by Wacht, Peter
“Kaylie, you’ll be in too much danger. What would your father say?”
“Argue all you want, Lord Kestrel, it won’t work,” said Kael Bellilil, Swordmaster of Fal Carrach. “Believe me, I’ve tried. It’s like talking to a stone.”
Kaylie gave Kael a sour look, but the grizzled veteran ignored her.
“Kaylie, you’re making my life more difficult than it needs to be right now,” protested Thomas. “I don’t have time for this.”
Kael replied with a grin before she could. “She excels at making most everyone’s life difficult, Lord Kestrel.”
Kael had discovered that even though the Princess of Fal Carrach knew her father’s plans — that Fal Carrach’s support for the Highlands would be revealed at the right time — she still felt the need to slip away from Ballinasloe and assist Thomas and the Marchers during their struggle against the Armaghian host. Resigned to the fact that he could never convince her to return to Fal Carrach, the Swordmaster had decided to accompany her and offer her what protection he could. Her father would not be pleased, but it was the best that he could do under the circumstances with his recalcitrant, stubborn charge.
“You needn’t worry. I’ll stay with her. It’s smarter simply to accept the inevitable rather than lose time arguing.”
Seeing that he had little choice, and with so much already to worry about, Thomas rolled his eyes in acquiescence and turned his attention to how she might be able to aid him.
“You’ve been practicing in the Talent?”
“Every day. And I grow stronger every day.”
“I can sense that.” Thomas used the Talent to speak as he’d done so many times with his Marcher chiefs and with Beluil. Kaylie heard his words, but only in her mind. “Can you do this?”
“Yes,” answered Kaylie, but rather than speaking out loud she, in turn, spoke directly in Thomas’ mind.
“Good. Then stay close to me. You can send my orders and talk directly to my chiefs so I can concentrate on other things.”
Thomas stalked off toward the Marcher front lines, Kaylie and Kael chasing after, a smile creasing the Princess of Fal Carrach’s face, pleased that she had won that small battle with Thomas. And if she could win this one, perhaps she could win a few others down the road as well. As she saw it, this was her fight, too.
CHAPTER SIXTY THREE
Soaring Confidence
Rodric Tessaril sat on his horse on the low rise that provided a panoramic view of the plateau. He smiled in pleasure, though he was growing uncomfortably warm in his sun-heated, steel-plated armor as sweat dripped down his scalp and back despite the brisk chill in the air. Surveying his army, his men still filing into position, he ignored the growing inconvenience as his confidence soared. The Armaghian host greatly surpassed the pitifully small force of Marchers that stood in ranks with the Crag at their back. He could taste the victory that was to be his. The victory he had deserved for so long. A victory to be savored. If only Lord Chertney would stop his incessant, annoying droning.
“I warn you, Rodric,” said Chertney in his scratchy voice. “That boy is playing another of his games. My Ogren and Shades were to come down from the north to catch the Marchers between us. But they have not been able to break through from the Northern Steppes. I’ve heard tell of a Marcher force there holding the passes. But the Highlanders couldn’t do it on their own with most, if not all, of their fighters here. They must be working with the blasted Sylvana. Only they, with the power they wield, could hold against our master’s servants.”
“Having your dark creatures certainly would simplify things,” said Rodric, not biting out the words as he normally would. Of course, there was a benefit to that failure. The appearance of a troop of Ogren could complicate the situation, as Rodric couldn’t foretell how Chengiz and his soldiers would react if they were to be allied unexpectedly with dark creatures. Better that his army defeated the Marchers on its own. His normal fretfulness had dissipated, and he felt strangely magnanimous at the moment, believing that his victory was all but assured. “Tell me, Killeran, have we anything to worry about? Some hidden force of Marchers to come at our rear? Some band of ancient, decrepit men and women to charge at us on unicorns?”
Killeran shifted uncomfortably under Rodric and Chertney’s gazes, distracted for a moment by the sudden appearance of General Chengiz.
