gap, large enough for several Ogren to walk through standing abreast, finally was ready for repair. But when the Armaghian army had entered the Highlands, he and his Marchers had left the work of restoring the Crag unfinished for the more important task of defending their homeland.
The Lord of the Highlands watched his Marchers continue to trickle onto the plain in front of the Crag. He was proud of his fighters. What they had accomplished in a few short weeks. The sacrifices they had made. But he knew and acknowledged the truth. Even if all his Marchers arrived in time to face the Armaghian army, Rodric would still have a decided advantage in the number of soldiers he could bring to bear, likely as many as five to one despite the Marchers’ best efforts to improve the odds through their constant, devastating, lightning attacks. Despite the carnage the Marchers had wrought as the Armaghians slowly made their way toward the Crag, the High King’s host continued to press forward. Moreover, with Rodric’s tendency to throw his men into a battle no matter the costs that advantage in available troops could prove fatal to the Marchers.
Thomas didn’t want to waste his fighters and he couldn’t afford to. In a pitched battle, no matter how well the men and women under his command fought, the Highlanders would probably lose. And as time passed that battle drew inexorably closer. Oso and his Marchers had arrived that afternoon, having destroyed Rodric’s supply camp on the northern shore of the Inland Sea and harassed Rodric’s columns as they wound their way through the Highlands toward the Crag. The Armaghian host was just a day and a half away at most, the large Highlander had reported.
As the last of the Marchers settled in for the night, Thomas began to ponder what to do while staring into the small fire he had built. His back turned, Thomas didn’t notice the slowly moving dark shadow that meshed with the blackness just beyond the light of the flames. The shadow stalked closer and closer, absolutely silent, coming up behind an unaware Highland Lord. As the shadow coalesced the closer it came to the flames, its massive s
ize became clear.
Just as the shadow launched itself into the air, Thomas turned to face it, but the huge shape was too quick and bore him to the ground. The beast’s massive paws landed on his chest, and as Thomas looked up, a large tongue dragged across his face.
“I know this is fun for you, but the slobber can get a little old,” said Thomas, hugging the massive wolf to his chest. “You’ve been away for too long, you shaggy beast.” Beluil continued to lick his friend’s face.
They had grown up together, Thomas finding Beluil during his escape from the Crag, and had been inseparable ever since, though it had proven hard to be together with Thomas’ increasing responsibilities as Lord of the Highlands. They tussled on the ground for a few more minutes in greeting before Thomas walked back to his place by the fire, Beluil lying down in front of him, covering his feet much as he’d done when they lived on the Isle of Mist with Thomas’ grandparents.
“How’s the weather, Rynlin? Good winds coming off the northern Highlands?”
Rynlin walked out of the darkness surrounding Thomas’ small campfire appearing somewhat miffed.
“I should have known I couldn’t sneak up on you, even with Beluil trying to distract you, but it was fun trying.”
Knowing time was tight, rather than asking after his grandson, Rynlin provided a report on how the Sylvana had bottled up the dark creatures trying to enter the northern Highlands. The threat that Thomas had feared the most – being caught between Rodric’s host and a swarm of dark creatures – had been contained, at least for a time. Thomas then explained where things stood with the Marchers and the approaching Armaghian army.
“We continue to carve away at them,” finished Thomas. “But Rodric has too many soldiers. If we continue with this strategy, the likelihood of a pitched battle becomes more certain. We can’t afford to take that risk.”
“Perhaps I can offer you some unexpected help that I think you could put to good use.”
As Rynlin explained how Rya was taking care of the final arrangements, Thomas’ smile grew bigger. He needed to gather his chiefs and adjust their strategy. Thanks to his grandparents the Marchers had a chance. But there was much to discuss and do before first light.
CHAPTER FIFTY NINE
Arrayed for Battle
Rodric, still resembling a peacock in his sparkling armor, feathered helmet and arrogant demeanor, sat on his horse on the edge of the forest. He looked out upon the plateau, watching his army exit from between the trees and form ranks at the very beginning of the open ground, the Crag still no more than a speck far in the distance.
General Chengiz sat on his horse next to his king, surprised, and somewhat worried, that they’d gotten this far without meeting greater resistance from the Marchers. He was even more astonished when a scout galloped up with unexpected news.
“The Marchers are arrayed for battle beneath the Crag in the next valley, my king.”
Rodric smiled wickedly. Finally, after years of waiting and the recent weeks of escalating frustration, his long-sought victory was close at hand.
“And they’re being led by whom?”
“The Highland Lord.”
“How many?” asked Chengiz.
“An estimated ten thousand, General,” replied the scout. “No more than a fifth of our force.”
That was good news, thought Chengiz. Then again, the Armaghians would have enjoyed a numerical superiority of nine or ten to one if not for the Marchers’ masterful tactics of the past fortnight. Yes, the Armaghians finally approached their primary objective as set by Rodric, but it had come at a terrible cost. A cost that didn’t seem to faze the High King.
Rodric’s smile turned into a manic laugh. After so long, his greatest desire, to crush the Marchers and eliminate the boy who had haunted him for the better part of a decade, was within his reach.
“General Chengiz, battle formation, double time march. I want to engage before we lose the light.”