“No, King Rodric,” said the Dunmoorian lord, his nasal twang grating on the nerves of all around him. “Scouts have scoured the countryside for leagues around. There have been no sightings whatsoever of Marchers or anyone else to impede us.”
“Does our Lord Killeran speak true, my dear general?”
“He does,” replied General Chengiz. “Though the scouts have not explored the terrain as far out as I would prefer.”
“And you, Chertney, with your skills?” asked Rodric, ignoring Chengiz’s veiled complaint. “Is there anything to worry about that I can’t see with my own eyes?”
Chertney stared at Rodric for a moment, cursing for the hundredth time the circumstances that had put him in league with this fool who played at king.
“No, Rodric. Killeran is correct.”
“Then I see no reason to delay our long-awaited success,” said Rodric. “This moment has been a decade in the making. So on with it, General Chengiz. Clear the field of Marchers once and for all.”
“Yes, my king,” replied the Armaghian general, who was glad to leave the group and trot his horse toward his subordinates so that he could relay his orders to attack to his troops.
The High King was likely right, Chengiz thought. By all appearances it should be an easy victory. But in his recent skirmishes against the Highland Lord, boy or not, he had been a worthy adversary. Therefore, he was certain that even with the advantage in numbers that the Armaghians enjoyed, they were in for more of a struggle than any of them expected.
CHAPTER SIXTY FOUR
Defending the Front
The clash of swords and din of battle echoed in the valley into the late afternoon, to the point where the Marchers became desensitized to it, the men and women fighting fiercely in front of the Crag focused solely on what stood before them. The Armaghian host had charged three times, and each time the Marchers repulsed the attack with minimal casualties. Marchers with spears stood to the fore, archers behind, sword fighters in the gaps to prevent any possible breakthrough. But there was little for them to do at the moment, rarely having need of their blades. The archers shot with a deadly, almost inhuman, accuracy at such close range, Rodric’s soldiers unable to force their way past the spears.
Oso had seen the brilliance of Thomas’ decision to stand and fight in front of the Crag within minutes of the first attack on the Marcher line. The valley naturally funneled the Armaghian soldiers to the center of the Marcher line, the impassable wood pressing in on both sides and not allowing Rodric to bring his full force to bear. Therefore, the Marchers did not have to worry about attacks on their flanks and could instead concentrate on defending their position against the Armaghian frontal assaults. Moreover, after each attack, Thomas rotated the Marchers in the center so that fresh fighters always stood ready to meet the next attack.
“I have to hand it to you,” said Oso. “I had expected this to be more of a challenge.”
“So far, so good,” replied Thomas. “But all good things must come to an end.” The two Highlanders stood just behind the Marcher spears, swords at the ready. But the opportunities to blood their blades that afternoon had been few and far between. “Besides, I’m tired of having to drag Kaylie away from the battle line.”
Thomas had agreed that Kaylie could stay with him during the battle, tasking her with using the Talent to communicate with the Highland chiefs. Kael was never more than a few feet away from her. But despite the Swordmaster’s best efforts, she seemed to find her way to the thick of the fighting, apparently wanting to test her skills against the Armaghians. Thomas had pulled her back several times. Yet each time, soon after she was ba
ck in the middle of the battle.
“It will be dark in an hour. Should we begin the chase?” asked Oso.
“Yes, I’ll have Kaylie send the orders. As soon as night begins to fall, we break contact, and we move.”
CHAPTER SIXTY FIVE
Mounting Frustration
As each hour passed, Rodric’s frustration grew. He watched each assault with anticipation, expecting it to be the breakthrough he needed to crush the Highland Lord and his Marchers once and for all. But each time the Marchers threw his men back seemingly with ease. The Marchers never broke and ran. In fact, their line didn’t even budge. They stood their ground and maintained their discipline despite the constant onslaught. It was as if the Marchers played with him, taunting him. As that thought settled within him, his rage intensified, threatening to get the better of him. He couldn’t believe that his army with such overwhelming strength had failed to crush the few soldiers arrayed against it during any of its attacks.
“Look!” exclaimed Killeran.
The Dunmoorian lord saw the first tell-tale signs of a possible breach in the Marcher line, a slight bend beginning in the middle as the Armaghians forced the Marchers positioned there back toward the Crag.
It only took a few more seconds for the bend to expand. The Marchers fought desperately, but the number of attackers was too much for them. In just a few minutes the widening bend became a break. For the first time since the battle began, Armaghian soldiers pushed behind the Marcher defensive line. General Chengiz immediately sought to take advantage, having a sergeant signal his cavalry commander to attack down the center and widen the gap. Even with much of his infantry still in the way, it was a price that the Armaghian commander was willing to pay. They needed to crack the Marcher defense, and this could be their only chance.
Rodric’s mounting fury dissolved into glee as the Marchers fell back faster and faster, until they were in full retreat, moving away from the Highland fortress along both sides of the citadel.
“Killeran, form an honor guard,” commanded Rodric, his eyes shining brightly with anticipation. “We’re going to claim the Crag.”
CHAPTER SIXTY SIX
Orderly Retreat
Thomas and Oso fell back with the Marchers, who maintained an orderly withdrawal despite what appeared to be a full-scale retreat to the Armaghians. Rodric’s soldiers followed carefully at a distance, unwilling to press the Marchers too hard with night falling. They remembered the toll of breaking the Marcher line and had no desire to do anything foolish against such a formidable foe. As a result, the Marchers gained some much-needed space once they crossed the valley and entered the forest behind the Crag. Once free of the Armaghians, they moved swiftly to meet at their assigned places. Thomas was pleased to see that only a few Marchers had been hurt during the retreat, and not severely at that. Coban, Renn, Seneca and Nestor reported together.
“Everything went as planned, Thomas,” stated Coban, smiling with the knowledge that the first step in their plan had proven successful with minimal effect on his fighters.
“Has Rodric mounted any follow-up attacks?”
“No,” replied Nestor. “He’s assumed that we’re routed and will need to reassemble.”
“No patrols or skirmishers?” Thomas didn’t want to question his luck, not having expected the withdrawal to go so smoothly, but he was still a bit surprised.
“Instead of pressing any advantage he might have, the High King is more interested in the Crag right now,” interjected Seneca.
“Good. He can stare at the stone walls for as long as he wants. Let’s get some distance from him and move on to the next staging ground. I’m sure Chengiz will talk sense to him eventually.”
CHAPTER SIXTY SEVEN
Claiming the Crag
Rodric relished his stroll through the yet to be rebuilt Crag, the Marchers leaving the reconstruction and restoration unfinished in order to oppose the Armaghian host. The recent battle, just hours old, was a distant memory for him. He instead thought about what he would rename the Highland fortress once he destroyed the Marchers. The High King’s Seat, perhaps. That had a nice ring to it. Yes, that might be it. Much to his annoyance, Killeran interrupted his fun, reporting that the Marchers now headed west, having shifted direction once they gained the safety of the forest and looping around the Armaghian host in a wide arc.
“They have circled around the Crag, likely so that they don’t get bottled up against the coast and are making for the higher passes.”
“Let them go for a time,” said Rodric. “The Highlands belong to me now. Finally, after so many years. I want to enjoy this, Killeran. I deserve it.”
“But, my lord,” protested Killeran. “The Marchers remain a sizeable and dangerous force. They will threaten your rule until we eliminate them. Giving them time to escape only will make matters more difficult for us in the future.”
Rodric tamped down his annoyance, pulling his mind away from his visions of glory, instead remembering all the problems the Marchers created for Killeran while he functioned as nominal regent of the Highlands for a decade following the murder of Talyn Kestrel. Although he had no doubt that the difficulties with the Highlanders during that time were magnified by Killeran’s incompetence, he couldn’t deny the Dunmoorian Lord’s logic. The same logic that General Chengiz had impressed upon him when he first arrived in the Highlands. His fun would have to wait a bit longer.