“My king, is that wise? The Marchers have been a tricky, unconventional enemy ever since we entered the Highlands. If I could have just a few more hours for my scouts to complete their work and ensure that there are no more surprises …”
“General Chengiz, I have no time for your incessant caution! And I will not lose this opportunity! The Marchers have finally stopped running like the cowards they are. Their constant, biting attacks have done nothing to stop us, and now they have no choice but to face us in battle. They have nowhere to go. They know our victory is inevitable. We will crush them, once and for all!”
“Yes, my king,” General Chengiz replied, unable to hide the doubt that crept into his voice.
Chengiz knew that attempting to change Rodric’s mind at that very moment could be suicidal. He cursed his own weakness. He and his family had served Armagh faithfully for several hundred years, but not for the first time he wondered at Rodric’s fitness to rule his homeland. Was such a thought treason? Pushing that worrisome notion from his mind, he turned his horse toward his staff, barking orders as they scattered to carry them out.
There would be a battle this day. Of this General Chengiz was certain. Despite the Armaghians overwhelming strength, he was less certain which of the opposing forces would emerge victorious.
CHAPTER SIXTY
Tremors
Standing on a decaying balcony that looked out over the main square of Blackstone, the Shadow Lord turned his gaze from the dark, cloudy sky to what occurred down below his perch. Ogren, the Shadow Lord’s primary soldiers, emerged from the ruined buildings and dark crevices that dotted this once formidable, now dead, city.
The dark creatures milled about, sometimes getting into fights, more than willing to use their corrupted weapons on each other. Many simply seemed lost, until a Shade appeared to bring some order out of the chaos. Once the Shade had formed a large enough troop, he led the Ogren away, inevitably to the south, through the Charnel Mountains, across the Northern Steppes, and then into the Highlands.
Despite the strong breeze, which whipped the burnt ash of the city into a frenzy, oftentimes hiding the activity occurring in the square from his view, the Shadow Lord stood as still as a statue, his blood-red eyes blazing. The sun broke through the clouds more frequently now, sending tremors through the city and the surrounding mountains with increasing, unsettling regularity. More often than not, the beam of sunlight targeted the large, circular stone set in the chamber behind him, which displayed a duel between him and a boy with a blazing white sword, a disk that he had crafted with Dark Magic more than a thousand years before. Just as fast as the sunlight broke through the clouds, the shadows and darkness fought back to repel it. But just a moment was all that was needed to upset the land and set it shaking.
The Shadow Lord’s eyes blazed brighter. This boy had been a problem for far too long. He was smart, clever. More of a nuisance with each passing day. Somehow this new Highland Lord had succeeded so far in not only defending against the Armaghians, but also in holding back his dark creatures that sought to come at the Marchers from behind. He closed his blood-red eyes for just a moment, his anger that had become all too frequent threatening to explode once more.
The boy had been a constant plague, nevertheless his plans continued to move forward, though perhaps not as smoothly as he had expected and would have liked. Sometimes, no matter how clever you were, sheer numbers won the battle. And that’s what the Shadow Lord counted on as he watched another Shade bring together a troop of Ogren and march them beneath his balcony toward the south.
If Rodric did as he was instructed, then success was guaranteed, for there were only so many Marchers, and they couldn’t be everywhere in the Highlands, not with his almost endless supply of servants. Once his dark creatures gained a foothold, and Rodric captured the Crag, it would simply be a matter of time. The Highlands would fall, for the Marchers would have no way to escape the vise he had crafted.
CHAPTER SIXTY ONE
Poor Odds
“Do you think Rodric
will come forward?” asked Oso, having learned that the Armaghian army resided just one valley over.
“After our constant attacks and knowing that the bulk of our fighters stand before him?” replied Coban. “Yes. He won’t be able to resist our invitation. It’s too sweet an opportunity to pass up.”
“He’ll attack within the hour is my guess,” said Thomas distractedly. “He won’t be able to stop himself. In my experience, he isn’t one for much in the way of self-control.”
After just a few minutes had passed, Thomas, Oso, and Coban watched the first ranks of Rodric’s army come out of the forest and begin to form ranks and advance toward the Marchers.
“Sometimes, Thomas, I think you’re a mind reader,” said Coban.
“No, I just listen to things most people tend to ignore. Make sure the Marchers are prepared, Coban, and check with Renn, Seneca and Nestor along the wings to ensure they’re ready to do as we agreed.”
Coban hurried off, screaming orders to any Marcher he encountered as he went, even though he was certain that the men and women who stood in front of the Crag knew what to do. It was simply a habit that he couldn’t break.
“Do you think it will work, Thomas?”
“I don’t know. But it’s the best chance we’ve got.”
Gazing out across the valley, Rodric’s army dwarfed his own. His plan had to work. Otherwise, there would be no one left to stop Rodric from taking the Highlands. And once the Highlands fell, all the other Kingdoms would topple as well. It would just be a matter of time.
CHAPTER SIXTY TWO
Orders
“Thomas, arguing is simply a waste of time. I can fight. You know I can fight. I can help you.”
Kaylie Carlomin stood before him in front of the Crag’s main gates, or rather where they should have been, wearing leather armor that would allow her to make use of her natural speed with a blade, her rapier strapped across her back.