“Fine. Get Chengiz up here. We’ll follow after the Highland boy until we destroy him and the Marchers once and for all.”
CHAPTER SIXTY EIGHT
Just Ahead
As the days passed, dozens of skirmishes erupted as the Armaghians pursued their quarry, seeking to eliminate the Marchers as a fighting force. But the Marchers continued their rearguard action, maintaining their order and holding to their purpose. Close enough to tease Rodric’s host to continue its pursuit, and thereby draw them deeper into the Highlands, yet never so close as to allow for a pitched battle. Something that the Marchers knew the Armaghians craved. Even so, with every clash, the Marchers cut away more soldiers from the Armaghian army with the men and women of the Highlands experiencing few casualties themselves.
Always staying just far enough ahead so that Rodric couldn’t catch them, but near enough to keep the High King’s appetite for victory whetted. A daily challenge, but one Thomas thought well worth the effort. He just hoped that his luck would hold for a bit longer as the setting of each sun brought the Marchers closer to their ultimate objective.
He walked among his Marchers now as they rested for a few minutes before beginning the next leg of their journey. He saw Kaylie sitting against a tree, eyes closed, head resting against the rough bark. Kael, ever present, sat next to his charge. The Fal Carrachian Swordmaster nodded to Thomas in approval, clearly liking the strategy in play. The respect reflected in his eyes was apparent. Thomas nodded in return.
The Princess of Fal Carrach looked exhausted, taxed by her frequent use of the Talent to communicate with Thomas’ chiefs so that Thomas could conserve his strength for what was likely coming. The strong-willed princess had done everything asked of her without a word of complaint. He hadn’t expected this of Kaylie. But then again, she continued to surprise him daily. He thought about going over to thank her, then decided against it, believing that just a few minutes more of sleep would benefit her.
Instead he continued to walk among his Marchers, offering greetings and encouragement. His fighters brightened when he appeared, the weariness draining from them as they had a chance to speak with their Highland Lord. Once an outsider, that was no longer the case. Thomas was a Highlander, a Marcher, and in their eyes, he could see their belief, their hope. The time of troubles was coming to an end. Once more, the Highlands would belong to them. Only one obstacle kept them from achieving that objective: the Armaghian army.
CHAPTER SIXTY NINE
The End
Rodric barely opened an eye when the flap to his tent fluttered and Johin
Killeran stepped in, the bright sunlight thankfully disappearing quickly when the flap returned to its place. But the brief flash of light provided enough time for the Dunmoorian Lord to comprehend that Rodric had spent much of the last night drinking, several empty wine bottles strewn about the extravagant rugs that covered the long Highland grass. As Rodric began to disentangle himself from his blankets, the sounds of an army preparing for battle jarred his muddled senses.
“My lord,” began Killeran in a high-pitched squeak, unable to contain his excitement. “The Highlanders have stopped running. They’ve formed into ranks at the edge of the plateau. They stand no more than a mile away.”
“It’s about time,” muttered Rodric, as he searched for a missing boot to pull on, tired of the constant pursuit. His host had trailed the Highlanders for almost a week. He felt like a mouse chasing after a morsel of cheese tied to a piece of string. Just when he was about to gain the cheese, it was pulled from his grasp time after time. What had started as an exciting pursuit had devolved into an exercise in frustration. “They have no choice. They have nowhere else to go.”
Rising from his bed, Rodric grasped Killeran’s arm before he could fall, the wine from the previous night leaving him wobbly and feeling ill. But no matter. Today was the day. Today was the end.
Gathering his strength as he dressed, Rodric stumbled from the tent, his legs still shaky as he started across the plateau. In the distance, he caught sight of the Marchers just as Killeran described, framed by the beginnings of the Clanwar Desert far to the northwest and the last of the Highland peaks to their backs. The dark smudge of the Breaker rose prominently into the sky to the west just a few leagues distant, standing tall and defiant as the final barrier between the dark creatures in the north and the Kingdoms.